Category Archives: Uncategorized

Florence, Italy–Firenze, the capital of Tuscany, the heart of the Italian Renaissance, the birthplace of Dante, home to Galileo, Michelangelo, Leonardo, Botticelli, Giotto, Machiavelli, the dusty stone city bisected by the River Arno as it flows west out of the Appenines toward the Mediterranean Sea at Pisa, 40 miles west. When did I fall in love with Florence? Why?

There is a good chance that I had heard of Florence before my friend David did a study abroad program through Gonzaga University that placed him in that famous Dominican city. Because of him, though, I learned more, and had more reason to be interested in it.

Later, another friend, Jose Arau, did another year abroad program, through the architecture school at Cal Poly SLO, and chose Florence. He wrote me great letters and sent drawings.

Meanwhile I was teaching Humanities at Chico High School and learning more and more about the Renaissance, and Florence as its Italian hub. And I started traveling, too, which makes the world shrink and possibilities expand.

The first time I visited Florence was with a group of high school kids I took from Chico High to tour Italy during spring break. We started in southern France and moved east and south through the Cinque Terre and Pisa, and arrived in Florence at night by bus so we didn’t really see it much. I got up early the next day and walked around a bit and was immediately struck by the feeling almost of deja vu, the irrational sense of familiarity I felt walking the stone streets. I’m grateful now that I first saw it in the wet, early spring, at its least beautiful, cobblestones black-slick in the rain, but without the hordes of tourists who outnumber the locals every summer.

By the time two years later when I came back again during another spring with another group of kids and saw more of the country and more of Florence,  I had determined that I would come back for a summer, rent an apartment and get to really know the city.

So I did. I went online and found an apartment in the heart of the old city. I started by Googling and found a lot of possibilities, but I finally settled on an offering several pages into the search. They had a good website, a good map and plenty of actual pictures of the apartment and the terrazzo, larger than the actual apartment.  It was centrally located and though sparsely furnished, had everything I needed—a shower, a toilet, a bed, air conditioning and a kitchen. And a terrazzo! Did I mention that?

I already knew where it was when I visited Florence during that second spring, so that I was able to locate it.  From the street below I could look up and see the terrace above me, and imagine sitting out on it in the coming summer, drinking strong coffee and eating fresh fruit from the nearby market.

Since then I’ve been back several times, and each time I’ve returned with a feeling almost of homecoming as my familiarity with the city has increased. And each time I left it was with a fear that I wouldn’t return. Inevitably that time will come, when I leave for the final time.

But that ain’t now! Here I am again. My Italian is rusty and so are my knees, but the Force is strong in this one!

We took possession of the apartment at 36 Lungarno Colombo a day early because Piero, the owner, had an important appointment the next day, when we were to move in. He let us have the extra day for free so we cancelled the reservations we had at a hotel and took him up on the offer.

It’s a huge apartment with a view of the Arno from a large deck. The couples (Don and Myra, Richard and April) got the bedrooms with the double beds (“matrimonios”) and I got the room with the twin beds, roughly the size of fold-out cots for car-camping. Not complaining, just whining a little.

It was late in the afternoon when we arrived from Barcelona, so we didn’t do much until we needed to eat. We walked down the river and across the Ponte San Niccolo to the oltrarno, the south side of the Arno, and searched for a restaurant. We finally found a place called the Trattoria Gigi and were so tired and hungry and crabby that we decided that we’d eat there. It turned out to be one of those serendipitous happenings that occur with some regularity when traveling. The food was good, the service was excellent and when we walked home we felt much better.

The next day, 17 Ottobre, (I’m sneaking in little Italian lessons!) we decided to walk into town. Well, technically we’re in town, but we’re to the east of the center in an area I’d never reached before because I’d always stayed right in the central city (centro citta’). We looked at a map and thought it looked like a long way to the Piazza della Signoria, but started out anyway. Turns out it’s about a mile, which by this time of our trip seems a short stroll (until you’re walking back, tired and hungry, and then it seems a lonnnnnnnng way…), only a fraction of the 4-5 miles we’re averaging per day.

This was just an orientation walk, a shakedown cruise of sorts, so I pointed out the various main points– The aforementioned Piazza della Signoria, with the Loggia dei Lanzi; the entry to the Galleria Uffizi; the Palazzo Vecchio and the Torre de Vecchio; the plaque marking the location of the Bonfire of the Vanities, which is the same spot where Girolamo Savonarola was garroted and burned; and some of the statues in the piazza. We strolled over to the Ponte Vecchio and Myra looked at the jewelry while Don guarded his wallet. We walked up the Via Calzaiuoli to the Duomo and the Baptistery. We went to the Mercato Centrale and bought some wine, fruit, wine, cheese, wine, bread, salami and wine.

The Ponte Vecchio (Old Bridge)

A relatively new “tradition,” borrowed from Paris. The locks attached to the Ponte Vecchio seem to represent the eternal love couples share for one another. In Paris there were so many locks being attached to one particular bridge that the city has removed them due to the danger the added weight has placed on the structural integrity of the bridge.

Kayakers and canoeists are constant features on the Arno.

Don and Myra braving the constant crowds on the Ponte Vecchio. Once it was the home to the local butchers, who dumped the offal straight into the Arno. Sorry, Pisa (40 miles downstream). That practice ended centuries ago when the butchers were kicked off the bridge to make way for jewelers, who are still there. The jewelry is beautiful and expensive.

At the mid-point of the bridge, on the downstream side, stands this bust of Benvenuto Cellini, artist, jeweler, soldier and autobiographer. He created the “Perseo” The statue of Perseus holding aloft the head of Medusa) that stands adjacent to the Loggia dei Lanzi in the Piazza della Signoria. He was told by several famous artists that the statue was impossible to do in a single pour of molten bronze, so he did it.

Cellini’s Perseo

The Loggia dei Lanzi. In other places each of these statues might warrant its own museum. In Florence there is so much art that these stand in this open-air gallery in the Piazza.

Another view of the Perseo, with the Palazzo Vecchio (Old Palace) in the background.

A couple of the several statues under the roof of the Loggia. On the left is Hercules and Nessus, circa 1599 by Giambologna. On the right is Giambologna’s “Rape of the Sabine Women, circa 1583.

A street musician busking on the Via Calzaiuoli.

A carousel in the Piazza della Repubblica.

Art for art’s sake? This artist spends hours recreating famous works of art with chalk on the pavement, knowing it will be quickly erased by the elements or the feet of tourists or the nightly street sweepers, but he still creates these little masterpieces for nothing more than the few euros he might collect from observers and the satisfaction of the work.

The crew each donating a coin and rubbing the nose of Il Porcellino, which tradition dictates will assure good luck.

Two stylin’ Italians. Don wants a pair of the red pants…

Dante standing outside the Basilica Santa Croce.

This is our preferred route home. We could be on the sidewalk across the street, but walking on this treelined path is softer on tired tourist feet. As our stay continues, you’ll be able to see the changing colors of the trees. It’s been noticeable to us in the short time we’ve been here.

We then came home to wait for Chris, who had tried to find an earlier flight from the US and had been stuck in Barcelona waiting for a connection. He made his connection and he arrived. Now we are six.

Don’t touch that channel! We’ll be back soon with the next episode in the continuing saga.

Don had a dream night before last. Following is my approximation of what he told me about it the next morning.

He and I were eating in a Mexican restaurant. When we were finished we went outside and into what he said looked like an airport terminal, but we were the only ones in it except a guy with a camel.  We suddenly had little toy bows in our hands, but we had real hunting arrows. I said, “I’m going to shoot the camel.” He said, “Make sure you know where the heart is or it’s going to be really pissed.” He told me to ask the owner where the camel’s heart was. I ignored his advice and shot, hitting it in the chest but only wounding it,  and the camel became enraged and charged us. I ran and it chased me around the outside of the restaurant, where he lost sight of us, so he decided to cut through the restaurant. As he went inside he saw that the camel was back outside the building. The camel was searching for him through the front window of the restaurant. [I broke in and asked if the camel had its hooves up against the glass, peering through the window between them. He said “no.” I was disappointed because it was such a great image…]  A man started out the door and Don yelled at him to keep the camel out. The man opened the door and the camel tried to enter, but only managed to get its head in. Don was yelling at him to close the door.

That’s when Myra wakened him because he was shouting out in his sleep. He says he lay in bed and laughed harder than he had in years at the absurdity of the dream. He tried to interpret it and decided it had something to do with my habit of scooting across streets, narrowly dodging traffic while endangering the others who are often left in the middle of the road as traffic roars by on both sides. I said that my interpretation is that I’m Moses leading them to the promised land, but on further reflection I hope that’s not true because I seem to recall that Moses didn’t make it…

Moral, anybody?

 

Oops, I meant “catch-up.” I’m going to pound my way through Barcelona without giving it the respect it deserves, because I want to get you to Florence, La Bella Firenze, sometime before I’m back in Chico…

First, I’ll say this about Barcelona: It’s a beautiful city, filled with things to  do, places to go, people to see… I’m glad I had this opportunity to replace previous experiences of the city with newer, more positive impressions. In that I succeeded.

Ok, on with the show.

Richard, April and I flew from Jerez de la Frontera to Barcelona on Vueling Air, which must be a partner with Iberia. The plane actually had enough room for my knees to fit without having to sit with my legs apart for the entire flight. It was an uneventful flight, which is always the best kind. We landed, picked up our bags, found a taxi and went to the apartment we had rented through VRBO (thank you, Warren Merritt) where Don and Myra were already settled in.

The apartment was very nice and very well-located for pretty much anything we wanted to do. It was about three blocks from the Sagrada Familia, the cathedral designed and begun by Antoni Gaudi in 1882 and yet unfinished. It’s like nothing else in the world, only remotely comparable even to his own architectural works elsewhere in Barcelona. He died without seeing its completion, confident that it would be done without him. He’s variously described as a loner, a mystic, a genius, a lunatic, but whatever appellation you try to hang on him, you have to admit that he was unique. No one before or since has attempted to replicate his style, which is instantly recognizable for its fanciful lines and whimsical attitudes, as well as its complete artistic integrity– he never compromised his visions. I’m going to include more pictures of the church than would be ordinarily appropriate, but I don’t know how else to introduce his impact by simply telling without showing. Here, then, are some shots of the cathedral, some showing the inevitable cranes still being used to complete his vision.

Gaudi was born on June 25, (my birthday!) in 1852 (slightly before my birthday) in Barcelona, and died on June 10, 1926, only days before his 74th birthday when he was hit by a trolley car in Barcelona. He was, as usual, dressed in workman’s clothes and at first it was assumed that this man who had been injured was a beggar or a poor pensioner, but when it was learned that it was Gaudi, the city went into a state of official mourning for his passing.

(By the way, the word “gaudy” has no etymological relationship with Gaudi. The word far precedes Gaudi’s birth. It’s origin is uncertain. Wiktionary notes that it might be related to the word “gaud,” meaning ornament, or trinket.)

 

Richard, April and I set out on what turned out to be a long walk through the streets of Barcelona, headed for La Rambla, the long avenue that runs from the Placa Catalunya to the statue of Columbus at the end of the street where it meets the port. This picture is of one of many pedestrian, tree-lined lanes.

 

One of Barcelona’s finest.

 

One of Gaudi’s buildings, the Casa Mila’.  Apartments upstairs and businesses on the ground floor.

Another famous Gaudi structure, the Casa Batllo. (Again, my apologies for not knowing how to place the various pronunciation marks on the appropriate letters in Spanish and Catalan.)

 

I don’t know that this is or who designed it, but it reminds me of a Russian egg.

 

This is a building on the Placa Catalunya. I again confess my ignorance.

 

For anyone seeking a new career path, may I suggest selling “selfie sticks” to tourists, a booming business if we are to judge by the number of entrepreneurs engaged in said endeavor… And when the weather is inclement, they simply switch to selling folding umbrellas.

 

Nekkid-lady statues in the Placa Catalunya.

 

I’m not entirely clear on how this works, but I saw them in Madrid and in London as well. You pay at a kiosk at the end of the line of bikes and that allows you to ride them anywhere and then park them at any number of other sites.

 

La Rambla, unusually “uncrowded” for the time of day.

 

The Barcelona Opera, where they’re performing an operatic version of Shakespeare’s “Macbeth.” I won’t tell anyone how it turns out… “It will have blood, they say. Blood will have blood…”

 

And here’s Columbus at the foot of La Rambla.

A closer detail of Columbus atop his pedestal, pointing in entirely the wrong direction…

 

A governmental office with the Spanish flag flying above it, a sight that is fairly unusual in Barcelona, as much of the population identifies more as Catalunyan, with their own language and culture, than with Spain. In a recent non-binding referendum, nearly half the people voted to secede from Spain. The desire for the split is not merely ethnic, but also economic, as Barcelona– as the principal city of Catalunya– is very prosperous, while much of Spain is still reeling from the effects of the economic downturn of 2008. Other countries such as Portugal, Italy and, or course, Greece, were hurt much more than was this region in northeast Spain, and Catalunyans would like to keep their wealth to themselves rather than having what they feel is an unresponsive Spanish government in Madrid making economic decisions for them.

 

At the top is another double-decker bus we took around the city. The tour of Madrid on such a bus was interesting and so we were encouraged to try again. Below the bus photo is one of many different Catalan flags representing the fractured nature of their allegiance to Spain. To the right of the flag is yet another example of my ignorance. Below that on the left is what might be referred to as “public art.” It’s the top of a bus stop covered with ear-buds from bus tours!  To its right, top, is the Barcelona bus terminal, and below it is the entry into the Olympic track from the ’92 Olympics. Below that to the left is a shot of the trams that you can take from near the Columbus statue to the top of Montjuic (Jewish Mountain), where the Olympic facilities are located.

And finally, a human-interest shot of one of the many young women who stand outside restaurants in Barcelona with menus, trying to entice customers inside. It didn’t work on us, but we appreciated the effort.

And so we left Barcelona and flew to Florence, and with this post I have brought us up to the current city, if not quit the current day.

Now I have to post this and go meet Bob Kohen, a friend from Chico, to give him the nickel tour of Florence (which is about what it’s worth).

Ciao for now…

Continuing the catch-up phase, I’ll be moving through some of the past days at a rapid clip. This is the October 12-14 phase of the voyage…

As mentioned in the previous post, Don and Myra took the fast train to Barcelona, while Richard, April and I flew to Jerez de la Frontera. Although it serves the entire region, including both Sevilla and Cadiz, Jerez airport is fairly small– especially after being in Heathrow, Gatwick and Madrid– but it was well-organized and we were in and out pretty quickly.

We had reserved a rental car, an Opel that isn’t sold in the USA (?!?) and set off for our hostal in El Puerto de Santa Maria, a small coastal city about midway between Rota and Cadiz. The surrounding countryside of this area of Andalusia had been locked in a serious drought for months, and the recent rains were welcomed. Geographically, the region looks a lot like northern Baja California, with relatively flat land broken up at irregular intervals by cotton and milo fields, interspersed with prickly pear cactus and some species of agave. Even the architecture looked like Mexico– or probably it’s the other way around– no doubt a reflection of the climate: whitewashed walls and terra cotta-tiled roofs. The air felt humid, which might lead you to think that it would be lush and green, but it’s more like a desert.

And thus began a series of frustrations, most of which became fodder for eventual amusement.

The first issue was with Google Maps, or more accurately, the computer-generated voice that we came to refer to as “her.” The problems broke down into a couple of general categories, one of which was fairly innocuous. That was the way “she” pronounced Spanish place names. “Avenida de Terrorismo” became something like “Avenidda de Te Ro Riss Mo,” with each syllable pronounced as though it were a complete word, and no attempt to replicate Spanish pronunciation or rhythms. One we heard regularly made me laugh every time because it seemed somehow appropriate in our circumstances: Whenever she said, “Calle de Las Casas” it sounded almost exactly like “Call-e de Lost Causes,” which was sometimes far too close to the situation we were then dealing with.

The larger issue with the GPS “woman” was that “she” (ok, I’m dispensing with the quotation marks and will henceforth refer to the voice as though it were a human)kept telling us to do things that were physically impossible, at least in this particular dimension. We would be told to “get in the left lane and prepare to exit the highway,” and then when we reached the spot (and she became more insistent) the exit would actually be on the right as one might reasonably expect a freeway exit to be, and we’d miss the turn and have to go to the next exit, that might be 5 miles farther down the road. And all the way to the next exit she’d be constantly nagging at us to “make a u-turn in 400 meters,” which would have been complicated by the concrete barrier between the two directions of travel. The combination of her annoying voice and bad directions occasionally led us to miss multiple turns before we began to apply common sense and more or less ignore what she was saying– not always without shouting at her to “shut the hell up!”

I came away with the conviction that it would be a nice idea for Google’s representatives to actually drive the highways in question to learn that freeway offramp are most often on the right in countries that drive on the right, and it would probably also be helpful if they would realize that it’s best not to collide with concrete walls when making u-turns. I wonder if they could also update their software so that the voice could at least approximate a reasonable-sounding effort at pronouncing Spanish words. I’ll bet if I email Google they’ll jump right on it.

Eventually we found our hostal in spite of the directions and I was pleasantly surprised. I had expected that we’d be in dorms or cells of some sort, but instead Hostal Alhaja was a clean, quiet and charming little place more like a hotel than a hostel. Maybe a hostal is something different from a hostel. We met Luis, the owner, and he took us to our separate rooms, each with its own bathroom, and because the rooms were on the second floor we each had a view. Given, the view doesn’t extend for any great distance because of the flatness of the land, but we were able to look out over the rooftops of the neighborhood. The view out the back was much better. The rooms came with a continental breakfast made up mostly of cellophane-wrapped breads and croissants or rolls, but the coffee was good and they also served orange juice, so we began both days with a caffeine rush, the way days are supposed to begin.

View from our terrace of the Hostal Alhaja.

 

Parking lot and neighborhood.

 

The view out my back window.

 

The view out the front over the roof of the hostal.

 

That night we drove into the main part of the port and walked around the town, which is laid out in a grid pattern of low, white buildings with narrow streets lined with shops and bars and restaurants. It’s a relatively small city of about 88,000, but most of the residents live in the suburbs so the downtown feels much smaller. I liked it very much. It appeared to be a prosperous coastal fishing village and most of the outdoor restaurants were full of people eating and drinking and talking. I thought it looked vaguely familiar and then remembered an episode of “House Hunters International,” when an American who worked on the US military base  in Rota was looking for an apartment in the town. We strolled around and finally settled on a restaurant and ate. The food was good. I had fish that tasted fresh-caught. It was typically inexpensive and we lingered at the table for a while after finishing. Then we walked into the town again and found a heladeria, an ice-cream shop, and tasted their wares. Muy delicioso! Then back to the hostal for some quiet time. The WiFi was free but spotty and slow, so I didn’t “Netflix and chill.” Instead I read. I brought four books and am only on number two.

In the morning we charged our batteries with espresso and set off for the naval base at Rota, where Richard was stationed in the early to mid-60’s. This visit had been the initial motivation for us to go to Spain, and had been the prime focus of this particular portion of the trip. Frustration. We found the base, even though things had changed a bit in the intervening years, but we couldn’t get on the base. Richard and April could, but not with me. The US Navy was cool with me coming in, but the Spanish soldier stationed outside wouldn’t allow it. Why they cared when the Navy didn’t was beyond  me. I offered to stay outside while they looked around, but instead Richard swallowed his disappointment and we soldiered– er, sailored on.

Off to Gibraltar. It was a long drive on good roads. I had no idea of what to expect other than the impressions gathered by photos of a quaint English village-type scene with clean sidewalks and streets lined with shops and restaurants, all peopled by sun-tanned residents with stiff upper lips and British accent. Maybe we’d hear a “cheers!” once in awhile.

Bitter disappointment on all fronts. I cannot in good conscience recommend that anyone go to Gibraltar for any reason, unless it’s simply to check it off a lifetime bucket list. It’s crowded, dirty from seemingly constant construction, absolutely charmless and depressing. It’s difficult to get in past the double phalanx of Spanish customs and then British customs, and then it’s just as hard to leave. In between is a mess, like a poorly-maintained theme park characterized by exorbitant prices and lackluster service and choked with tourists all sharing the fog of disappointment.

The place itself, absent the human environment, is admittedly beautiful– a deep water port, the straits of Gibraltar, the view of Africa, the Rock itself… But I was left feeling distinctly underwhelmed. The Rock, for example, is limestone, not the granite I expected. As a former climber I wouldn’t want to trust it. It rises about 1,400 feet, which is pretty impressive until you consider that El Capitan in Yosemite rises about 3,000 feet. You could put Gibraltar’s rock in Yosemite and nobody would notice it. It is only its location that marks it as notable. We heard that the British residents of Gibraltar pay no taxes and are provided free housing, probably a political “bribe” by the British government to maintain a steady population in the disputed area, which Spain wants back and Britain refuses to relinquish due to its strategic location. Every worker we saw or spoke to in Gibraltar was either Spanish or African. I don’t know what the Gibraltar-ese do.

Africa across the Strait of Gibraltar

 

WWII vintage canon to control passage through the Strait.

 

Mosque at Point Europa, the southernmost tip of the Iberian Peninsula.

 

Lighthouse at Point Europa.

 

We waited in line for most of an hour to buy tickets for the tram up the mountain and then were whisked up 20 0r so per car like so many sardines in a can. There are signs warning people not to bring anything in a plastic bag because the monkeys (tailless macaques sometimes called “Barbary Apes,” but actually monkeys) associate them with food and will steal them. The doors opened at the top, we stepped out and instantly a man carrying a plastic bag was left bagless as a swift thief grabbed it and was gone. It touched the ground a few times and made a clunking sound, so my guess is that he had something inside the bad he probably wanted to keep. Oh, well. There is no chasing these creatures– they are fleet and agile and armed with impressively long canine teeth. When your stuff is gone, it’s GONE. Within a few more seconds a young child in a stroller was sobbing  because another monkey had grabbed her pink blanket and disappeared in the rocks. Mommy looked as though she was thinking about the implications of the loss of the favorite blankie.

Tramline up/down the mountain.

 

The Rock.

 

Madonna Macaque and Child.

 

The Upper Landing where the tram stops.

 

Macaques, chillin’

 

Monkey, April and Richard. See no evil…

 

We walked around up on the top of a lesser peak and took some pictures, and then it was time to leave. This was where we were confronted by one of the absurdities of the place. Our tickets were one-way. If we wanted to ride the tram back we’d have to buy another one for the way down. We decided to walk. Error. The route down is very poorly-signed so we weren’t really clear on where to go, so we started down the most logical-looking road only to come to a dead end. Then we found the route and it soon degenerated into a rocky, shale-strewn trail. Richard and April decided it looked too dangerous so they determined that they’d go back and find another way to the bottom, hopeful that they’d find a way that avoided walking. I asked if they minded if I continued walking down the trail and they didn’t object, so we separated then and they started back up while I continued down. Within five minutes I was again on a well-paved road, but even if they had come with me and managed to negotiate the slippery trail they would have had a long march ahead. Walking steadily downhill at what I estimate was about a 4 mph pace, it still took me 50 minutes to get back to where we parked the car. Then I waited, and while I waited I started thinking of all that could have gone wrong for R and A. I lay down on a wall out of the constant wind and waited, and then a bus arrived and they both disembarked. They had thrown themselves on the mercy of the tram man and he had let them ride down for free.

We got in the car and found ourselves in a traffic jam of cars and motorcycles on the way out. Between every lane of cars motorcycles and scooters zipped in and out and around and through traffic, complicating the process of exiting.

It was a relief to be out. They couldn’t pay me enough to live there, or even to visit again.  As a traveler I’m pretty tolerant of the common frustrations of differences of culture and climate, but this was something different– this was more like an absence of soul, as though there is nothing of any substance to recommend Gibraltar. The next morning at the hostal one of the employees told me that he had considered warning me about it but had decided that we needed to see for ourselves. He was no doubt right, because we would have gone anyway. I offer you, gentle reader, the caveat we would have ignored: don’t go.

It took so long to negotiate our way into and out of Gibraltar that it was dark by the time we returned to El Puerto, so we went straight to the town and found a restaurant and ate dinner before going back to the hostal. The gate to the parking lot was closed when we finally arrived so we had to call the owner and he came out and opened the gate and we fell into our respective rooms and went to sleep.

The next morning was a reverse of the trip from the airport– missteps, mistakes, misdirections– but we finally found our way and checked in the rental car, went through customs and then cooled our heels waiting for the flight to Barcelona, about which I will report in a subsequent post.

So much has happened since the last “real” post that I’m going to catch up via captions on photos, with an occasional explication/explanation/pontification. Hang on tight; we’re going to be movin’ FAST.

When we last left you, Don and Myra and I had walked what seemed like most of the streets of Madrid, and we were waiting for Richard and April to arrive. That’s where we pick up the narrative…

Richard and April arrived. (I know– it’s a little anticlimactic due to the heavy-handed foreshadowing…) I walked over to the Atocha Station to direct them back to the hotel. They were a bit disheveled but none the worse for the wear of the trip from Houston. I expected them to be more tired and jet lagged, but they seemed ready to move.

With Don and Myra, we started walking around the city with no particular goal in mind. Here’s another version of Columbus, who is quite the personage in Madrid and in most of the rest of Spain. No offense intended to what I’m sure are the very nice people of his namesake city in Ohio, but Chris never made it to North America. He did four voyages and managed to find his way to islands in the Caribbean Sea, notably  Hispaniola (modern-day Haiti and the Dominican Republic) and Cuba, Turks and Caicos, the mainland of Venezuela and finally as far north as the east coasts of Honduras, Nicaragua and Costa Rica. Most of the natives he met were friendly, which made it easier to enslave them.

Little-known fact (and maybe of little interest? Too bad, you shouldn’t be reading the blog of someone as didactic as I am if you don’t want to rub up against a little information once in a while): One of the reasons Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain were willing to fund his trip was that they had finally succeeded in driving the Moors from Spain and the Spanish “inherited” their wealth. Another point: “In fourteen hundred and ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue.” But if he had waited a year it would have rhymed with “bounding sea.” Sorry. Bad jokes are my specialty…

We decided to take one of those double-decker city tour buses around Madrid, and it was a better experience than I had expected.  Here are Don and Myra. Richard and April are behind me. The only real problem with the tour is that the canned talk about the tour that we listened to through a bad speaker system on bad earbuds is not necessarily on point when it comes to describing what is currently visible. Sometimes the narrative is about something still a block away. In between descriptions you get to listen to some sort of loop-tape modern jazz-fusion easy-listenin’ muzak.

We looked for a glimpse of Clark, Lois or Jimmy. I think I saw Perry White, though… (Too obscure?)

 

Two old friends either arguing about the number of angels who can dance on the head of a pin or discussing the construction of a building directly across the street.

 

April and Richard on said tour. Note the colorful earbuds.

 

In the Plaza del Sol, which is supposed to be the geographical center of the roads of Spain. You’ve heard that “All roads lead to Rome?” That might be true in Italy, but in Spain all roads lead to Madrid and the Plaza del Sol, the Plaza of the Sun. The flag-draped balconies are in preparation for the next day’s celebration of the Spanish holiday commemorating Columbus’ first voyage.

Still in the Plaza del Sol. For some reason I found this disturbing.

The plaque in the sidewalk in front of the post office in the Plaza del Sol signifying “Kilometro Zero,” the starting point for all roads running in all directions. People push and shove to have their pictures taken with a hand or foot touching the zero in the middle of the plaque. I settled for a picture of the plaque itself. Outamyway, Sheeple!

 

Lunch at a sidewalk cafe not far from the Plaza del Sol, with Don holding up a french fry, which seem to come with every meal. (Myra is taking one of his fries even though she didn’t order any herself.)

 

We went to the Prado. I wanted to see Bosch’s “Garden of Earthly Delights,” which was even more interesting than I had expected. They took away our bags and made us check them so there was no chance of taking a photo of the art. Richard had one docent following him because he tended to lean on the ropes separating the people from the art, and when he did the docent would hiss, “SSSS!” at him. This is Don and Myra on the way back to the hotel. Cute, eh? And not posed.

 

Sometimes when traveling you just have to be open to talking to strangers, and that’s how we found a place atop a building not far from our hotel. It was a building called “Belles Artes,” a private entity with a club on top that offers spectacular views of the sunset while sipping wine. I took several pictures, but this was the best of the sunset set. This is a part of a larger statue fairly far off in the distance. I cropped the other pieces out because it was also framed by what seem to be omnipresent construction cranes.

Same night, from same site. A building I can’t name as I never knew it and never asked anyone. Mea culpa.

 

The rooftop terrace of the building. People are standing around the perimeter or lying on sofas. So decadent!

On the stroll back to the hotel– another unnamed building. Well, it was probably named but I don’t know it.

The same stroll, the same situation…

A street scene in an outdoor cafe. One of the things I like best about what I know of Europe is the premium placed on being together. People sit and talk (and drink and eat). Everyone has a cell phone but search this photo for one and you won’t find it. They’re together. They visit. They talk to each other. Imagine this same scene in Chico.

Still on the walk back. Sometimes the photo gods shine on even the least of their faithful. I love this picture.

 

Le deluge. So I was a little premature about the weather in Spain. This morning, October 12, dawned wet and cool, and out came the umbrellas. It was also the day of the big Fiesta for Colombo, so the street outside the hotel was filled with soldiers and marines and coast guard and navy and air force personnel, all in uniform and preparing to march in the grand parade, which was still hours away. See below.

Here they’re shouting back and forth at one another, the different branches of military, like teams preparing for a big game, or like the New Zealand All Blacks doing the haka, without quite the spirit.

This woman sat on her balcony above the street watching the preparations. Some of the soldiers tried waving at her to get a response, but this was the best they got.

And that was Madrid for us. Don and Myra took a train to Barcelona and Richard, April and I flew to Jerez de la Frontera in south western Spain, the story of which will follow. Now, though, it’s 1 pm (1300) and it’s time to follow my own advice and “Be Here Now.”

Hasta luego!

---

We, the authors (representing my various personalities, a diagnosis we have never fully embraced except when it was useful as an alibi) wish to extend our apologies for the recent hiatus in the production of this highly popular journal (already FIVE registered followers!).

It has probably been assumed that the cause of the pause is that we have been summoned to audiences with royal families, feted by the famous at fabulous soirees or were asked to speak on important topics to large crowds. None of this is true. Not that we haven’t received such offers– we have, but have thought it best to respectfully decline all such invitations in the interests of maintaining our impartial position as unbiased observers of culture and history.

No, the true cause in the brief cessation of publication is more prosaic and mundane, and is simply attributable to one of the deepest and truest of the human conditions: Time. To wit, there has been too little of it between bouncing from place to place every two days, spending most of all waking hours walking or driving or being driven, eating occasionally, sleeping fitfully when at all and, most of all, keeping our promise to ourselves that we would no longer indulge in further 2:30 am blogging sessions, in spite of the many opportunities said sleeplessness might offer.

However, we have now reached our destination in La Bella Firenze and are able to unpack both our bags and our souls for a few weeks; thus, Loyal Readers, you may expect to soon find new offerings in your inboxes!

Meanwhile we offer these few visual temptations to resist the urge to change the channel and watch reruns of Gilligan’s Island instead of reading, although we admit that either would be similarly enlightening.

 

 

Somewhere inside that smoke is a car. No further information, but the police didn’t seem alarmed so we assume nobody was in it.

 

The Spanish flag over the Prado Museum.

 

A rare shot of Hyperion pulling the sun across the sky. Sorry, couldn’t get the sun in the shot…

 

Mickey and Minnie visiting Madrid’s Plaza del Sol. Minnie looks as though she needs a cigarette…

 

Random Madrid street scene with obligatory Spanish flag.

 

Madrid’s celebration of Columbus Day, a national holiday in Spain.

 

A big rock in the disputed territory and theme park known as Gibraltar.

 

A meeting of Gibraltar’s Parliament?

 

Barcelona’s Sagrada Familia basilica, with an attempt to minimize the omnipresent cranes.

 

Barcelona, La Rambla

 

Columbus in Barcelona, pointing the wrong direction.

 

Athena was kind enough to lend me her symbol as my totem. Barcelona.

Stay tuned for more!

…is pretty much non-existent, as far as I can tell. It was warm and dry when I arrived on Oct. 8 and nothing has changed.

This is the first time I’ve been in Spain since I came with Cindy Triffo and a YUUUUGE (the nearest I’ll come to political comment) bunch of students in, as nearly as I can figure, 1994. That trip was… well, we’ll just settle for the word “interesting,” a word that doesn’t do the trip justice, but will have to suffice for now. It was so long ago that I can’t remember where we stayed. I do remember that several of us got sick during the trip and that we arrived back in Chico the day before Christmas Eve, almost all of us.

I’m happy to report that in the ensuing 22 years Spain is still here and Spaniards still speak Spanish. My Spanish has not much improved, and if it has, that change is attributable not to studying the language, but to studying Italian. Which is to say that I speak neither language well, but at least I have a greater understanding of the mistakes I’m constantly making.

I took a cab in London from the St. Giles Hotel to Victoria Station, where I was able to catch the Gatwick Express Train south to Gatwick Airport. I had considered walking with my luggage to the nearest Tube station from the hotel, but when I learned that it would mean 2 changes of trains during the beginning of rush hour I demurred. My legs were still (ARE still!) feeling the effects of that long walk in London. My phone app tells me that I took 23,320 steps while walking 10.3 miles. I haven’t walked that far since I did Rim to Rim in a day with Kurt Reichel and Phil King, and I’m older and weaker and fatter now. My calves are still punishing me.

I won’t be receiving texts or calls from Don on this trip because he left his phone at home, which probably won’t surprise Elaine Ellsmore and didn’t much surprise me, as he would commonly leave for class in the morning and then have to return to his office for something he’d forgotten. We started calling it “doing a Don.” In fact, as I was leaving Chico to drive to Seattle I had to turn around and go back home to get something I wanted to bring, and I texted Myra and told her that I had just “done a Don.” But I did get a text from Myra while I was waiting for my flight out, telling me that they had arrived in London– so for a few minutes we were all three in the city, although we were probably 40 miles apart.

Seems they had missed their connection in Newark and opted not to stay the night in New Jersey– even though Christie would probably have taken them in– but elected instead to catch an alternate flight via London. Their plane to Madrid was still on the ground when they rushed through the airport after arriving from SFO, a scene I imagine looking something like  OJ Simpson — the commercials, not the knife thing– but they wouldn’t let them board even though they had no baggage to check. United Airlines, if you’re interested. Instead of being three hours or so behind them arriving in Madrid, now I was winning!

A bit over two hours of flight took us to Madrid’s Barajas Airport. Off the plane, down to Baggage Claim, out through Customs (perfunctory glance at my passport, stamp, “Next…”) and I was following the signs– “Salida”– for the exits and I was in the lobby. I got a few Euros and found an information booth to ask for recommendations for the trip into town to Atocha Station. I had read online that the C-1 train was the easiest, but the woman Informer told me instead to take “the Yellow Bus.” I deferred to her expertise and went out through the doors into Espana! (Sorry, purists, but I haven’t yet figured out how to use the tilde.) I missed the first Yellow Bus but noted from the posted schedule that they came every 15 minutes, so no worries.

The bus came, we boarded it, and 30 minutes later we were getting off at the Atocha Station where bus lines and the train lines meet at Madrid’s main train station. It’s really big. My sense is that it dwarfs most other train stations I know, with the possible exception of Rome’s Termini Station.

I got out my trusty phone and checked Google Maps and set off for the hotel, which seemed a very short distance. All five of us  (Don and Myra, Richard and April, and I) are all staying at the same hotel, the Urban Sea Hotel Atocha 113. I headed off in the right direction but was quickly confused when I came to a big roundabout, and I came out of it at a slight tangent, walked a block, passed the Reina Sofia Museum and found Ronda de Atocha. I headed up the hill– not particularly steep but it was hot and I was pulling my carry-on– and after a couple of blocks without finding the hotel I began to sense that something was wrong. I looked again at the map and realized that what I wanted was CALLE de Atocha, not RONDA de Atocha… I backtracked, made the right turn and quickly found the hotel. Success! It was recommended to us by our friend Rick Steves, who probably never stayed here himself…

Later came a text from Myra saying they were on the ground. I told them to take the Yellow Bus (suddenly I was the “expert,” a title I didn’t deserve or want) but their main concern was simply finding their way out of the airport itself. Apparently they had come into a different terminal than I did– the main clue being that they described theirs as “brand new and beautiful,” neither word an apt description of the terminal I came into. They went up and down elevators, found escalators that didn’t work, went down stairs to dead ends, but finally by dint of consistent and relentless effort they managed to escape, find the Yellow Bus and text me that they were coming. I set the timer on my phone and when it had counted down from 30 minutes I walked to the station and met them. Perfect timing– we all arrived in the same minute, so the trip is about 40 minutes. I guided them back to the hotel because I was concerned that they’d make the same mistake I had made without the benefit of enough time to have even slightly adjusted to jet lag, the main effects of which seem to be making foolish errors in judgment if you use me as an example.

We went out that night and in spite of my suggestions for KFC or Burger King or McDonalds, we found a small restaurant close to the hotel and I had what the restaurant called “lasagna” and they had salads and a little pizza apiece. Then back to the hotel to try to sleep. I say “try” because I don’t seem to be able to sleep more than four hours at a time, possibly mimicking my home sleep patterns, and Don and Myra had a room at the front of the hotel just above the Under-18 Disco Night celebration that they say went on until 4 or 5 AM. Different causes, same result.

I finally managed to get back to sleep around 5 and slept well until 10 (!) I texted them but there was no response, so I got up and walked around the neighborhood. Across a nearby street (Paseo de Prado) was a narrow lane that was closed to traffic and filled with shops, and on one side was a line of booksellers peddling their wares. Revelation: People READ in Spain! Would that it were true in the USA…

On the other side of the little mall were different sorts of shops, selling food items and cloth and assorted tchotchkes and souvenirs.

By now it was 11 AM and I texted them again to see if they were alive. No response, so I called at 11:30 and woke them up! As Macbeth said, “‘Twas a rough night.” They needed some time to get organized so I went back out and found my new favorite coffee shop, Vertical Caffe, just around the corner in a little plaza across from a big “living wall.”

I was desperate for some caffeine so went in and ordered “un caffe grande, fuerte y negro,” and got my big, strong, black coffee and sat in a window seat to drink it. I had just ordered my second cup when Myra texted and said they were ready to go, so I gave them directions and they came and met me. They had had hotel coffee from a machine (!) so they eschewed the coffee in Vertical, but they got energy drinks instead.

Then we took a long walk. Long… We walked up the Paseo de Prado toward the museum, and along the way we passed fountains and what looked like a police graduation ceremony in the street, with throngs of people.

Finally we arrived at the Prado, but decided to save a visit for another day.  We did take a few pictures, though. Here’s the museum and a photo of Myra in front of a statue of Velasquez.

This was one of my favorite sights of the day, though, combining two of my favorite subjects: kids and national flags:A little farther down the street was this beautiful church, the Parroquia de San Jeronimo el Real Madrid:

About a block farther down the street we came to the entrance to El Retiro, the amazing city park, and entered. Fall is definitely here, but there was still plenty of greenery. What we found most interesting, though, was how many people were using the park, especially families with children.

Juniper trees sculpted into odd shapes…

I remembered that when I was here last it was a cold, damp day and there were no boats on the water. Our group of students were walking around the park being led by a guide holding up an umbrella for us to follow, and the kids were wondering what we were doing in the park in the rain. As we were moving along the edge of this pond, a man dressed in a long, black trench coat approached me and as he got near he said, “God is a concept.” Without missing a beat I gave him the next lyric, “By which we measure our pain.” He lighted up with a big smile and said, “You know John Lennon! We are brothers!” I didn’t do any family visiting with him, but it was something to recall…

No, he’s not urinating in the fountain, he’s climbing.

Some kind of variation on Punch and Judy. The kids were completely engaged, though, especially with the fart jokes.

Vomiting iguana fountain.

A small bicycle mishap. No blood and Mom and brothers were taking the accident in stride. No tears from the boy!

Myra wanted to go to the Atocha Station to check on timetables for later, so we walked down the short distance to the station. It’s like a mall downstairs, and there were also some obvious differences from what I remembered. The main change is that there is a security check now before you can enter the actual departure area. You have to get your bags scanned before you can get on a train. I suppose it’s a necessary step given the current state of the world…

We took a short break then and then walked over to the Reina Sofia, the National Museum. It was free– not sure if it was because it was Sunday. It’s too big to see much of it so we concentrated on Picasso’s “Guernica.” No photos of the interior because they don’t let pictures be taken, and I (evidently alone) obeyed the rule.

Then it was time to eat, so we found a street cafe and Myra and I each had paella, while Don had a salad. The food was ok– seems almost every restaurant has the same pictures of the same paella on their menus, and I suspect that they are all pretty similar. No photos of the food– I don’t do pictures of my dinner.

Back to the hotel to regroup and then we went out for another short stroll from the hotel to the Plaza Mayor. It’s a straight shot up the Calle de Atocha, and was as I remembered it, very large, as the name would indicate. I think I read that it used to have be a plaza de toros, a bullfight ring, but no longer.

It was fully dark by the time we got to the Plaza, so we saw some of the nightly paseo, plus a lot of people wandering and eating. Spain is famous for late dinners, often not beginning until 9 pm or later. Here are some random shots in and around the Plaza Mayor:

Then off to the hotel to bed. 19,132 steps, 7.3 miles! This trip could turn out to be a very successful and very expensive weight-loss program…

I went right to sleep but then woke at 3am and started this. Now it’s 5:20. Yikes!

Richard and April are supposed to arrive around noon today, and I think Don and Myra and I are either going to visit the Prado or take a bus tour of Madrid. Stay tuned!

I arrived at Heathrow yesterday at about 12:45 PM, jet lagged to the maximum. I can never sleep on planes– the best I can manage is a sort of deep meditation that is better than nothing, but not as good as a solid snooze. Most of the way over I had an old Roger Miller song stuck in my head, thanks to a text from Don Bailey just before I left Seattle. The key lyrics are: “England swings like a pendulum do, Bobbies on bicycles two by two, Westminster Abbey, the Tower of Big Ben, the rosy red cheeks of the little children.” Ear worm! I was finally able to free myself of the tune by passing it on to Lisa Rose in an email. Ahhh…

I broke my own cardinal rule of jet lag. I arrived at the hotel and instead of going out for a long walk in the sun (and, amazingly, it was sunny yesterday!) and, in spite of my brain’s protestations, I took a nap. That would usually be a recipe for a long-lasting funk, but I got up around 7 in the evening and took a long walk around the neighborhood of the hotel, got some fish and chips, drank almost a half gallon of water, and today I woke up feeling just fine and by 10 I was out on the streets.

I’ve never been in London before (I’ve flown in and out of Heathrow a few times, but I don’t think that counts) so I was basically lost as soon as I walked out of the hotel. No worries! Since I didn’t know where I was going, it didn’t really matter where I ended up. I ebbed and flowed with the pedestrian traffic, zigged and zagged in ignorance, heading generally downhill to the south, where I was confident that, sooner or later, I’d find the Thames. First, though, I found Trafalgar Square. with its 169-foot column with Admiral Horatio Nelson’s statue on top. He died in the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805.      I wandered around the square for quite a while, looking at the artwork and the people. The statue is “guarded” by huge, black lions. Kids were scrambling all over them and I was envious because I wanted to. But I didn’t…

     As usual with these public spaces, there were also a few interesting characters, like this guy who can apparently levitate:

Man, I wish I could do that.

As I walked around the square I noticed a view down a street that showed me that my theory of London’s geography was being proven true. If it had been anything else I might not have recognized what I was seeing, but this was perhaps London’s most iconic sight (and site):

                   Now I had a goal in view.  On down the street, or should I say, “streets,” as I didn’t seem to be able to keep going in one direction. As I was moving I looked to my left and saw something I couldn’t identify, so I turned 90 degrees that direction and when I got to it I saw that it was a bridge over the Thames. As nearly as I can tell, it must have been Waterloo Bridge. There are several bridges over the Thames and I am only hazarding a guess on that particular one. From the bridge there is a great view up the river to Westminster. Here’s something I didn’t know: it’s officially known as Elizabeth Tower. Big Ben is only the bell of the clock. Live and learn, folks, live and learn…

   Now on the south side of the Thames I walked upstream to look at the London Eye (also known as the Millennium Wheel, and, since 2014, as the “Coca Cola London Eye”– I would suspect that a stack of money as high as the wheel changed hands to facilitate that change), a huge ferris-wheel sort of contraption with tram-cars instead of seats. It moves very slowly– my impression is that it takes most of an hour to do one revolution, but I’m just pulling that figure out of a random orifice, so… As I got closer I began to get some idea of how huge it is– it’s massive, 443 feet tall. I wanted to go on it but I had places to go and things to do. No people to see since I didn’t know anybody…

Here’s what it looks like, with a close-up of one of the cars to give some idea of its nature:

I think I’ve lived in apartments smaller than the cars…

Then I turned around and walked back downstream. I had two goals– first was to see the Globe Theatre, the replica of Shakespeare’s company theater. Like its predecessor, it’s built in the shape of an “O,” with an open roof over the middle of the floor where the “groundlings–” people who couldn’t afford a seat so they stood for the entire performance– got wet when it rained. “The Merchant of Venice” is playing now, but I didn’t stay for a performance as– you guessed it– it was raining. Imagine that, rain and clouds in London. Unthinkable.  But I took a few pictures of the exterior, and maybe I’ll come back someday to see a show. Here’s what it looks like:

That task accomplished, I moved farther downstream in search of the Tower Bridge, so named because its adjacent to the Tower of London (officially “Her Majesty’s Royal Palace and Fortress of the Tower of London,” a name that fairly begs for shortening), which was established around 1066 after the Norman Conquest. The Tower was used as an infamous prison for a 850 years, up until 1952. It was once a royal residence. It’s been an armory, a treasury (the Crown Jewels are kept there still), and the Royal Mint. It also housed many prisoners, including even Elizabeth I before she was queen.

Just downstream from the Tower is the Tower Bridge, which is supposedly what Millionaire American Robert McCulloch thought he was buying when he purchased the old London Bridge from the City of London and had it shipped to Lake Havasu, Arizona  and reconstructed over the Colorado River. Supposedly he was very upset when he realized that he’d bought a “bridge in a poke.”  At least, that’s the legend. The real Tower Bridge is still in place over the Thames. I had heard that it is can be raised for ships to pass that are too tall to fit, and while I was watching I saw it happen. It’s undergoing some renovation, so access to it was somewhat limited. I think you used to be able to get up into the two towers, but they’re closed now. Maybe when the work is completed.

Now I was walking upstream again, but on the north side. Here were a few things worth showing you–

This is the London City Hall. I asked who the architect was, but promptly forgot. Jose Arau probably knows… It’s across the river, but is better seen from a distance.

I didn’t see any Bobbies on bicycles two by two, but there was this guy, who was a hit with the people because he stopped and let them take pictures with him.

Farther up the river there was this dragon that apparently escaped King George’s sword:

Then there was the proof that organized crime is everywhere, and in London it’s taking over the caffeine business:

Here’s further proof for Krissy Hahn that Signore Scaffoldi is still alive and working on his art projects all over Europe:

And finally, there was this display on Regent Street. I’m guessing there’s an NFL game coming, or maybe London is trying to buy a team. Raiders, anyone?

Tomorrow I leave London from Gatwick Airport and fly to Madrid for a few days before continuing on to Barcelona. I’m supposed to meet Don and Myra in Madrid tomorrow afternoon, but the last I heard they were having trouble in SF with boarding on time, so they weren’t sure they were going to make the connection in Newark, NJ. Maybe they can spend the night at Chris Christie’s house…

Look for updates soon.

I’ve somehow managed to find myself cast in the fairly uncomfortable role of Tour Manager for a trip to Europe with friends and family.

I know, for some readers that might be a “problem” you’d kill to have, but it’s been absorbing my time and my limited brain power trying to coordinate the needs and desires of several people at the same time without having the power to simply make decisions and impose them on the participants.

It began innocently enough with a call to my uncle (I’ll call him Richard, since that’s his name), asking him if he’d like to go to Spain. Richard (he used to be “Dick,” but apparently nobody wants to be a Dick anymore…) was in the US Navy when he was a young man, and for a time was stationed in Rota, Spain, on the Atlantic coast about halfway between Portugal and Gibraltar.

Long after leaving the Navy, Di… er, Richard would often say, “I’d like to go back to Rota to see what it looks like now,” and I’d say, “You should.” Then he’d give me some version of “Yes, but…”  Years passed and he married April, and then he’d add her to the wish list: “I should go back to Spain and take April,” and I’d say, “Go for it,” but he’d have a reason that he couldn’t. Then they had their son, Chris, and Richard would say, “I should go back to Spain and take April and Chris,” and… Well, you see where this is going, right?  A few years later they had a daughter, Dawn, and she was added to the list: “I should…” I finally gave up encouraging him, or at least thinking that my encouragement would provide any sort of incentive.

So let’s fast forward to last winter when I was sitting in my office at Butte College and pondering my fast-approaching retirement from teaching. Along with a certain amount of anxiety about such a huge change came the realization that for the first time in three decades I’d be able to travel in a season other than summer! I started thinking about all the places I’d like to visit and revisit, and it occurred to me to give Richard one last try. I called him and asked if he wanted to go to Spain with me in the fall and he LEAPED on board. (Naval allusion entirely conscious)

I think he was previously reluctant to try it on his own because he had been so young in the Navy, they had made all arrangements and plans for him,  he didn’t speak Spanish and he probably was a little intimidated by the prospect of organizing and carrying out the planning and then functioning in a foreign country in a foreign language with the responsibility of taking care of the family.

When I offered to accompany them I solved those problems. I’m not an expert in Spain, nor am I fluent in Spanish– I speak what I refer to as “enthusiastic if ungrammatical Spanish”– but I’m an experienced international traveler and have a decent grasp on how to get around in another culture. “How long can you be gone?” I asked Richard, and he said, “A month.” I said, “That’s too long for Spain alone– let’s go to Italy, too.”

He talked it over with April and Chris and Dawn and they all fell in line, along with their spouses/significant others. Now the group had grown to 7. I added my friends Don and Myra and now we were 9. It had become a tour group. Mea culpa…

Here’s the problem: If I were a tour director I’d simply make all the reservations and plans and say, “Here’s what we’re doing and where we’re staying,” but with so many other free agents along on the trip I couldn’t simply force my will on them. Thus began a process that is still working itself out, as time for planning dwindles between now (9/16) and the time we leave (10/5).

First we needed an apartment in Florence, since that was the place we’d be in the longest and apartments are usually much cheaper for a group than separate hotels would be. I went online and found several and sent those suggestions out to all the parties and awaited their responses. (Cue the ticking clock indicating the passage of time.) We finally agreed on a place on Lungarno Colombo that had (barely) enough room for nine. Then we needed to find airline tickets, firm up a calendar, make reservations for hotels, arrange travel between sites…

Now, finally, it’s nearly all finished. All that remains is to find a hotel or hotels in Florence for the single night between the day we arrive and the next afternoon when we take the keys to the apartment.

Here’s our itinerary as it currently stands:

I leave first, on October 5 from Seattle, where I can leave my car with family, and from SeaTac I found a non-stop to Heathrow. Land in London 10/6 and spend two nights at a hotel recommended by my friend Alison Keye, who once lived in London and still knows her way around.

October 8– fly to Madrid and meet Don and Myra.

October 10– Richard and April join us in Madrid.

October 12– I go with Richard and April to Rota (actually fly into Jerez de la Frontera). We’ll spend a couple of days seeing Rota, visiting Gibraltar and Sevilla and environs.

October 14– fly to Barcelona where we again meet Don and Myra.

October 16– fly to Florence. Hotel we have yet to identify.

October 17– get the keys to the apartment. Chris flies in that day. Now we’re six.

October 22– Windee (Chris’s S.O.) joins us. Now we’re seven.

October 24– we all go to Venice for two nights. Everyone else is staying on the island in the Locanda ai Bareteri, a small hotel I like a lot, but Don, Myra and I are staying on the adjacent island of Giudecca instead, which is quieter and cheaper. It’s a short vaporetto ride.

October 26– we head north to Bolzano, a little city at the foot of the Dolomite Alps. It was Austria until after WWI and some people there think it still is. Many of the signs are in German with Italian subtitles. It feels more germanic, too. No graffiti, very clean, and it looks like someone even scrubbed the dust off the fruit trees that morning. It’s also the city that has the remains of Oetzi, the name given to the well-preserved natural mummy found in 1991 in a high pass above Bolzano, where he had been frozen in a glacier since around 3,300 BCE. He was given the nickname “The Iceman,” for obvious reasons. He’s in a museum in the city.

October 27 back to Florence, where Dawn and her husband Noel join us. Now we’re nine, and sleeping arrangements would have gotten tricky had not the landlord proposed a solution: he owns another apartment upstairs and was willing to rent it to us, so Don, Myra and I are moving upstairs that day and now everyone has a bedroom.

That’s all the firm planning that has been done, but we’ll also be visiting some of my other favorite places, and other sites that are more or less obligatory for new travelers: Pisa, Lucca, Cinque Terre, Rome, maybe even as far south as Sorrento. We have three weeks in Florence, using it as our base of travels, so we can use our time as we wish.

OK, this was over-long, but I thought it would be helpful to give a proper perspective to this (mis?)adventure. Stay tuned for updates from Europe!