Portugal, Spain, and Morocco, April 2010

Once again we’ve hit the road. Jim’s back has sufficiently recovered from his ill-advised Icarus episode to permit travel and this trip can best be described as: hers, mine, and ours. Carol has been to Portugal many times, but it is a place I’ve never explored. On the other hand, I’ve been to Southern Spain, but because when Carol was in Portugal and Spain it was during the summer when the blast furnace hits that area, so she avoided death by dehydration. Add to these two situations, neither of us has ever been to Morocco, so for the next five weeks, we will do our best to fill in the missing colors in our paint by number travels.

Carol and Jim living large again

Date: Apr 6, 2010

Hello to all:
We arrived in Lisbon after a difficult but doable transatlantic crossing: Portland to Amsterdam to Lisbon. We had a five hour layover in Amsterdam, so we contacted our Dutch friends who we met last year on our Hutigruten cruise. Delightedly they came to the airport and we had a great visit, catching up on the world and remembering to Trash George Bush. It’s much more fun now that he and his henchmen are no longer in power. Their legacy remains, hence they remain still in our thoughts.

Carol has often talked about enjoying Lisbon and although we’ve only been here for one day, I can certainly see why. It’s a wonderful combination of old-world and the modern. It quickly etched its way into my heart when we stumbled on a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant which had all the elements of a great experience. We could have easily missed it. No flashing lights, no big signs, no imposing presence on the outside, only the word “Restaurant” written of the window. We tried to enter but the sign on the door said “Closed.” But as we passed by, I saw another door around the corner and when we tried it, it opened to a great scene of every table filled with people talking and laughing. No tourists here. Just locals enjoying what they knew was a great place to eat. A table had just become available and we grabbed it, just ahead of the people right behind us.

It was a mom and pop affair. He worked the tables while she dished up food. At the table next to us sat a very austere man, very grave in manner, but he knew his food. I just said: “I want what he’s having.” It was a delicous combination of fava beans, ox-tail, and sausages which had obviously been simmering for hours in a savory broth. At another table was a mixture of seven men and women who looked like they worked in an office building somewhere near. Three professionals at another table finished off their meal with cognac and cigars, while at another a grandmother and her grandson talked and enjoyed their time together. It obviously made Carol miss “Her boys.”

The male owner barked orders to his wife. She threw up her arms in frustration and barked right back, but with all the commotion they were efficient and really pleasant. He stopped by to see how we liked our meal, gave me a quizzical look with a questioning thumbs up. I responded in kind and he seemed quite pleased that the tourists had avoided all the glitzy restaurants in the area and chose his. After we finished and he gave us the bill, he brought us two shot-sized glasses with little handles which made them look like miniturized beer mugs, and a tall bottle. He gave us a kindly look and said that we had to have some “Grapa.” Carol declined, but he gave her his best: “I insist” look in his gentle way. Well, this local fire water is a combination of mouthwash and industrial strength cleanser. It is guaranteed to destroy anything which might dare to live in one’s mouth. It was like everclear on steroids. After the two glasses of wine with my meal and the grapa, my back didn’t hurt at all and I was ready for the next adventure of the day.

That turned out to be one of the old trams that still run certain routes in the city. The new, sleek ones can’t navigate the narrow streets of many parts of the city and hence the old ones from the early part of the 20th century still operate. They chug up and down the hills with the driver clanging his bell at anyone who has the temerity to step off the curb and endanger him/herself. The trams creaks and groans as it rattles down the track, and when a light changes, objects noisily to being made to stop. It’s the obvious sound of metal on metal as it lurches to a halt, which it does.

It’s an interesting facet of my mind that I need something like these experiences to really put me in the right mental state for traveling. Local experiences, local people and a true insight to where I’m at. It made for a great day, and even though my back eventually said it wanted to go lie down and would I please accommodate it, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I am ready and primed for tomorrow and all the days ahead. We’re on the road again, and I’ve go my best friend and translator by my side.

Live large and prosper,

C and J

Grapa revisited

Date: Apr 7, 2010

When I checked my email at 2 a.m. (can you say Jet Lag?) there was an email from my friend and travel client from Norway who asked if I was talking about “Grappa?” with two p’s. He’d run into the stuff in Italy once, and just hearing about it made him queasy all over again. I told him after a few drinks, I couldn’t even pronounce it, much less spell it. I found out it is indeed Italian in name, and that here in Portugal they call it Agua Ardente, which translates to “Burning Water.” So my description of it as firewater was not far off. Carol looked it up in her Portuguese dictionary and found it defined as Cognac. Well, we’re not talking about any cognac I’ve ever tried, and if it’s VSOP, then it stands for Very old, strong poison.

It’s a great time to be here in Portugal. The mornings are bright and crisp. I leave the hotel in a short-sleeved polo and Carol has her fleece jacket. I’m chilled and she’s toasty warm. By noon I’ve warmed up and she’s got her fleece wrapped around her waist. So pick your poison. No, wait. I’ve covered that already. It was about 22 C, or 75 F today. Southern Washington hasn’t seen 75 since the end of summer last year. Of course, I was confined inside for two months, but It remains my position that it’s been damn cold there.

The wisteria is in full bloom, and provides the patios with that wonderful lavender color as well as providing shade and a modicum of privacy to the patios which are overlooked by all the overviews of the city on the various hills. Orange blossoms fill the air with their sweet, aromatic bouquet, The loquats are ripening. Carol is amazed at how large they are here, the biggest she has ever seen. They are larger than our Santa Rosa Plums in California. The lantana hugs the ground and provides white and purple contrast to each other. It’s Spring in Portugal, folks.

The streets are crowded with tourists. Not Bergen in July crowded, but still there are lots of visitors. Seems like people know about this. We just hit it right, not by being smart, but because my wife didn’t want to miss the summer growing season at home, short though it may be.

I mentioned the hills and it is indeed like a Mediterranean version of the hills of Bergen, with little alleyways and pedestrian streets which seemingly lead nowhere but, in fact, keep going and eventually open up to a major street. The neighborhoods are so closely packed with such narrow access, that they had a fire in one house on one street in 1988, and because they couldn’t get any fire fighting equipment in, a whole section of the city burned down.

Lisbon is such an old city and many of the sections are in a very distinct stage of decay. I go back and forth with whether it’s old world charm, or city blight. Plaster falls from the outside walls, exposing the bricks and mortar of the building, old doors are rotting from the acid rain, and the red tile roofs are patched with a makeshift mixture to keep the weather out while the people are in.The azulejos, blue tiles, show the wear of being exposed for the centuries they’ve been attached to the buildings. They are cracked or missing and very faded. However, throughout the city there are home cement mixers whirring and the sounds of workers resonate from within the walls, so you know things are in a state of repair. I’ve never had the sense of abject poverty and the people seem well dressed and well fed.

They love their coffee and pastries are a national passion. On any given street there are Pastelarias and they are frequented by all throughout the day. Busy corners have kiosks where in two minutes while waiting for the bus, you can get your fix of both and never miss a beat, much less the bus. The Portuguese drink their espresso VERY sweet. The cups are small and they always bring two LARGE packets of sugar. I only use one in my café com leit, coffee with milk, and it’s still very sweet. My neighbor and friend from Nicaragua would be right at home here. He could drink it as sweet as he likes with out the jerk from down the street harassing him.

I’m a little surprised at what I would call a lack of fashion. I expected much more traditional/formal dress. This morning while waiting for the metro I scanned the platform across the tracks and there was only one woman with a dress/skirt. Everybody else had jeans or slacks. Now, maybe it’s just because I’m such a unobservant old fart, and jeans really pass for haute couture these days. There are more men in suits and ties, but still it has the feel of a more relaxed dress code than I expected.

A change for Carol, since forty years ago, is the number of black people in the city. Portugal had many African colonies and that would account for the large influx of immigrants, but that hadn’t happened yet when she was last here in the mid 60’s. I haven’t been able to talk to anybody about it yet, but there are numerous spray-painted messages of: “Nazis, go home,” for me to think there is some kind of backlash taking place. It’s been my observation that in many European countries that raped and pillaged their colonies for centuries don’t feel any obligation to open up their land to immigrants. Certainly, that was the case in parts of Scandinavia as we discovered last year. It’s interesting to me as an American to see countries trying to come to grips with the issue as we had to half a century ago.

Tomorrow it’s to the north. It will take us three days to go the 120 miles to Oporto. We’ve thoroughly enjoyed Lisbon. It’s such a treasure, rich in culture and full of warm, friendly people. We’re buoyed by the fact that we’ll have a couple more days here at the end of our trip. It all seems too short right at the moment.

We hope that all is well at home, and we send our love to all who receive these attempts to explain what we see.

C and J

The hair on the throne

Date: Apr 9, 2010


We took one of these hop-on-hop-off tours of the city hitting all the big touristy things to see. Get off the bus, explore, and then grab the next bus doing the circuit and repeat the cycle. It’s a cool way to see the city from above ground as opposed to traveling by underground and just coming up to see what’s in front of you. Anyway………….. they have this running commentary about what you’re seeing, and as we passed a church the voice said: “The queen wanted a son so badly she vowed to God that if she got a “Hair on the throne, she would………………” Well, we never heard what she would do because we both convulsed in laughter and started commenting on the possibilities. With our, okay, mostly mine, warped minds, you can imagine the direction of the conversation.

Travel Travails

We got out of Dodge because we knew that we had time at the end of the trip back in Lisbon and we were antsy for the open road. Our rental car pick-up time was 9 a.m. and upon arrival at the airport, Carol waited with the luggage where the cars were to be picked up, and I went to the counter.Oh, my god, It looked like the opening day tickets were available for a Dave Matthews concert. The line was looooooong. It took three hours to get to the counter. A miserable experience, except…….There was this couple behind me, and after frustration set in and we realized this was going to be an unusual deal, we started talking. Turns out the couple was from Poland, and we had this wonderful time talking. They were an absolutely delightful couple, and after a while, e-mail addresses were exchanged, promises made to see each other again, and it reminded me of why I travel. Okay, so they weren’t Portuguese, but their spirit and insight to the world was warming to my heart, and reminded me of why I travel. It’s to meet people and renew the spirit when I get depressed about the direction things seem to be going in the world. Carol got to meet them when we got to the car pick-up and, naturally, we had to wait again.

Undiscovered treasures.

Unfortunately, there aren’t any anymore. Everybody knows where the gems are and they all seem to congregate there on the same day we arrive. So it is around the world. Too many internet suggestions exist on where to go and what to see, and there are too many travel sections in too many papers pointing people do the same. So we just have to tough out the hordes descending on the little picturesque towns and go there anyway. So it was today with two Portuguese towns with dozens of tour buses discouraging their loads into the souvenir shops. Sintra and Obidos. Wonderful places, and I shouldn’t object to people wanting to do the same things I want to, dangling preposition and all. Sintra has a very interesting palace. All the more interesting because it wasn’t the usual gaudy place of royalty, but rather a summer residence for court. My favorite room was the “Magpie” room. So named because the king had magpies painted all over the ceiling as a reminder to the ladies of court not to gossip too much. Who said all royalty was stupid. Lots of Lord Byron establishments since the town inspired his: “Childe Harold’s Pilgramage.”

We ate lunch outside in a little snack bar with literally hundreds of little munchkins nibbling their way through their picnic lunches. They all wore hats and looked like a colorful kids parade waiting to happen. The enormous sycamore trees provided shade while their fuzzy seed balls twirled their way down to earth, most of which seemed destined to wind up in our glasses of juice. There is an international exposition of modern sculpture, and they looked like they were designed by second generations of Dali, Picasso, and Henry Moore, very interesting stuff. It made the walk up the hill very pleasant and helped us forget how far it actually was.

A group of high-school types sat outside the palace and did this impromptu rhythmic hand and foot dance while one of them played a didgeridoo. Who knows where that came from, but tourists stopped and filmed them to their obvious delight.

We moved on to Ovidos, which quickly became my favorite place so far when I discovered they were dispensing samples of cherry liqueur in edible chocolate drinking cups. I mean, what’s not to like. Naturally, a bottle was purchased. It may make it home. Carol promised to make me the chocolate cups.
Sounds like the firm basis for a party. The city itself is a delight, with a capital D. It’s an old medieval city completely surrounded by walls totally intact. Narrow alleys lead up and around the town. It’s a true treasure. It’s the only remaining town mentioned in Camoes “The Lusiads,” which apparently is the epic poem of Portuguese Literature. Red tiled roofs are no longer red, but various shades of yellow, brown, and rust as the lichens have grown and perished over the centuries. Plants have taken seed in the places where the dust has collected they send their flowers sprawling out over the roofs. Espaliered wisteria, roses, plum trees, and mulberry trees sent their roots and stolons into the cracks of the wall and thereby clung as they climbed up and made intricate designs. Flower pots hung from every doorway and window and all together made for a fairy tale type scene. The houses are all painted white with a blue or gold vertical stripe on each side of the corner of the house, and another horizontal swath at the base where the stucco meets the cobble-stoned street. It’s as if the Cal band had been hired to do the job and left partway through the job. But maybe they just got stuck into the cherry liqueur part way through the job.

Carol read that a 19th century farm house took in guests and served local honey for breakfast, so it’s not too difficult to know where we’re staying tonight.
Stay safe everybody,

C and J

The good, the bad, and the ugly

Date: Apr 10, 2010


Whenever we travel, if possible we rent cars in order to give us the greatest flexibility. If Carol sees something she wants to photograph, she wants the ability to stop and get that photo op. If I want something to drink or have to pee, I don’t want to have to wait for the bus to make the obligatory pit stop every two hours. While we have the flexibility, there are pitfalls involved in driving in a foreign country. I’ve crunched a few rental cars in my travels, hence we usually get the rental insurance. In this case they wanted $600 for the insurance. I declined, although the agent “Strongly” recommended it. Don’t start reading into this paragraph……..at least not yet. All is well, it’s just that sometimes it’s like we’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Driving here in Portugal is a bit of a challenge. Drivers tend to pull out suddenly without looking, they tail-gate with a vengeance, and pass when they shouldn’t. So we’re on high alert. I told Carol that I of….., sometimes objected to her telling me how to drive, but in this case I’d gladly take the extra eyes and ears. She laughed and said. “You almost said you “Often” object didn’t you?” Busted, I had to admit it was true.

The roads here range from the luxurious four lane autopistas, where the speed is officially 75 mph, 120 km, but people travel faster, to the curvy narrow two lane version associated with European roads of the past. We prefer the smaller roads. They charge for the high speed highways here in Portugal. Not a lot, but as the government official said, “A billion here, a billion there, pretty soon it all begins to add up.” We’ve paid as little as 80 cents, and as much as $9 for the roads. The smaller roads are far more scenic, go through the small villages and towns which are the essence of Europe in our opinion and have a lot more things to see. My mother used to say I looked for every black (smallest) road in Ireland when she went there with us.

But driving in the cities of Portugal just a different ball game. There the streets go in random fashion. They weren’t designed by city planners. People just built houses on what ever place was available. Since the bottom land was the arable part of the landscape, they began to build up into the hills, and the streets go in directions which seem do defy logic. They twist, turn, double back on themselves, and with the advent of city planning, now we have one way streets, where the saying: “You can’t get there from here,” takes on new meaning. Coimbra is a case in point. It’s a lovely city, and more about that later, but it’s a nightmare in which to drive.

We stopped at the tourist bureau to get directions to our pension and the agent gave Carol a map, and basically said: “We’re here, it’s there, go this way.” Except that doesn’t account for the fact that this all has to happen at light speed, because if you slow down to look for street signs, you get blasted by horns from cars and buses who all know the rules. Cars whizzed all around us. Attention has to be paid in all directions because they will make left or right turns without regard to the lane in which lane they are driving. In some cases we got in bus lanes, and they have VERY loud horns, especially when honking them from your back seat. It is also a very quick lesson in all the various hand gestures which drivers make. You learn then very fast when they are directed at you. We wound up going down one of those streets that is little more than a pedestrian walkway. When we took students to Europe we’d often see the bus driver turn into streets and asked ourselves how he was going to manage to get that bus down that street. We had the miniaturized version of that. We went down the street very slowly trying not to scrape the car, only to find after a blind turn, we were cut off. Workers had torn up the street for some reconstruction and there was no way out. We had to gingerly turn around and make our way back out the one way street, the wrong way. We tried in vain to find another way back to the pension and finally wound back at the tourist bureau with the question, “Okay, how do we get to this other pension?” It makes for a very nerve wracking experience, and one in which I find myself saying after we finally arrive at our destination. “I’m not moving that car. We can walk, take buses, taxis, but the car stays put.” But in the end, that’s the downside of driving, and obviously not sufficient for us to travel in a different manner. In the end I felt like the version of Guy Clarke’s LA Freeway, “ If I can just get out of Coimbra without getting killed or caught.” Ah….but the city itself, now that was worth it.

After the touristy meccas of Sintra and Obidos, what a wonderful change. No more groups of tourists running from shop to shop with the rustle of bags banging against their legs. No tour buses sitting in the parking area with their engines idling all afternoon so that when the tourists get back on board, the bus will be well chilled. No sense that when the shops close at 7 p.m. the town dies.

Coimbra, with a university which was founded in 1290 has a quiet, serene quality to it, at least if you’re not driving. Literally thousands of students hang out in the ubiquitous cafes, coffee shops, bars, and juice bars. Some read for pleasure, some seemed to be reading textbooks, while groups all around us engaged in conversation which ranged from lively debate to idle chatter.

We WALKED down to the river which seemed to move so slowly it might have been a lake and sat under those huge sycamores and just watched people. Three old men walked by with their hands clasped behind their backs, heads bowed, all seemingly in quiet thought. A couple of young lovers necked on a park bench, while others walked by hand in hand, just enjoying being together. Two old ladies very smartly dressed strolled by arm in arm, each supporting the other in body and spirit. It was just such a quiet, tranquil scene that the whole jangling of the nerves was easily put behind us.

Porto is next, the town that put the port in Portugal and gave the world one of its great treasures. Naturally, in the spirit of experiencing where I’m at, I’ll have to have a glass or two or three myself. But more about that later

Love to all,

Carol and Jim

The loss of self respect

Date: Apr 11, 2010


When I taught school, I was sometimes asked if I was interested in being an administrator (not by administrators, I should add) to which I always answered that I wasn’t willing to sell my soul for an extra ten percent. Well, sadly, I learned what I would sell my soul for -free internet access. I’m such a geek that I need to stay connected and surf the net even when I’m having wonderful experiences on the road. Our hotel charges $7 per hour for internet access and being the cheap bastard that I am, I didn’t want to pay that. I went to the local internet connection point, but they don’t have wireless. He said that the MacDonald’s across the street did however. It was then I realized that I would actually go inside a MacDonald's abroad, sit there, have a Big Mac, or whatever they call it here, and connect. A sad moment in my life. Happily, I didn’t have to because the little place where we took our lunch offered the same, but just the realization of the depths of my geekiness was a sad moment.

Speaking of food, Burger King offers a “Cheesy Whopper”, which I think is probably a pretty apt description. But all together we are very impressed with the freshness of the food. Everything seems to have come direct from the garden. Vegetables served are for the most part in season and prepared in such a way to emphasize their natural flavors. Portions are generous in restaurants, and although we have a moderate level of sticker shock, that comes mostly from knowing what prices used to be in Southern Europe. All that’s changed with the European Union where free movement means higher prices all the way round with the requirements of a standardized currency.

The poor, dilapidated villages of the past seem to have been exchanged for the modern, brightly painted condos for which Northern Europeans clamor. They come here in droves throughout the year as the drabness of winter is replaced by the sun of the Iberian coast. We stopped for lunch in one coastal town where the beach is fully ½ mile (1 km) wide. Every 100 yards they have walkways extending halfway out just so you don’t have to kick sand in everybody’s face as you trudge across the beach looking at all the “Sizzling bodies” filling every inch of sand, as one book describes it. It’s clearly the widest beach I’ve ever seen, and it was several miles long. Sadly (for Jim) there was only one sizzling body on the beach, and, for some reason, Carol kept steering me in the opposite direction, so we walked in solitude along the shore.

We also stopped at Aviero which has a series of connected canals and the cool thing was that they had free bicycle use. We gladly hopped on two of them and pedaled our way around town for an hour or so, looping over the bridges which connected one canal to another. It felt wonderful to have the wind in our faces, and since it was Saturday there wasn’t much foot or auto traffic so we moved freely about town.

On a much sadder note, one thing I discovered when I opened up the Washington Post online last night was the crash of the Polish President’s plane. Now I wouldn’t suggest that his death was in any way more tragic than any other death. We have a dear friend back home who has suffered from Parkinson’s and kidney failure. He has decided to go off dialysis, and we check daily for a message from our daughter to tell us that Sam has found a more restful place than he has experienced in many years. However, with that said, having just spent some wonderful moments with my new-found Polish friends, it seemed particularly poignant. I couldn’t help wonder where they were when they heard the news, and about their reaction to it. I can only imagine how I would have felt being in a faraway place and learning that Kennedy was killed, for example. I’m sure they miss the ability to share their grief with their friends and family. My heart went out to them last night.

It’s Sunday in Porto, and the city shuts down. Only churches and the shops on the wharf where they sell Port to the tourists are open. So it will be a leisurely day. Our legs can use a little time off anyway. We’ve walked and walked and walked. As mentioned before, the cities and towns have grown on the hills and so I’ve been very glad for the fact that we live in the boonies with hills surrounding our place. I’ve gotten much needed exercise as I’ve rehabbed and it has been beneficial here. Yesterday we climbed 197 steps (I asked) to the top of a tower(Torre dos Clerigos) in order to see a panorama of the city. The glass of Port we had afterward only added to the wobbliness of the knees since the glass they poured was of the kind an unsure man pours for his date when he wants to loosen things up a bit.

When I serve or am served port at home, it’s usually in a small distinctive glass and it’s truly sipping stuff. Not here, it’s a full wine glass poured to the top all for $3. I remember having a bottle of 1966 vintage port which I gave to my daughter since it was her birth year. Don’t think she’s cracked it yet, but I’m sure some more will find it’s way back through customs with us. I’ve got to check on the “Legal” limits of duty free liquor. What with the cherry liqueur and Jerez de la Frontera for Spanish Sherry ahead of us, I’ve got to be organized. It’s not true that I only travel to check out the local alcohol. However, in the interests experiencing local traditions so I can write you about it, it’s important to do drink a lot. Simply said: “I’m here for you.”

We got hold of a map which shows all the Port merchants in the city. There are dozens of them from the Familiar like Sandeman and Taylor to little obscure ones. They are like the airlines who have discovered that you can charge people for things like meals and aisle seats, only the wineries have discovered they can charge for the tours and people will still come and visit and most importantly, buy. However, some still give free tours, and so we circled the free ones on the map and went to the Wharf where they are all located. Maps can be so deceiving, the 1st free one looked soooooooooooo close. It turned out to be uphill, of course, and quite a ways uphill. We huffed and puffed our way a full 30 minutes to the cellar only to find that it was closed on Sunday. I guess I should read the small print, not just the line which says “Free.” See how my cheapness gets in the way. So down the hill we walked. But……..Like the kids we took to Europe who would tell us their misery at getting lost and then explain all the cool stuff they saw working their way back to the hotel, we too discovered little hidden bits of Portugal. There was a public washing area where the women still washed their clothes and visited with their neighbors. The sound of Portuguese music filled the air and the smell of lunch cooking wafted through the air and we had clear views of the buildings climbing up the hills on the other side of the river.

We made our way down to the river and headed back to another free cellar, this one free and open on Sunday. Yes, it was back up the hill again. See how far I’ll go for a free drink. We entered the cellar and were immediately given a glass of white port. Now white port has a terrible reputation in the U.S. One of my favorite movies “Fat City” has some great lines about that. But this stuff is Good!!! A tour through the musty, cool cellars where they have 1-2 million Gallons of the stuff was like music to a deaf man. All those oak casks. They have so many they don’t even know how many there are. But this winery was begun in 1588. I wasn’t even born then. After the tour another glass, this time tawny port was presented. I told them I wanted to buy a bottle but wasn’t sure which, so some more was offered, and I bought a bottle of the tawny. On our way back I wanted to buy another bottle and we stopped at another vintner’s. I told them I wasn’t sure if I wanted a tawny or ruby, so they offered a free glass of each, and I chose a 10 year old bottle of vintage ruby.

We took the funicular back up the hill since we couldn’t face walking up again, and when we got out a young lady asked what I bought. I told her the ruby. The handle of the plastic bag had torn so I had it under my arm and suddenly the distinctive sound of glass hitting concrete filled the air. I looked at my feet and there was my ruby port. Nothing happened at first, but soon, as Alex in “Clockwork Orange” would say, the “Red Bubbly began to flow.” The woman felt terrible as if she were at fault. Several times I had to repeat “It’s not your fault.” “It’s not your fault.” She clasped her hands to her face and kept saying she was so sorry. Carol and I explained that there was another bottle in the bag, my camera, her jacket and a water bottle all of which contributed to the bottle being at the top of the bag. She was a university student from France studying Agronomy in Lisbon and was visiting Porto with her parents. We visited all the way back. She was from the Pyrenees – tour de France territory, which was cool. We went through all the “What if’s” as if it were some major tragedy, but it wasn’t. But the sight of all that beautiful port running out onto the pavement was certainly a downer. And, yes, I’m headed back up the hill , then down the hill and across the river to replace it.

It was nice to not have to drive today, but tomorrow we’re off again. Carol wants to go to Braga, and as she told the French girl, “Jim doesn’t care, he just wants to see it all.” Truer words were never spoken. I got a nice note from our friends on Prince Edward Island who said to do these trips with my best friend was a blessing. Truer words were………… Oh, wait, I already said that.

Live large and Prosper,

C and J

The air went out of the balloon

Date: Apr 13, 2010

And now for our laugh of the day

There are about 75 emails on the list to which these little ditties get sent, and I send them in groups of 25 or so since Hotmail limits the number of recipients at any one time, and I’ve had problems where some servers just see them as junk mail (which they may well be, anyway) and bounce the letters. So I have multiple “Sends” for each posting. What with the glass of cherry liqueur, the port, and god knows what else I’ve imbibed, mistakes happen. The letter “Grapa Revisited” is a prime example. One grouping went out empty. Nothing in the text area, just a list of names in the TO: box and the subject area filled in. Now please, I’m not fishing for compliments here. Many of you have been quite generous in letting me know that you appreciate receiving them, and I’ve always said that I write these for myself. These are my journals and if anybody else likes them, that’s great, but the letter went out and nobody wrote to tell me until last night when I got an email from my son who informed me of it. Who knows, maybe that was the most interesting of the bunch--)

I really had to laugh. Talk about the deflated balloon. It was definitely my humility lesson for the day. To top it all off, I'm having problems with this server, so I'm not sure if you will receive this one twice. Ah the joys of the cyber world. Oops. Excuse me, that was me tripping over my ego.

Our time in Porto was really quite nice. One section of the city down by the river is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Filled with narrow alley ways which wind and weave their way always down to the river, the area is a microcosm of old Portugal. Little boys play soccer in the streets and yell at pedestrians to stop their ball from heading to the river when it gets away from them. Laundry hangs from the balconies, and neighbors gossip and chat across the balconies where their families have probably lived for generations. Old men sit in chairs by the doorsteps with little to say to anybody, much less to visitors who pass in and out of their lives as quickly as the little boys soccer balls heads inexorably downhill. But even in these narrow streets there are the requisite pastry shops, the coffee bars, not to mention the bars themselves.

We passed through the area several times as we explored the city, but we were told not to go to the area at night, and while we have a tendency to view such advice with skepticism, it seemed like it would be a good idea to heed it in this case. On several corners were groups of men, looking like they had been on the short side of law on many occasions. Drugs were exchanged and purchased openly and thuggish-looking individuals stood watch at the juncture of several alleys. I heard some music coming from a bar and stuck my head inside to see if it was live and there were several obvious prostitutes sitting at the bar waiting for clients. We never felt threatened nor uneasy, but caution and common sense seemed to be the order of the day and we avoided it after dark.

This morning we got up and were on the road before nine. We worked our way towards the Douro Valley where the actual vineyards are for the Port wine Distributors we visited in Porto. It’s a beautiful area, and the Douro itself very picturesque. Guess what, they also have vineyard tours with…. Ta Da, free tastings, but that’s for tomorrow.

We purchased food for our picnic. Bread, cheese, some chorizo, fruit and juice made for a nice lunch. I didn’t have any mustard, and Carol informed me that we were “Roughing it.” Certainly any lunch without that stately condiment is roughing it in my estimation. The roads were narrow, surprise, and we couldn’t find any place to pull out and get a panorama of the area, so we ate our lunch with a view of the supermarket parking lot. A white cat came by, so Carol was happy. We parked next to one of those Smart cars, there are tons of them here, and Carol said if I felt I was too close to it, I could kick it and it would move out of the way. When we were in town we had to be careful crossing streets because as Carol said: “If it hits you, you could damage it.” We’re driving a Renault Clio, and while she’s a gutless wonder, I have appreciated her small size when negotiating the small city streets and alleys, parking, and, in particular, while the oncoming drivers feel their share of the road includes a sizable portion of my side of the white line.

We’ve yet to see the big vineyards but they’re getting bigger as the soil improves. They started out in the rocky outcroppings with nothing more than a good-sized back yard at home. Just a few rows and no more than 100 feet long. Soon however, they began to get larger as the owners had terraced them on the steep hills, looking much like the rice fields in Asia as they worked their way up the side of the hills. The Cherry trees are in bloom and with the green hills of Spring made for some grand photo ops. They looked like a snow fall had left the flakes on the trees but nowhere else. We’ve been amazed at some of the plants. Camellias grow to be more than 20 feet high. They’ll plant several together and then entwine them so that the trunk is more than 2 feet across. We saw this amazing azalea plant more than 7-8 tall pruned like an upside down flower pot, and absolutely awash in color. Every inch of it was a bright magenta and in full bloom. Collards grow 6 feet tall on a skinny stalk. They just keep picking the new leaves, and the plant keeps producing. They’ll plant new ones so that when the old plant finally goes to seed, they have new leaves already producing.

The driving was its usual nerve-wracking adventure. I think the Portuguese must have invented the term “Tail-gating.” And I don’t mean the sports arena type. Get get so close and they drive so fast, I pulled off several times to let them pass so I could drive in a more leisurely manner. I did get tail-gated by an Alfa Romeo which was pretty cool, but big trucks and vans wore on my nerves. They obviously don’t have any “5 cars behind” laws like they have in California. Nobody, except tourists I guess, pulls over and lets others pass. Long lines snake their way up the serpentine roads when stuck behind a laden truck. When the Portuguese get frustrated at the slowness of the pace, they’ll begin to pass, one car at a time. They do this when there’s no room to do so, and therefore, force their way back In line often forcing the oncoming traffic to move over and there’s not that much room. The cars in the long line are forced to let the car back in line, often creating a dangerous situation. The thing about it that I can’t figure out is that they are an otherwise very polite and generous people. We’ve been treated with nothing but kindness during our stay. People have gone out of their way to show us complicated directions of how to get from here to there and always done so in a pleasant manner. But get them behind the wheel of a car and all bets are off.

The hills are absolutely dotted with housing and construction. New houses abound, really pretty ones freshly painted white or peach. They look to be growing right out of the rocks. A huge boulder seems to form the back wall, while smaller ones form the basis of the foundation for the front of the house. For the most part, they are 2-3 stories high, and everything is built in a vertical manner so houses tend to be high rather than long.

Food continues to be excellent and, with a little searching and help from Lonely Planet, not too expensive. Portions are VERY generous and excellently prepared. Tonight Carol had Grilled Squid, boiled Potatoes, thank you Dan Quayle, and mixed veggies. I had a savory combination of pork chunks and clams stewed/simmered together to form a really nice broth and french fries. A half bottle of very nice house wine for $2.50 brought the bill to $27 with tip. The good news/bad news about the french fries is that they are the most common way to serve potatoes here. The second most prevalent would be the plain, boiled variety. While it’s not my favorite way to have spuds, with apologies to O’ Brady’s, they are the best french fries I’ve ever had. They are always fresh, never frozen, and the variety really lends itself to making fries. They love their potatoes and sell them in grocery stores in 100 pound sacks.

The weather has been truly great in the 80’s, but it seems we’re in for some days of rain ahead. If it rains too much, I may have to watch it from a bar with a tall glass of port in my hand just watching people. Life could be a lot worse.

I have such sweet memories of all of you on my list. You wouldn’t be on the list otherwise. You’d be amazed at how often each of you crosses my mind and brings a smile to my heart. Please take care of yourselves,

Carol and Jim

Port to port

Date: Apr 14, 2010

My wine lesson for the trip came full circle in the last few days. I always thought that Port came from Oporto. Turns out Oporto is merely the port from which port is transported to other ports. The wine is produced up the Douro Valley

What a great day we had. We had stayed in a little town (9k) called Lamego on the edge of the Douro Valley. It has a church at the top of a series of staircases (686 stairs in all) which pilgrims climb on their knees, of all things. We did it on foot and that was bad enough. A similar church in Braga is a real piker with only 285 step. Yes, we climbed those as well. In addition to the 25 steps to our room done several times, we figured we climbed over 1000 steps in the course of the day, and we’re not even pilgrims. Anyway….. It was a very cool little place and we enjoyed the smallness after the bustle of Oporto. We headed for the Douro and that’s when the vineyards got really big. HUGE tracts winding from river’s edge up to the top of the hills which are thousand’s of feet high. The different vineyards go on for mile after mile, hill after hill. It was mind boggling. No wonder Crofts had over up to 8 million bottles in their cellars alone.

We pulled into a quinta (farm) for a tour and, of course, free tasting. When we visited the cellars in Oporto, we had the feeling that the people doing the tours were just performing their job. But at Quinta do Tedo it was their passion that impressed us the most. Comprising only about 33 acres (14 hectares) they produce less than 70,000 bottles a year. They’ve got less now than they had before we arrived. The little gal who gave us the tour really enjoyed her work, and as Carol said, “It’s a life, not just a living.” They have guests (tourists) come in, stay at the farm, and crush the grapes in the vats which hold a little over 1k gallons. During the crushing which takes about four hours, they, naturally, drink wine, sing Portuguese wine songs, do dances in the vat, play games, and generally have a good time. I’m sure the continual serving of wine helps the general ambience, but it sounded like a real party to us. Before they get into the vat they have to wash their feet with brandy, seems like a waste of good liquor to me, but they must know what they’re doing. I’m sure right now my mother is just saying to herself that any opportunity to jump in any kind of a puddle of water or other liquid is too good for me to pass up. Hey you get to jump on the grapes with your feet and they give you free port. Sounds like too good a deal to pass up to me. My grandson’s love to jump up and down on bubble wrap. It’s the same kiind of thing except they squirt juice.

Carol loved the story she told about how they know when the grapes are ready to pick. There is a migratory bird which begins to eat the grapes when the sugar content is right. All the grapes are theirs and they bottle only their own wines, unlike the monoliths like Sandeman, Crofts, and Cockburns who buy grapes from all over and blend them without the quality control.

We stopped at a delightful village beside the Douro and then headed up and over the hills, but the vineyards just kept coming and coming. There are so many of them, liteally thousands of wine makers ranging from the mom and pops like Tedo to the gigantic black hooded Sandeman. Tedo isn’t even sold in the states yet, but they are a thriving little operation. Right now they’re working on being totally organic, which means they even have to buy organic brandy to mix with the wine.

I did find out tonight how culturally deprived the Portuguese are however. I went for an ice cream after dinner and found a Ben and Jerry’s shop, but they didn’t have Cherry Garcia on the menu. I had to settle for Chunky Monkey, a very poor second to be sure. They really need to join the 21st century.

I guess it’s just my naivete (I should travel more) but I didn’t realize just how mountainous Portugal is. It’s a continuous up and down on the roads. Then you put the cities at the top of the hills and it doubles the fun. Parking in the towns/villages/cities (take your pick) is just a nightmare. There are literally too few places for the number of cars wishing to occupy them. So the locals just park in the middle of an already too small street and leave just eough room that you can sometimes squeeze by, and sometimes you have to back up and try another direction.

We’ve gotten into sheep territory, complete with the shepherd and dog standing guard. Carol said she had read that they put one black sheep in the flock for every 100 sheep for easier counting. Sounds to me like a margain of error too great to be any real guide. But she is enjoying seeing the flocks.

We stopped at a couple of places to satisy her fiber fetish. One was a wool museum which was only so-so to my jaundiced view, but the other a tapestry museum was really cool. They had created tapestries from many modern art paintings, Dali, Picasso, even the architect Le Coubusier. Beautifully done stuff with incredible detail. I have to sound a little jaded with all this fiber stuff or we could spend our entire five weeks looking at wool products. Carol’s fiber friends are saying: “And your point is……”

Our first jaunt into Portugal is quickly coming to an end. What with the rain forecast our plans are in a state of flux. We’ve really enjoyed the small little towns, but Cordoba, Granada, and Seville await in Spain. They range from about 300,000 to 800,000 people and we’ll lose the simple life we’ve enjoyed so much here. I’m sure it will all be an adventure and wonderful things await us, but they will be different.

On a final note, I must have seemed like a whining, sniveling brat mentioning the letter which went out empty. I really wasn’t looking for people to write me and tell me how much they enjoy the letters. As my wife and kids can sadly testify, I just have this morbid need to find humor in all aspects of life. It’s just that tragedy seems to be lurking around the corner for each of us, and I think we should enjoy all aspects of our lives. That’s one reason I refer to my falling out of the tree as my Icarus episode. When people ask me why I walk so funny, I tell them I tried to fly, and was partly successful until the bitter end. I have to laugh at myself and the silly things that happen to me each day. I can even laugh that my daughter wants to buy me one of those “Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up,” dealybobs.

I appreciate each of you reading these with all the choices you have to make when deciding what to read. I mean I’m up against Lady GaGa announcing that she’s celibate and preaches abstinence. Pretty stiff competition by any measure.

So like the red, red, robin says, “Let’s all live, laugh, love and be happy

Carol and the whiner

I freeze, I burn

Date: Apr 16, 2010

I remember in college I took a lit class where we studied one of Petrarch’s sonnets in which he said and I paraphrase: “I freeze, I burn.” The juxtaposition of the two positions always stuck with me, and today was another reminder of the duality of life. To wit, I love Sevilla, I hate Sevilla.

It was a hell of a day by any standard, and while it was literally hell when going through it, in the end it was just another situation which one laughs at with a little perspective and a very tall glass of wine.

We arrived in Sevilla late morning and parked our car in an underground garage. One of those twisty, curvy things with scrape marks on both sides reminding you that you can over and underestimate the curve. Here they’ve added a new aspect, a climb out of the ground to a blind corner with traffic coming from both directions. Once again I came to appreciate the gutless wonder, Clio. She’s small enough that with nothing more than a little trepidation, I can negotiate the exit. After parking the car on the third level, all the more fun with the additional curves, we proceeded to find our hotel. Our two requirements were a garage for the car, and internet for the whiny geek. The tourist bureau gave us some recommendations and we set about finding them. What they didn’t tell us was that tomorrow begins the “festival of April,” and almost everything is filled and at double the price to boot. Eventually we came across a little pension, with, naturally, neither a garage nor internet access. However, at this point we didn’t care.

Our room is small, but clean and does nicely. The dona running the place does so from her throne on the first floor (0ne floor up) she sends down a basket with the key which you return to the basket when you leave. To pay for the room, the money goes into the basket which disappears into the air. The vestibule is totally Spanish. Flowers pots surround the tiled floor with a big urn in the center. The blue tiled walls look spotless and everything has this freshly cleaned appearance Our room is windowless except for the little window which has a grill on it to prevent anyone from entering from the vestibule, unless, of course, they take the key from the basket which doesn’t seem to disappear quite as quickly as the money. We can hear every conversation as it bounces off the tiled walls and floor.

Opera music wafts over the area from some unknown source, but adds to the ambiance. From her perch, she buzzes the electric door by which all entrances and exits take place. No doubt who’s in charge here.

We proceeded out to discover the city, but that’s just mundane touristy stuff. The real meat of the day came when we came back to move the car to a parking garage closer to our pension. We started to move the car around 5 p.m. and by 8 we finally succeeded. I’ve been in some pretty atrocious traffic in San Francisco and the various freeways on the bay area, but this topped it all.

Take all the things I’ve said about driving in the Portuguese towns, remove the hills but add an extra 800,000 people and you begin to appreciate the situation. The problem is that only the locals know the rules. For example, there are virtually no left turn lanes on anything approaching a major road. You can wind up going down a street and seemingly every direction except the one you are going is a one way street. There are thousands upon thousands of people on motor scooters weaving in and out of traffic and some of the drivers appear to be still wearing diapers. My daughter won’t even let me get one of those little atv things which only go three mph for my grandsons, much less weave in and out of traffic at horrendous speeds. Who are these parents?

We tried to get into a correct lane to get where we wanted to go, but it turned out to be an underground tunnel which took us way beyond where we wanted to go. Then we were in the far left lane and had to negotiate moving over five lanes of traffic which was bumper to bumper and not moving. Cars from the right are forcing their way into your lane, scooters are zipping between lanes of traffic on your right, and just when you think you’re getting somewhere by actually moving over a lane, you now have cars on the left and right forcing their way into your lane, and scooters are now zipping by on both sides. All of this means that you have to keep your eyes on what is happening directly in front of you, while at the same time checking your rear view mirror and both side mirrors. I’ve always said I had multiple personalities, but I’m not a fly with compound eyes.

Without going on and on and on, because that is what we actually did, we managed after two hours to get to our garage, but, Ta Da, it was now full. This meant we had to start all over again to get to another one. We finally made it and had to take our suitcases about ¼ mile with the continuous, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk of the suitcase wheels on the cobble stone streets and sidewalks. We passed our intended parking garage, and Ta Da, it’s not full anymore. Well, I’m not moving the damned thing until we leave town!!!

I was totally trashed! Carol knew how I felt, and thank god I had her to read the maps and give me at least an idea of where we were, even though we didn’t know how to get back. I told her the only thing I could compare it with was remembering how I felt after the last final on the last day of finals when you had three of them that day.

However, I found a ice cream shop had a wi-fi zone where I could check email. A big tub of Chocolate/Orange gelato and that aforementioned TALL glass of wine helped put everything in proper perspective. It’s hell when you are going through it, but in the end, it’s just like the rest of life, something to laugh about, and hopefully something about which you will be able to tell a good story.

More about the glorious city of Sevilla later, but for now I finish with a few tid bits.

One of the breads here is called “Bimbo.” Carol asked me how I’d like to have a toasted bimbo for breakfast. I knew there was no good answer to that and I merely took another sip of my Café con leche, and made some comment about the flowers on the table.

The rain in Spain falls mainly in Portugal. It rained like hell yesterday, but as soon as we crossed into Spain it stopped. The forecast was for five days of rain, but so far all is good.

Carol and I had a disagreement today. I said the aristocracy as depicted in the paintings made them look “Ugly as sin.” She said they were “Ugly as mud.” Ugliness is in the eye of the beholder. She also said it was no wonder the men all had courtesans. I knew this was another of those statements about which I had better keep my shut. I think she’s testing me.

Make-up and fashion are back on the Iberian Peninsula. The Portuguese wear hardly any cosmetics. The

Spanish ladies wear a full complement of the former, and dress very stylishly in regards to the later.

You can’t get anything to eat before 8;30 at night. What with the laissez-faire attitudes of Spanish waiters you don’t finish your meal until 11. It’s like the midnight buffet on cruise ships. How can anybody sleep after that. No wonder they wander around until ungodly hours of the night.

Well enough of this. It really was a great day and I wouldn’t trade it for a day at home. We’re doing what we love to do, being together and living large.

Carol and Jim

Wee fee lives

Date: Apr 17, 2010


Like Starbucks at home, where for the cost of an overpriced coffee, you can get wi-fi, so here there are Starbucks in many locations around Sevilla. However, for my money there’s the ice cream shop where I sent last night’s letter or the many wee fee (wi fi) coffee shops, cafeterias, and pastelarias where you can connect. This morning we stopped at a corner place for the obligatory coffee con leche and natural orange juice (that stuff is sooooo good) and a pastry. We sat in the corner table with picture windows all around and started our day. To the left of us was an old dona who was a victim of Parkinson's or who had had a stroke, yet she was out for her morning coffee, probably as she had done for decades. Three ladies in very stylish dress sat behind us and chatted amiably before finishing, then kissing each other on each cheek and departing each in separate directions. The waitress hurriedly cleaned tables because the ebb and flow of customers was non-stop. You are never rushed in these places, no matter the time of day or night. Your table is your table until you choose to leave. They never bring you the bill until you ask for it. It’s like claim stakes in the old west. It’s your territory.

Outside the windows I watched very fashionably attired women walking, bicycling with hair flowing behind them, and literally scooting by on their scooters. Men used their large, long umbrellas as walking sticks and looked very much in charge of their day. Kids laughed their way past the windows, backpacks drooping their shoulders while they kicked at whatever they could put their foot to, never missing an opportunity to practice soccer.

I love these slow, easy mornings. It’s just such a communal way to start the day. I’m sure the ladies next to us meet every morning and the same kids walk by each day. After coffee, it’s anything but casual. Sevilla is such a lively, vibrant city. It literally buzzes with the sounds of people enjoying life. I think of time I’ve spent in NYC where you can walk down the street and all you hear is the honking of horns and other various sounds of traffic. Here it’s life – people in the full bloom of living every day. It’s a near cacophony of sound. Laughter is everywhere in the street, as is the sound of music. Sometimes it’s street musicians with a cup or their instrument case placed for coins to be dropped in, sometimes it’s somebody selling their CD’s, and sometimes it just seems to drift through the air coming from some unknown source.

We checked out several destinations. Carol wanted to see the Duchess of Alba’s house, and I wanted to see the Murillo exhibition at the fine arts museum. We have different ways of getting to our destination. Carol is far more organized and direct. She looks at the map and checks it frequently to see where we are and where we need to be. I like to look at the map to see a general direction and them just sort of head that way. The duchess of Alba, (how many generations have passed I wonder since Goya painted her) is some member of the royal family and her house and grounds occupy an entire city block. Very nice grounds they are too. We couldn’t find it, and so asked an old man walking by where it was. He looked like an old time Sevillano, and indeed he was. He took his magnifying glass out of his pocket, looked at the map, saw what it was, pointed with his umbrella, and told us to go with him. He told us that he had seen her many years ago as she came out of her house after her first marriage. He was stooped, with some teeth missing, but that didn’t stop him from dressing in full suit and tie when he went out. He told us he was 89 years old and that life was good. We said it was better than the alternative, but with hearing aids in both ears, it was kind of lost. He just smiled and guided us to the house.

At the Murillo exhibition a group of school kids looked like they were only interested in being out of the classroom for the morning, while others lingered over individual paintings for such a long time you got tired of waiting to see it. A guide spoke quietly to her group as if she were afraid someone would glean a speck of truth without paying for it.

The city is awash in churches, some are grand like the cathedral where Columbus is buried, others are small little gems, more like mom and pop places of worship. My favorite was Iglesia de San Antonio Abad. Small shrines in the small courtyard are filled with votive candles burning as supplication for favors to be granted while bunches of flowers are placed to honor their favorite saint.

They are building an absolutely stunning commercial center in the heart of the city, to be filled with trendy shops, I assume. It’s an amazing architectural design, and just knocked me out when I saw the overall plans. It just struck me that this is no old world city living on past glories. This is a place where the people and the city planners are looking forward with eyes wide open.

It will be interesting to go back to Portugal at the end of our trip, because right now what I see is so full of contrasts. As I hope I expressed in earlier writings, I thoroughly enjoyed Portugal and its people, but things are really different here. Everything is so more upbeat. Stores abound with fashionable items. My god, I’ve never seen so many shoe stores in my life. Everybody on the streets is carrying bags and bags of goods purchased on their outings. Coimbra, the university town in Portugal, was the nearest thing to what we’re seeing here.

These are just some of the myriad sights and sounds that we see as we stroll across this city. It just makes one feel so alive. We have a friend who comes here almost every year, and I can certainly see why she loves the place so much.

There are drawbacks however, as my letter of yesterday can attest. Driving is a no-no for the unprepared. The locals don’t seem to mind, but it’s downright frightening if you don’t know the rules. I just can’t understand why they drive so fast when the streets are so narrow, and there are so many people walking just inches from instantaneous death. I think the pedestrian mortality rate must be somewhat comparable with the infant mortality rate in Chad. Sidewalks, already narrow, just disappear. The streets were never designed for automobile traffic, and when the houses jut out, and they do, the sidewalk is what suffers. It forces you into the street. We always look both directions, or wait until it is clear, but the locals just trust in luck. On many of the more narrow sidewalks they’ve installed steel posts about two feet high every six feet or so to protect the pedestrians. From the number of the posts which are missing and the holes which have been filled in with concrete, somebody had a lot of foresight. They certainly give new meaning to the phrase, if you don’t like the way I drive, stay off the sidewalks. They will park in any space into which they can maneuver their car. Major streets and commercial zones are off limits to sidewalk parking for obvious reasons, but otherwise, everything is fair game.

We traipsed around the city for most of the day and finally retreated to our little room since the sky looked ominous, and indeed it did absolutely dump. We heard the booming thunder from the confines of our room. It gave me a chance to rest the back and write since my head was so filled with what my eyes had taken in and caused my brain to be so filled with this city. We’re off to Cordoba tomorrow. Ferry schedules to Morocco dictate that we have limited time here. We hope to catch it again on the flip side, but next time, I’m going to have a room where the toilet is not three feet from the head of my bed, and where I cannot touch one wall of the bathroom while leaning my shoulder on the opposite side.

So, all in all, I’d say that Sevilla is one of the great cities - Full of history from the Moorish empire, to the conquest of the new world, to modern day art and architecture. Just don’t try to drive or walk in it.
Cordoba awaits us

Carol and Jim

I think I'm getting old

Date: Apr 18, 2010

Okay, I admit it. I’m a wuss. I wimped out. I folded and decided to pamper myself, without any kind of objection, I might add, from Carol who is usually tougher than I am.

After our garret in Seville, I really needed some ease and comfort here in Cordoba, so I booked us into a 4 star hotel which is literally across the street from the Cathedral. I pulled up to the hotel, parked (on the sidewalk, naturally) and went inside. The doorman took the keys parked the car and we went straight to our room where we both let out a sigh of relief and said, “Yes!” I opened up my computer, which connected instantly to the wee fee, and my mind and body just relaxed. By the way, sorry to disappoint those of you who wrote that they thought the wee fee letter was going to be about pay toilets.

We left our pension in Seville this morning, thunk, thunk, thunking our way back to Clio and got out of town. Sevilla is a great city and, in spite of my moaning and groaning, we thoroughly enjoyed it. Sevilla definitely qualified as the most electric place we have been in so far, but it’s huge and that in itself was part of the problem. We quickly took the small road to Cordoba and it was a real treat. While ominous clouds loomed overhead, it didn’t rain and we crossed a diverse landscape that was as rich to the nose as it was to the eye.

The HUGE tracts of orange groves are in full bloom and as Carol said, “You can smell their perfume even inside the car with the windows closed.” Grove after grove just seemed to go on and on. One grove was over three miles and seemed to be just as deep, although we couldn’t see how far back it went. The corn in the fields is already three inches high, and olive orchards were interspersed with the wheat fields which wafted in the wind. You could see the wind patterns by watching the tops of the wheat as they moved to and fro with every micro-burst of wind. When we traveled down the road in Portugal, because of the continual undulations of the hills, you never could get a feeling for the land itself. We did so by climbing to the top of castles, fortresses, and cities to get a panorama, but as soon as we crossed into Spain the landscape literally unfolded itself to us. The mountain ranges which border the two countries have provided some level of insulation for the smaller Portuguese country, but that protection gives limited views. Spain is very mountainous itself, but here in the south is it open and inviting.

It is sooooo nice to get to a country where I can butcher the language as only I can. Carol speaks Portuguese well and had no problems, but I was totally lost other than saying, hello, goodbye, thank you, and some simple counting. Now I can use my incorrect grammar, wrong tenses, poor vocabulary all together and still communicate in Spanish.

Last night when the torrential rain had subsided and was merely a steady drizzle we ventured out of our room for one last glimpse of Sevilla. Carol had her trusty Dollar Store umbrella with its two broken ribs which held the rain in puddles on top of the umbrella. She slipped on an orange peel in the street, went to one knee with her umbrella preventing her from a real tumble as it acted as a brace. We walked along and I started laughing because now the umbrella was totally turned inside out. It was utterly useless, even though she straightened it out as best she could. We passed a store and I ducked inside and asked if they had “paraguas” (umbrellas). The man said yes, they were $8 and so we bought a big one under which we could both walk. The man was from India and he was so glad to talk to us in English. We chatted for a while, threw her old one in the trash and left, new brolly in hand. We stopped at our wee fee coffee house where I had my coffee and Carol had a hot chocolate. My coffee was the same as always, but her chocolate was unlike anything we had ever seen. Carol described it as sweet mud. It looked like chocolate pudding that didn’t gel. It was thick and very sweet. It looked like what the Aztecs would have had. We didn’t ask but bill described it as Chocolate of the Indies. Must have been something particular to that café. While I was checking email, Carol said: “Oh look, there goes the Indian shopkeeper.” Then she added: “Oh my God, he’s got my umbrella.” And sure enough he did. It still looked ridiculous. We laughed so hard at something only we had a clue about.

Today, sitting on a stone bench alongside the Guadalquiver river where ships from the new world brought riches as far inland as Sevilla, I couldn’t help reflect that I still don’t understand how I’ve been as fortunate in my life as I am. As I said to Carol “I am sitting here with a good woman who is my best friend, have two great kids, grandsons who I wouldn’t change for the world, have my health even after falling 20 feet out of a tree, am prosperous enough to travel and am sitting in Cordoba one of my favorite cities in the whole world.” As Jeff Blatnick said when he won the Olympic gold medal: “I’m a lucky dude.”

I never know why certain places remain so strong in my memories or call me back with such vigor. Some past life connection? Some experience hidden in the coffers of my brain? I don’t know what it is, but ever since I was here when I was in the Army stationed in Germany and came here, it has been a place to which I’ve wanted to return. It is a tourist mecca and the streets are crowded with tourists. The innumerable shops give credence to the numbers of people who come to enjoy this city with so much history.

Around the Cathedral which was originally a mosque, are numerous alleys leading out in different directions, all with the requisite souvenir shops all selling exactly the same things – postcards, flamenco outfits for kids, Spanish fans and combs, filigree silver jewelry, tiles and pottery. I guess it is just the sheer number of people who visit that makes these cookie cutter shops profitable. Therefore, go in any direction from the Cathedral and it’s all the same, noisy, crowded, and hectic, even in April and in the rain. I can only imagine what a zoo it must be in the height of the season. The tourists are mainly Spanish, and while I really like them, they are not a quiet people. They are so boisterous. They say things in loud tones, even when the people to whom they are talking are just a few feet away. Hence the level of noise on the street is something less than peaceful. But I guess that goes with the territory. They are a happy people, they laugh a lot, smile a lot, and are famously friendly.

But get out beyond this two block radius, and things get wonderfully quiet. Alleys go in all directions seemingly without purpose. One street is called “Estoy Perdido,” “I am lost.” We laughed as we passed it, wove our way back to the cathedral, only to come back to the same spot. Indeed, we were lost. We had to take out the map to get the general direction we should be traveling. The perfume of orange blossoms permeated the air. The trees are quite tall, pruned in such a way to permit easy passing underneath. You can even pick oranges from your balcony on the second floor.

Across the street from our window is one of the walls to the cathedral courtyard. Moorish arches and Arabian knot windows looking like stone lace work are at eye level and lights on our hotel shine across the street at nighttime and give that yellowish, golden hue to the walls. All very ethereal.

A wedding took place in the cathedral last night, and a virtual fashion parade passed beneath us on their way into the church. It looked like a photo shoot for Elle, very elegant indeed. Being fashion-challenged as I am, I have no clue what’s going on at home. Carol buys all my clothes, and I’ve always admitted that if weren’t for her, I’d look like I stepped right out of the pages of a 1944 Wards Catalog. But purple is certainly the “In” color here. Purple dresses, purple sweaters, leggings, shoes, scarves, and a myriad of other female accessories.

It was here in Cordoba that Columbus received permission to sail to the new world, and in one of those seminal moments, history was changed, We walked the gardens of the Alcazar and beat the masses by getting there right when the doors opened. The Spanish had not even thought of arising yet and so it was peaceful. The rain drizzled on us, and I felt like one of those Nubians of old, who held the large shades and so provided relief to the royalty, as I followed Carol holding the umbrella as she got just that perfect shot that she wanted. “Here, hold the umbrella,” she said. Then moving forward to get a better angle, I’m trying to anticipate where she’s headed to keep the lens dry while she’s just concentrating on the composition.

While those of you in the new world, whose European history started ever so obliquely here in Cordoba, sleep, it’s noon here. The cathedral bells peal through the window of our room, and the din from the street tells me the Spaniards have risen. The rain has ended, the gargoyles have stopped spitting into the street, and it’s lunch time here. A good paella sounds like the order of the day. I haven’t had any alcohol in two days, so before my body reacts negatively, I think a good tinto or sangria, as Carol suggested, would go very nicely.

A room with a view

Date: Apr 19, 2010

Okay, so it’s not Florence, but instead of a view of the Arno, we have the Mezquita people watching. Our view provided us with the wedding last night, a mass baptismal today, and the most entertaining of all, people trying to avoid drowning in the torrential downpours that have occurred throughout the day. We venture out and then head back when it begins to dump. Everything is close enough to the hotel that we can make it safely before we are soaked. I wonder what the shopkeeper in Sevilla is doing with the dollar store umbrella. Ours is doing quite nicely.

The modified gargoyle outside our room shoots water all the way across the road. That’s when the fun begins. Most people try to avoid getting sprayed by the splash. But we can hear a joyous laughter and we know that some are playing in it. A group of teens stood under it until their brolly broke and they got soaked. That brought out a real chortle from the rest of the group.

It’s nice to be able to retreat to the safety of our room and still be entertained. The rain has been such as to make my Costa Rican twin feel right at home, rain, stop, dump, stop, rain………………

We’re getting a lot of news here about the Icelandic ash in the air. Thousands of flights have been canceled. Gee, we might have to stay longer. Life is such a drag.

One of the things I truly love about just wandering the old town’s streets in places like Cordoba is the incredible lengths to which the residents take pride in their patios. Stemming from the Moorish times these patios lay in wait for passers-by to stop and take notice. Without a continual head swivel left and right, you can miss some truly beautiful touches to the city. These patios lie in the center of a house and provide a beautiful place to rest and relax during the long, hot summers. Since the houses do not have front or back yards, these are the places where people show their love of the beauty which plants and trees bring to their lives. There are usually two door/gates to the courtyard patio. If the first is wooden, then residents often leave it open for you to see within. The second is almost always a shut iron grill work which allows viewing within. Sometimes both doors are a grill work. The entry way is usually tile or other ceramic flooring as is the patio itself. The flowers are arranged in pots and the only open ground will be where trees are planted to provide the needed shade. They even have an annual patio festival here in Cordoba. I’ve provided some pictures of typical patios I found on line for your viewing. In my limited search I didn’t find any of them behind the grill work to truly give you a sense of how it looks from the street. Below are the websites for the patios I found.

http://www.turiscordoba.es/upload/5001/propuestas/propuesta-527/anexos/P1020699.JPG

http://www.turiscordoba.es/upload/5001/propuestas/propuesta-527/anexos/P1020712.JPG

http://www.turiscordoba.es/upload/5001/propuestas/propuesta-527/anexos/P1040910.JPG

On a rather dismal note, there was a gaggle of Spaniards creating a hassle in one of the alleys today, all jostling for that souvenir to remind them of their Cordoba trip – the Hannah Montana bag. Sorry to say we’re not the only culture in decline.

I’ve often wondered about the attraction/repulsion aspect of life. What is there that draws one person while another person would go to great lengths to avoid it. Just after we got married, Carol and I took the kids on an RV trip to the Grand Canyon amongst other places. We went through Death Valley and from the moment we arrived, Carol couldn’t wait to get out of there. Nothing had happened on the trip to trigger such emotions, but she was really anxious until we left the area. At the opposite end of the spectrum is how I feel about Cordoba. It just absolutely draws me. We’ve done nothing spectacular here. We’ve just walked and moseyed, and ambled our way through the streets and alleys for the last three days. That feeling hit its pinnacle this morning when we went into the Mezquita, the old mosque turned into the Cordoba cathedral. We’ve been saving it for last because we could get in early before the hordes descended. So just after 8 a.m. we were waiting at the door with a few other brave souls and when the door opened we entered another world entirely for me.

I’ve no great objection to what the Christians did to the mosque. Every religion tries to put its own personal stamp on conquered icons. The Muslims did the same thing to the great Christian church of Santa Sophia in Istanbul. This Christian/Muslim thing has been going on since Richard and Saladin duked it out. But try as they might, The Spaniards could not erase the indisputable Islamic character of the place. They put up a dome, made a great altar and sanctuary, put chapels all around the inside perimeters, but still it’s an Islamic place of worship. It’s just so vast and it totally envelops and engulfs the attempted Christian stamp. It was the 2nd largest mosque in all the Islamic world. It has over 1,000 pillars of alternating red onyx and white marble, beautiful arches and graceful entry ways mark the entire edifice. There’s a wonderful photo gallery at:

http://www.sacred-destinations.com/spain/cordoba-mezquita-photos/

which shows more clearly what it’s like what words cannot describe. All I can say is that I remember being inside as one of those iconic moments in my life. I wondered how I would feel about it so many years later.

I hadn’t even started “My life” when I was last here in 1967. My son hadn’t been born yet, I hadn’t met Carol, I hadn’t even started teaching. I was just a GI thankful he wasn’t fighting in Vietnam, and traveling on leave. Now as I approach the other end of life and certainly more of my life is behind me than ahead of me, it still has that same wondrous effect upon me. I sat there on a bench and just soaked up the joy of the moment. It literally brought tears to my eyes. This is Cordoba to me. More than all the other things we have seen and done here. It’s all been a joy with lots of little moments to enjoy and remember. Both Carol and I like what they’ve done to entertain you as you twist and turn your way around the old historical city. Yesterday I mentioned the street named: “I’m Lost.” Today we found: “You are here,” “Where are you going,” and “You have found a little alley.”

We walked into the new Cordoba with its swank shops and 8 lane avenues and it all seemed like a different world. When I taught school I used to do a lesson where we talked about time travel and then I made the kids write whether they would want to travel forward or back in time and tell me why and what they would expect to find. The vast majority wanted to go forward. They wanted to see what became of their lives. Certainly understandable, but I always enjoyed the ones who wanted to go back and find out where they came from and experience things they had read about. For me, it’s no contest. I’d come back to Cordoba while it was the jewel of the Moorish world. To walk in the Mezquita. I truly think it would have the same affect upon me as it did today. What a wondrous day it was.

Tomorrow it’s to Granada and the Alhambra. More magic awaits.

Carol and Jim

Deja vu all over again

Sent: Apr 21, 2010

Yes, Yogi Berra always said it best.
While traveling down the road today, I felt in some ways I was back walking the Camino de Santiago again. While walking, we’d see some village up ahead of us rising up on the hillside with its church always at the apex, looming mightily for all to see God’s might silhouetted against the sky. There was usually some unidentifiable object mixed in the picture which was a different color or shape that caused it to stand out as opposed to blending in with the rest of the picture. We’d walk for hours with each step bringing us that little bit closer until we had the cartoon light bulb moment: “Aha, so that’s what it is.” Today as I zipped down the road at 65 mph that aha moment came in a flash. I’d see it, and then moments later I knew what it was. What took us a day to walk, we now covered in less than 30 minutes. The views of Andalucia are just as glorious as those of the Camino. It’s been a visionary delight. But those visions change quickly when motoring down the road. There’s no time to let them ease their way into your consciousness.

We got away from the gently rolling hills into more rugged landscape. We climbed into the Subbetica mountains. The peaks ranged upward to about 5,000 feet and we bobbed and wove our way up and through them all the time surrounded by a change in soil type. Gone was the rich fertile bottom land. Now we had rocky soil. Goodbye Oranges. Hello, olive trees. I thought orange cultivation was wide spread, it does not even come close to olive production. The groves went literally for about 75 continuous miles. Each hillside all around us was entirely filled with olive production. Olive Cooperatives producing olive oil dotted the landscape. The production is so vast that it boggles the mind. The groves are designed in such a way as to take into consideration the varying terrain, to minimize erosion, and they look like a patchwork quilt. It looked like my grandsons had fun tossing down different sized squares, rectangles, and other odd shaped sections to see what different types of designs they could develop. It’s pruning time in the groves and they’re burning all the clippings. What with the wet weather we’ve had, there was as much smoke as fire, hence a pall of smoke covered the valleys. Still, we’ve had a few days of good weather, much appreciated not having to carry the umbrella around all the time.

It’s only a 90 minute drive from Cordoba to Granada, but it took us all day as we took a cultural route which brought us to some old Moorish towns where their influence could still be strongly felt, in architecture, cuisine, and those reminders of struggles past, the citadels. The fortress at Alcala la Real was particularly impressive. They are lovingly restoring it, and have video, audio and displays to make it come to life, better than I’ve ever seen. My favorite display was of the individual whose job it was to see that the Moorish, Jewish, and Christian merchants all got along and dealt fairly with each other. Where is he now that he is really needed.

We stopped in one town to have lunch and had a difficult time finding a restaurant that was open before 1 p.m. It was 12:50 and they wouldn’t serve us. A Doris Day, Rock Hudson movie blared out from the TV, and I must say, she sounds a lot better in Spanish when you can’t understand everything she says. We walked around a bit and found another at 1:15 and they didn’t open until 1:30. Now, I’m getting hungry and tired and want food. Finally, we found one that opened at noon, and they were doing a land office business. Germans, Brits, French, Spaniards, and even two Americans had lunch there. Now I admit that I’m no businessman, but somebody should get a clue.

We arrived at our hotel and it’s just spitting distance from the Alhambra which makes it nice. No driving for our time here. We walked around a little last night, but were both very tired so came back early ate our picnic dinner at a decent hour and hit the sack We’re having our big meal at lunch. You can find a menu of the day at most restaurants. Much cheaper and it’s the whole deal: starter, main course, desert, bread and a drink. All for around $10- $11. What we don’t need is two big meals each day, so we’re finding a market, buying some bread, cheese, lunch meat, drinks, and yogurt. That makes for a good breakfast before we leave the hotel, and a light snack in the evening.

I talked to the reception about what time the Alhambra opened in the morning, and she said that it was probably all sold out. Most people get their tickets online, come in groups, or through a travel agency. My travel agent never said anything about that, I may have to fire him when I get home. But, she said, I could line up in the morning, since they usually had a few tickets for same day visiting. I felt like it was game 7 and I didn’t have tickets. The ticket office opened at 8 and the Alhambra at 8:30. She suggested I get in line an hour early, so when I woke up at 6:30, I got ready and was there by 6:45. Turned out to be a good move, since I was already 20th in line. By 7:30 there were a couple of hundred people in line. I have no idea how many of them got in, I got my two tickets and came back to the hotel, got Carol and we went in as the gates opened.

While not overemphasizing the matter, this was the one thing that did not live up to the luster we expected. It may very well have been our own expectations that let us down. We did enjoy it, and after talking about it, we knew we were glad we went, but the karmic thing just didn’t pan out. I remember it as being vivid in color when I saw it in 1967. All fountains were in working order and all rooms were open. I walked through it in relative peace and left very impressed. Carol has seen photos of it all her life. Learning Spanish, she often saw photos of it and remembered it as being more colorful than it was today. The one thing she REALLY wanted to see was the lion fountain, and it was totally dismantled. There were several groups of over 100 per group. The books said that with the size you never felt overwhelmed, and that was not the case. It was utter chaos trying to find a spot to see, to take a photo, or just to try and envision what it must have been like to live there in the time of the Moors. There is major restoration going on in many of the rooms, and it just felt like a work in progress. But, again, I stress that we did enjoy it, it was just a letdown which is unusual for us. We’ve traveled enough to try and avoid those types of expectations.

We’ve been lucky the last few places we’ve stayed since they have elevators. However, I did get my “Oh, yeah, I’m in Europe,” awakening when we stayed at a pension and were told that the room was on the second floor and they didn’t have an elevator. No problem, I can lug the suitcases up one floor which I did, only to be greeted with the signs “1st floor.” That’s my “Oh yeah,” number. The first floor is the 1st floor UP. Our room was on the Americanized 3rd floor. I knew that, but it’s like my Spanish vocabulary. You forget when you don’t use it and then get a quick slap across the face, like my mother used to do when I sassed her as a kid. That woman has the quickest right hand I’ve ever seen. If she were a man, she could have been a champion boxer. They’d never have seen it coming. I never did, until afterwords. Then I had another of those, “Oh yeah, that’s what happens when I have a smart mouth.”

Morocco looms in the very near future. No expectations, we’ll just let it happen.

Carol and Jim

And now for something completely different

Date: Apr 22, 2010

Sometimes things just don’t fit. For whatever reason a place just doesn’t float the boat, as they say. So it was with Granada with us. I’m not saying it’s not a worthy destination or that one should avoid going there, but when things just don’t mesh, it’s time to get out of dodge. I’ve always adhered to that adage when traveling. I’m not going to give a litany of the negatives. That’s not what this is all about, but let’s just say that many things didn’t work for us in Granada and so even with the hotel paid for tonight we bailed and headed south.

Since we now had two days to get to our ferry in Algeciras we took the slow road rather than the hell-bent-for-leather freeway where if you’re doing 75, you’d better get out of the way. There is a national forest/part outside Granada which leads you in the general direction we wanted to go and so we went up and over the mountains. Talk about the road less traveled, in the three hours it took us to go 60 miles, we met six oncoming cars and a bicyclist who obviously had more time than sense. It was like going out the back way of Yosemite, or over Carson pass on Highway 88 in California. Rocky crags loomed upward and the road curved continuously. Clio nearly croaked on the ascent, and her brakes complained mightily on the way down, even though I was in second gear to help slow her down. Finally we met the sea and a totally different world opened up.

We hit sea level Just east of Malaga where the blue-green waters meets the pasty white skin of the northern Europeans who come here searching for their own version of the bronze age. Walking down the streets in their bikini tops and shorts we knew we were not in Kansas anymore. Carol didn’t help. I’m trying to watch out for those terrors of the towns and cities, the motor scooters, and keep an eye on drivers who think if you look one direction for traffic you’ve fulfilled your karmic necessities, and she’s saying things like: “Oh look, she’s got her bikini top tied with two strings.” This is not helpful at all.

Greetings from the Costa del Sol. No more Moorish citadels rising on the hillsides. Now it’s all condos. Apartment houses grow to dizzying heights next to the sea and block out the views of all those who thought they bought that ultimate come-on: “Ocean Views.” The hillsides are dotted with long strings of Condos to the extent they looked like they just kept adding on to them until the hill stopped and they ran out of room. Signs everywhere remind you that you can buy or rent. If they sold them all out, I’m quite sure the atomic clock would change just by the shear number of people all being in the same place at the same time. And yet, cranes operate all up and down the coast building even more. If they ever have a housing crash here like we had at home the collective weeping will be heard on the moon.

As we dropped out of out of the mountains Carol just said, “Historic cities have been replaced by the coastal playground.” No more narrow alleys. Here it’s broad promenades for walking the shoreline, not to mention the dogs. Carol wanted to stop for lunch at a small town she remembered reading about. That small town is now home to a half a million people on a given Sunday, and that’s not counting tourists. We had a lovely lunch at a restaurant where we could see the water, hear the waves washing ashore, and see the ominous clouds warning us that things could and would change in a hurry. We were the only customers in the restaurant, and it was a great place. The cook, waiter, table boy all had time to talk to us about the ills of the times for the area. The global economy has hurt them badly (so why are they still building) and the weather has been atrocious. Except for Easter week, it has rained almost continuously since January.

We got to Algeciras and again what a different feeling. It’s a port city, gritty, busy in commerce, and has a whole different look and feel to it. I think port towns do by their very nature. It’s a very earthy feeling, not cultured, not sophisticated, just blue collar and more down to earth. Of course, after Malaga and that area, almost everything would feel more down to earth. Davits are like ants all around the port. They lift and lower cargo into ships while dock vehicles which look like the machines they use in vineyards on steroids or, something out of Star Wars, run around the thousands upon thousands of containers finding the right ones to load. It boggles the mind. The port is a virtual bee hive of international commerce.

I love Spain. I love it for so many different reasons. I love it because it was really my introduction to the world. When I left home at 19, only to defy my mother, it was the first place I stopped to look around and to realize it was a different world from anything I could have imagined. I had landed in cold, drizzly London in January of 1961 and after recovering from jet lag, I headed south to find warm weather. I even stopped in Bordeaux and didn’t have a clue I was surrounded by the worlds greatest wines. How stupid is that. But Spain, it was here that I took time and began what has been my lifelong passion, to see, to learn, to soak in all that the world has to offer my simple soul.

I love Spain because it was the place where I began to know that all the things I had been taught in school and heard obliquely while daydreaming about Judy Kroeger weren’t the one true version of the world. Hooray for the English when they defeated the horrible Spanish Armada it seemed to me that they were teaching me. I mean was Carlos V any worse than Henry VIII. Was Elizabeth condoning the virtual pirates any better for the fact that they enriched her treasury rather than the Spanish court. It all started here for me.

I love Spain because I get to experience it with Carol, who loves it probably more than I do. She, who can talk to anybody she wants to and can express herself in ways I’m too lazy to learn for myself, brings me an insight that would be missing otherwise. I say things like: “I think this might be my last time in Spain, There’s so many other places I want to see.” She retorts: “Oh well, then I guess I’ll come back with somebody else.” Now that’s sobering conversation to be sure.

But mostly I love Spain because of the Spaniards. They are just one big bear-hug of a people. Loud, boisterous, outgoing, and affectionate, all at the same time. They don’t say: “Say hello to Carol for me.” It’s always, “Give Carol and hug and a kiss for me.” They can be annoying when they are in a crowd all trying to be overheard over the already too loud group. As Carol says, “they aren’t going to change just because I don’t like something about them. They’re indomitable.” It’s really hard not to be sucked into the whole atmosphere and become one with them.

So tomorrow we go to Gibraltar, that last little bastion of British imperialism on the continent, and then Saturday to Morocco. As I say often to people here: “It’s a great day to be alive.” And hopefully, more tomorrows to come.

Carol and Jim