I have always admired the English culture of organization, communication, and frankly, civilization. There are some definite low-points (Boer War, Partition of India, Partition of the Mideast, Partition of the Kingdom’s Islands), but there is some attention paid to how things “ought be done for the welfare of all.”

For example, pregnant women get an adorable pin (UK: “badge”) consistent with the look and feel and design aesthetics of the Underground that say “baby on board” which lets everyone know, “Hey, give up the seat” — even in the weeks and months when it’s not quite so obvious. Experiencing the anti-case in NYC and France, it’s a good idea.

I also admire that the English take the tube’s visual monopoly as an opportunity to extol civic virtues.

I don’t remember exactly when I got diagnosed as an asthmatic. Some of my earliest core memories are going to a hospital for pneumonia: trundling into a van in the dark; returning home to Slidell and convalescing while watching “The Wizard of Oz” for the first time, a rubbery “Robbie the Robot” from “Lost in Space” in hand.^{1 2} A few years later, on the cusp of Junior High, I would learn the diagnosis word “asthma,” start allergy shots, and begin a medicine regime (a super start to socially-awkward years!)

Since then, I’ve had a rescue inhaler prescription. I used the device less in Europe, even less in the Bay, and a tad bit more in NYC. Across the years, the brands and the actuator look-and-feel have changed, but I can say this: never have I seen a more beautiful inhaler than my current generic albuterol sulfate.

The design is clean and considered - it’s like Wes Anderson worked in pharma. It is, to quote the Old Man from A Christmas Story, “indescribably beautiful.“³