01/10/19 - Cascais, Portugal
Unfortunately, Schim showed up
on schedule at the beautiful, beach-side hotel in
Cascais, our meeting point, on schedule six hours later
than I arrived. Not normally a problem, but the complete
lack of sleep on the TAP flight from Newark, because of
the tail end of the three-week bout of flu/cold that I
worried would bother others, kept me from it. I was so
exhausted that I couldn’t keep from dozing for a few
minutes while seated waiting in the lobby, which later
caused the clerks to tease me about the brief nap.
There he was, full of energy
and psyched for a lightening stroll through
postcard-beautiful Cascais, the city he disdained in our
discussions of this year’s itinerary. He marveled at the
town’s beauty during the entire stroll. I was completely
wiped out, but suffered through the brief stroll to
locate the apartment we had rented for five days up what
seemed like a mountain at the time, to the much tinier
apartment than depicted on Airbnb. We met the landlord
after laboring up the hill with the small bags we
brought with us and the adventure began.
Outfitted with two large,
electric, portable heaters, the apartment was colder
than a morgue and had white tile floors that felt carved
from blocks of ice. By this morning, after a night
at the heaters’ maximum setting and our overnight body
heat, the place had warmed to a point that the shower
with an on-demand, hot water heater was tolerable and
extremely refreshing. After more than 10 hours sleep, my
body felt invigorated and the ham and cheese sandwich
and fresh coffee at a neighborhood, corner cafe
re-energized both of us. We were ready for a serious
stroll.
Stroll we did, Schim still
marveling at the town’s forgotten beauty and stopping in
every tourist-trap, souvenir shop to browse. We strolled
to the train station, purchasing five passes for the
train to Lisbon for $6.50 with senior discounts. Schim
had insisted that he had learned that each ride would
cost $12, but I knew better. Suffice it say that he was
thrilled. From there it was a stroll across the street
to the post office and a visit to the modern shopping
center for a few groceries, a drink and a rest. We
wandered back to the apartment and decided to update.
Schim has been a bundle of
surprises. He lost 38 pounds, exercised three times a
day, and became an obsessive organic-food consumer,
green-tea drinker, reading all labels, pointing out the
dangers of my diet, and focused on healthy dining. He
says he will stay with me to Rome which may drive me
quickly out of my mind. A murder among transients should
be an extremely difficult murder to solve. I need to
develop a plan.
01/13/19 -
Cascais, Portugal
Today is our last day in
Cascais. We leave at 9:30 tomorrow morning for a
seven-hour, bus ride through the Algarve in Portugal to
Sevilla, Spain. Though Schim was not enthralled with the
idea of revisiting Cascais, I must say that he seemed to
thoroughly enjoy himself. Not much wonder why - the
place is picture-postcard beautiful with a unique
cuisine that, despite the fanaticism about his new,
organic, diet, he thrived upon.
I am just back from lunch while
he is on his second walk of the day, dropping postcards
at the post office from both of us to grandchildren. He
will make the walk an endurance march and I accompanied
him this morning, walking on the ocean promenade and
joining hundreds of others exercising in the fresh air
and beautiful sunshine. The temperature was in the upper
40’s and rose to the mid 50’s during the day today. All
five days in Cascais have been bright and sunny with
temperatures reaching the low 60’s a couple days.
Sweaters and windbreakers have been my clothing of
choice, though Schim, the Floridian, has bundled up with
shirt, sweater, puffy-quilted vest, windbreaker, gloves,
and Humphrey hat, once even flipping the earmuffs down
from inside the hat. He stayed warm all right, but we
received more than one sideways glance - the old
gentleman and his nerdy friend.
I have spent most of the time
in Cascais, finally wearing down the flu/cold that
knocked me down for so long. Today, I finally feel like
the bug must be on its last legs in my system. Schim has
been most compassionate with my maladies, sensing when I
needed a break on the forced marches, and helping with
bags and the normal chores of travel. He even made my
bed on a couple of mornings when he was most sympathetic
and energetic. We are both still lagging a little. He
thinks that he is completely adjusted from jet lag, but
still goes to bed late (after 10:00 p.m.) and arises
late (8:30 or 9:00 a.m.). Doesn’t sound much different
than home, but we are now five hours ahead of Eastern
Standard Time. We are both early risers and our
circadian rhythms are slowly adjusting to the new
locale. I expect we will continue to phase into the new
time zone as time passes.
The only disappointing parts of
the trip so far have been my inability to make contact
with people in the restaurant business who became my
good friends during the long winters I previously spent
in Cascais. The wonderful Melody Restaurant is closed
for renovations until after I leave for Spain and,
despite leaving messages on his webpage, I have been
unable to contact Joe, the proprietor. Joe hosted me for
a Sunday dinner with his entire family the last time I
was in town and I looked forward to seeing him again. My
friend, Gonzalo Diniz, proprietor of Dom Diniz, made
contact by telephone last night and I hope to have
dinner with him today. We have visited his restaurant
several times during our stay, but his new wife and
8-month-old child seem to take enough of his time that
he only makes late (for us) appearances at his
restaurant. Here’s hoping I get to renew acquaintances
with him tonight.
There is still packing to do
and an early start in the morning, since the trip will
require a train ride to Lisbon and an Uber trip from the
Cais do Sodre train station to the bus hub. Should be
pretty hectic around here in the early morning. Will
update from Spain where the language should come a
little easier. Tchau.
01/16/19 - Sevilla, Spain
Our last day in Cascais and
Portugal was an epicurean delight! Breakfast was at a
different restaurant, but the fare was the same: coffee
and sweet roll for me, ham and cheese sandwich for the
Schimster. Lunch was a different matter and watching
Schim slog his way through the humongous portion of
Portuguese Cocido for two was a spectacle to behold.
We made contact with my friend,
restaurateur Gonzalo, the night before and arranged to
meet him for a drink and possibly dinner to follow on
our final night in town. Schim lectured me all day that
we needed to eat a light lunch because of the potential
for a larger dinner, possibly a free one, that would
give him license to chow down. I took him to the
Fishermen’s Association for lunch where a small
restaurant serves very fresh fish daily to a few hardy
souls, except on Sunday when an army of locals vie for a
seat for the Cocido A Portuguesa, a treasured, national
dish. Nine euros for one portion, 16 for two. After
waiting 15 minutes or so, we were seated at an outdoor
table, protected from the weather by a heavy-plastic,
patio cover with propane heater to ward off the 60
degree chill in the air. We ordered the Cocido for two
and Schim started with a small beer and I with a can of
Lipton iced tea, the only one of the trip to date. Then,
the boiled meal was served on a platter large enough to
feed a dozen homeless folks, none of which,
interestingly, have we observed in Portugal. Inexpensive
cuts of pork (think pigs feet and knuckles), beef,
several types of sausage, carrots, turnips, potatoes,
covered with huge cabbage leaves and accompanied by a
separate, large bowl of rice and red beans. Schim was
aghast, but I swear I detected smoke rising from his
utensils as he gorged himself on the tasty, local
cuisine. He managed several portions of all the
ingredients, almost waxing poetic over the authenticity
of the repast. So much for a light lunch, but perhaps
we’ll only have a drink with Gonzalo in the evening.
NOT! We did have a drink
together at a touristy, local, British pub, owned by a
friend of Gonzalo. He then offered to take us to a great
seafood restaurant where he was a regular and, of
course, a friend of the owner. Gonzalo has maintained
his position as a well-known, man-about-town and it did
not surprise me that he was greeted by everyone. He
escorted us, after a short walk, back to the market we
had visited on Saturday, but which was then devoid of
the produce stands, tables, and crowds of market day.
The restaurant was on the periphery of the market, had
modern decor, seafood tanks, though containing only
bubbling water at the time, and a huge, iced table full
of the freshest of local seafood and fish. Gonzalo
selected tiny clams, oysters, and a giant crab that
reminded us of Florida’s stone crabs and we were shown
to our table. Another drink followed as we awaited the
preparation of the seafood while appetizers of a local
sheep cheese, crackers, bread, and more were served.
Schim seemed to find the appetizers delicious, he still
being in a ravenous state.
The seafood was absolutely
fantastic! The tiny clams, which I would never have
selected, were flavorfully explosive and the sauce in
which they were cooked was good enough that Schim (and
Gonzalo) wiped the serving plate clean with the second
basket of bread that was required to address the hunger
of my meal mates. Most noteworthy was the crab, now
steamed, the claws surrounding its large body in which a
fresh crab dip, perhaps a quart, was colorfully
displayed. A third basket of bread was required for
Schim and Gonzalo to extract the final portions of the
scrumptiously-delicious, sweet dip from the shell. A
light meal it was not, but worth every calorie that
Schim will bemoan for days. Schim and I split the check,
since I couldn’t justify taking advantage of my friend
after his cordial hospitality guided us to the
restaurant and through the culinary paradise. Schim will
probably fast for several days to justify the expense
and walk several more miles each day to work off any
weight he may have gained.
Tuesday, we were up very early,
on the train to Lisbon by 7:00 a.m., joining commuters
heading for work as we headed for the bus station. A cab
from the train station and we arrived an hour before
departure for the bus through the Algarve of southern
Portugal, across the international border, and on to
Sevilla. On the way, Schim observed the cork-oak trees
for which Portugal is famous and we both napped a few
times on the seven-hour ride that continued our journey.
The apartment we booked on
Airbnb in Sevilla is barely as large as a typical hotel
room with separate, tiny shower room, and toilet/wash
room entering from the hallway that is attached. Much
smaller than the apartment in Cascais, the two, large
Americans will, no doubt, bump into each other in
passing over the next five days. We can endure, however,
as we make the decision as to our next destination city:
Madrid, Barcelona? Stay tuned. I promise the next update
will be more brief. Adios.
01/18/19 -
Sevilla, Spain
One of my loyal readers, who
says she faithfully reads all updates, claims that she
eagerly awaits the annual details that address the
medical emergency she insists is present in each of my
adventures. She should enjoy today’s update.
I don’t know what it is about
Sevilla that brings out the worst of my dental health,
but yesterday I endured my second, root canal in this
Andalusian capital. A mild toothache became too
bothersome to ignore, so Schim and I walked into a
dentist/odontologist’s office two, short blocks away
from our tiny apartment. The receptionist/hygienist
talked to the unseen doctor and they squeezed me in for
an immediate exam. Tapping on my teeth identified the
problem when I almost leapt from the very-modern chair
when the offending, capped molar was hammered. The
handsome, fortyish dentist said he needed an X-ray to
diagnose the problem, so I moved across the office to
the panoramic X-ray machine. Before my excellent
American dentist even had similar equipment, I got my
first panoramic X-ray during a previous Spanish root
canal here in Sevilla many years ago. This city happens
to be home to one of the most highly respected dental
schools in the country. The doctor showed me the
pictures and said that to eliminate my pain he had to
open the cap, clean out the infection, excise the root,
treat the cavern, then close the hole. He scheduled me
for an appointment the next day (yesterday).
I walked into the waiting room
and, almost immediately upon sitting in the beautiful
room with marble flooring and matching sofas and chairs,
an ungodly, loud, jackerhammer-like noise invaded the
space. It almost vibrated the furniture and I thought
the dentist was treating another patient with the slow,
tortuous drilling equipment that I had endured at home
as a child many, many years ago. I began to fear that
this could be a painful, debilitating procedure. The
noise stopped and I was ushered into the treatment room,
different than the room in which I was examined the
previous day, but containing what appeared to be very
modern equipment with running water, a spittle sink, and
everything. The doctor entered wearing turquoise scrubs
and a surgical mask. He spoke decent, though broken
English and with my almost decent Spanish, the
communication was pretty comprehensive. As he approached
my chair, the loud drilling noise began again! I quickly
asked, “Is that another dentist working in the next
room?” He pulled his surgical mask down and laughed
aloud, “No, they’re renovating another apartment in the
building and they’ve been at it for two months! It’s
every day at this same time.” Whew! I joined him with a
relieved guffaw!
The procedure was no fun, but
was absolutely pain free after several stabs with the
Novocain needle into my gums and tongue. He asked
several times if I felt any pain and I assured him that
I felt nothing. It took an hour and a half and three,
“bite wing” X-rays along the way to finish the work as
he explained that one of my two root canals was
unusually narrow and he had difficulty ensuring that the
root and infection were completely gone. He worked
meticulously, using familiar enough equipment, but my
jaw ached from keeping my mouth open so far for so long.
No real pain, though. When finished, I asked if I could
take a photo of the doctor and the hygienist and they
complied willingly. The doctor even used my camera to
snap a “selfie” of the three of us which I’ll also post.
We shook hands, I paid the hygienist $185 for the day’s
procedure and left with a prescription for antibiotics
and instructions for the three-day regimen. The
panoramic X-ray of the previous day was $62, so the
entire procedure cost just less than $250. Wow, I
haven’t heard of a root canal costing less than $800 at
home and I haven’t had one for a few years.
No pain???? Not so fast, old
man!!! As the day wore on and the Novocain wore off, I
began to experience severe pain in my jaw, ear, the roof
of my mouth, and all my teeth. Whoa, perhaps I shouldn’t
have been so adamant with the dentist about no pain
pills, fearing an opioid script that would have kept me
drowsy for days and made an addict out of me. Surely,
the Tylenol I carried would do the trick. NOT!! The
$6.00 prescription for antibiotics at the corner
Farmacia was not dulling the pain and the Tylenol did no
apparent good. I did improve enough after an hour’s nap
to accompany Schim for a light dinner of fish and
broccoli, but in the middle of the night the pain once
again became excruciating. So bad that I took more
Tylenol and an early dosage of the antibiotic, but to no
avail. I slept only fitfully, but must have dozed near
daybreak and awoke at 8:30 to find Schim showered and
ready to attack the day. Me? Not so much!
I have sworn off Ibuprofen
because of recent studies that relate an increase in
strokes and heart attacks among older users, but plenty
of the wonderful pills remained in my pill chest. I
decided that I would endure the risk in the hopes that
the Advil would impact my pain and even lubricate my
barking knees. An hour later, over breakfast of toast
spread with olive oil and tomato pulp and a delicious
cafe con leche, I realized that the magic drug had all
but obliterated the pain. Nothing hurt, though I chewed
gently on the opposite side of my jaw. Aggressive
chewing can wait for another day.
Tonight, Schim and I will be
dining with the family of a waitress friend of mine
(Elena), her husband, and four, lovely children. We are
both looking forward to the experience and I to see the
family who adopted this new, American grandfather a few
years ago. We have kept in touch via Facebook ever
since.
Schim and I bussed to the train
station this morning and purchased a ticket on the
“bullet train” to the Atocha Station in Madrid for
tomorrow around noon. It will be good-bye to beautiful,
welcoming, dental Sevilla and on with our journey. Hasta
luego!
01/20/19 - Madrid,
Spain
If there is a way to better
spend a final day in Sevilla, I certainly don’t know it.
Picked up at our apartment by Nando, the husband of my
friend, Elena, and his two children, Fernando (16) and
Noelia (13), we were whisked to their beautiful home
thirty minutes away. A major welcoming took place with
Elena’s two children, Pau (13) and Blanca (11), fully
involved in the process; they are a wonderfully blended
family. Kisses on both cheeks of the females and
handshakes and hugs among the men completed the process.
Blanca presented Schim and me with a lovingly-handmade,
stick figure she colored and glued out of popsicle
sticks. A wonderful touch. We presented flowers, a large
bottle of Rioja wine, and a bag of candy (think
M&M’s and Twix) for each of the children.
Elena proudly conducted a tour
of their townhouse-like abode, pointing out the rooms
where the kids paired up in trundle beds that were neat
and orderly, although Elena pointed out one pair of
pajamas that one of the boys had carelessly left out
before the company arrived. On the dining room table,
set for all eight of us, sat beautifully-prepared tapas
of many sorts. The famous, Spanish tortilla sliced into
bite-sized pieces with toothpicks inserted, smoked
salmon and cream cheese roll-ups we later learned were
home-smoked by Elena. Sliced chorizo and tiny toast,
bread and three different pates, small pieces of
fruitcake, and, no doubt, several more that elude me as
I struggle to remember two nights ago.
When we ate our fill (Schim ate
like an 18-year-old defensive tackle), Elena excused
herself to the kitchen to retrieve the rest of the meal.
What, there’s more? She emerged and served a plate full
of beautiful, cold camarones (shrimp), heads on, and
another plate of HUGE, hot prawns, that would have made
a meal all by themselves. I ate three of each, but
watched in awe as Schim and Pau (13) each devoured seven
or eight of the prawns and too many cold shrimp to
count. Crustaceans certainly must be on Schim’s diet. We
drank most of the wine, the kids Coke, and Schim and
Nando each had an after dinner cordial of some sort. A
fantastic repast it was, prepared by Elena who spent the
two previous days in the kitchen, a fact we learned from
Nando on the way home. What hospitality!! I sure hope we
get to host this lovely family in our city.
The next morning everything
worked according to plan, except that Schim left our
computer-charging paraphernalia plugged in at the
apartment (we have a backup), and we boarded the AVE
train at the station after a short bus ride. Two hours
and fifteen minutes later, after reaching speeds just
under 150 mph, we emerged from the train in downtown
Madrid, only a 10 minute walk from our hotel. Ah, yes,
the hotel was booked the day before our arrival by
Dorita, Schim’s daughter, who got us the employee rate
in a very modern hotel. Thanks, Dorita! We’ll enjoy two
nights here, visiting previous neighborhoods and
restaurants, then head on another bullet train for
Barcelona, where Dorita is already researching hotel
choices for us. They’re right, it’s not always what you
know that counts. Hasta pronto!
01/22/19 -
Barcelona, Spain
After viewing photos of the
table set for us by Elena and her daughters, I think I
did them a disservice with my prior description of their
efforts. I forgot two of the most impressive and
labor-intensive dishes prepared for us. First was a
mild, tuna “cake” proudly prepared from the recipe of
Elena’s mother. It was delicious and only after
inquiring as to its ingredients did I learn that tuna
was involved. Delicious. One of the biggest splashes of
the evening came with the gorgeous, “seafood mousse”
that could have served as a centerpiece for the table.
Coated completely with a light, salmon-colored
mayonnaise and topped with pieces of crabmeat and strips
of red, sweet peppers, it was my favorite dish of the
evening. Well, perhaps the giant prawns tied on my list
of favorite dishes. I feel better having given more time
to Elena’s super efforts.
The next day arrived right on
schedule, though, and it was finish packing, return the
keys to the Airbnb apartment owner living next door,
catch the bus to the train station and head for Madrid.
We experienced our first light rain of the trip during
our first day and evening in the nation’s capitol, but
the drizzle didn’t deter us from walking through the
Plaza del Sol and the Plaza Mayor, familiar places to
both. We stopped for lunch so that Schim could enjoy the
locally-popular calamari sandwich that he had been
craving. I enjoyed a delicious plate of fried calamari.
After a stroll through a market turned upscale-food
court that Schim hadn’t visited during his several-month
stay in the city while teaching English, we found my
favorite Asturian restaurant, El Neru, where I enjoyed
the special, blue-cheese spread famous in that part of
the country and a small glass of alcoholic cider. Schim
had a cana, a small beer, and forced down his slice of
what I consider the best blue-cheese spread in the
world. Schim could not call it his favorite, not being a
blue-cheese kind of guy. That evening, we walked two
blocks in the drizzle and dined in another small,
wonderful Asturian restaurant where I had a delicious
entree: monkfish cooked in cider, their specialty.
It was the best fish dish I have been served anywhere.
Schim had another bowl of seafood soup.
The following afternoon we
boarded another bullet train for the trip across the
country to Barcelona, the next stop on this year’s
odyssey. Fortunately, the hotel in Madrid, thanks again,
Dorita, was only three blocks from the train station.
Fortunately, because Madrid was experiencing a taxi
strike and, had the hotel been a greater distance away,
we would have had a long trek to the station. Unaware of
local news because we rarely turn on the TV, we were
surprised to find the taxi strike was nation-wide and,
we were told at the taxi stand in Barcelona, it also
included Uber. Uh, oh! Our hotel, again booked by Dorita
at a fantastic rate, was a long distance away. The
caballero at the taxi-stand told us the best way to our
hotel was by subway and we were in the middle of the
afternoon rush hour traffic. Subways, as the name
suggests, are below ground! For this old-timer with
barking knees, that presented a significant problem,
especially since most of the trip to the subterranean
trains involved long stairways with only occasional
escalators. That meant traversing as many as twenty-five
stairs in one fell swoop, backpack, pulled suitcase and
all. Luckily, and I rarely compliment the big fellow
because his head will swell, the Schimster was as good
as his word before the trip and he carried my suitcase
or backpack down several of the stairways. My age was
really showing as rushing commuters passed me by as I
limped down, step by agonizing step and lowering my bag.
People have asked why this is a farewell tour and the
answer came to light during our descent. Short
knee-replacement surgery on both knees, which I’m trying
to avoid and the orthopedic surgeon recommended, I’m
getting too old for this nomadic form of travel.
The directions we got from both
the guy at the taxi stand (a cabbie?) and a police
officer in the subway with a giant, heavily-muzzled,
Belgian Malinois, drug and terrorist-prevention dog, was
to take a blue train one stop, then change to a yellow
train to get the exit for our hotel. Unfortunately, both
sets of directions and a third along the way, gleaned by
the panicked Schimster from a friendly local, told us to
exit one stop before we should have. The train was
jammed with commuters and we squeezed into a standing
position surrounded sardine-like and very vulnerable to
pickpockets. Schim inadvertently made us a target by
trying to communicate with me too loudly in English. My
whispered warning to him was processed and put to use
the remainder of the ride as the crowd thinned. A good
lesson for both of us. The fact that there are two of
us, each to watch the other’s bag and pockets also
served as a deterrent.
The walk up the stairs, without
escalators, presented the same problem in reverse and I
struggled up to the fading daylight. Asking directions
along the way, we learned that our Hotel Forum was off
in the distance, a 20-minute walk away. Not bad enough,
the most direct route was on a bicycle/jogging path made
of clay and stone, a tough pull. Endure we did, arriving
at this luxurious hotel (Dorita!) in a very new
convention-like area with a very modern, large shopping
mall and several, famous hotel chains. Needless to say,
we were exhausted. A short rest, however, and we
ventured across the street and had a light dinner before
crashing.
Updating every several days
makes my recollections longer than I would like, but so
be it. If too lengthy for you, I suggest putting down my
scribblings and getting back to watching the snow flakes
fall outside your living room window. Oh, if you are
interested in reading Schim’s recollections of these
same events, much more brief and jotted down more
regularly, just email me that request and Schim will
send you his address on Google Document. Onward to the
snowy country of Andorra tomorrow after a quick day of
touring Barcelona. Hasta pronto!
01/24/19 -
Toulouse, France
Andorra is a small
principality, around 70 square miles, the sixth smallest
country in Europe and the 16th smallest in the world. It
is located in the Pyrenees Mountains, bordered by Spain
in the south and France to the north. Created by
Charlemagne, governed by both an elected, Catholic
official AND the president of France, the tiny
principality lived up to its reputation yesterday as a
dependable, outstanding ski resort area. It is
outstanding, at least, if one measures by the amount of
snowfall and the steep mountains through which we made
our way by bus.
Why Andorra, you ask, when I am
not impressed by any snow with which I have come in
contact? Andorra is the 61st country which these old
bones have visited; admittedly, my bones were much
younger oft-times than the bones which visited Andorra
yesterday. I must keep pressing on, gathering notches in
my travel belt, lest both my sons carve more notches in
theirs. Family bragging rights, I reckon.
We began yesterday with a much
smoother trip from our hotel in Barcelona to the
train/bus station all the way across the sprawling city
despite the taxi strike which continued. The return went
much better because we found a much closer Metro
entrance and several elevators and escalators in the
subway itself which eliminated all but one flight of the
stairwells that made the prior trip so painful on my
barking knees. What a relief! Especially satisfying
because we considered Uber (too busy to respond) and a
driver and car contracted by the hotel staff (at 85
euros way too expensive). We negotiated the underground
system in the middle of the morning rush hour with just
enough speed to make the 10:15 bus departure for
Andorra. It cost nothing more than one more trip on the
three-day, city transportation pass we purchased on our
arrival for 10 euros.
Barcelona was blustery cold
with a light drizzle as we boarded the modern,
full-sized bus, equipped with TV (for the movie) and
WiFi. As we exited the city and began the climb to
Andorra’s 3,700 ft. elevation, the sun began to appear
through the broken stratus clouds. As we got higher,
though, we began to notice patches of snow on the
sheltered parts of fields until the views included more
and more of the heaven-sent, white stuff. As the climb
continued, darker clouds threatened and the snow
accumulation became more and more apparent as flakes of
falling snow began to gather on the windshield and
eventually the side windows of the bus. The highway
began as a four-lane expressway, then an exit ramp took
us to the winding, two-lane road that would be our path
for what turned out to be six more hours of arduous
travel.
By the time we reached the city
of Andorra la Vela, the capital of the small
principality, a full-fledged snow storm was hammering
the city with accumulations of about eight inches when
we pulled into the small bus station. The country has no
trains or train stations, so bus was the only way to
reach #61. A two-hour wait faced us for the bus that
would take us to Toulouse, France, the next stop on our
journey. It was lunch time when we arrived in Andorra,
and there were only a couple of food machines in the
station, so we decided to venture out to the nearest
restaurant where we were directed by the ticket agents.
Not the brightest of ideas, that trip pulling a suitcase
and wearing backpacks in the deep snow with heavy snow
falling. We failed to negotiate a block and I began to
fear a dangerous fall, especially since I had worn
sneakers for the trip. We made a U-turn, created more
tracks in the deep snow on return, brushed off the snow
that had accumulated on our hats, jackets, and
suitcases, and settled for a sandwich and drink from the
machine.
We boarded a smaller, very new,
20-passenger bus to continue the trip over the Pyrenees
to Toulouse. We laughed and took photos when we noticed
that our bus had chains on the rear wheels. Neither of
us had seen tire chains in years. It is amazing,
sometimes, just how naive travelers can be! Thank God
for the chains and the expertise of the driver, because
as we rose up the mountain to leave Andorra the snow
accumulation and the power of the storm increased. We
were quickly in a blizzard with snowfall of at least two
feet with heavy winds and white out conditions on our
trek to the top and down the mountains. Cars with no
chains littered the switchback road, awaiting help from
the yellow, emergency vehicles that headed up the
mountain to assist. Plows were working overtime to keep
the road clear, but several were broken-down along the
side of the highway. Stopped many times by vehicles
stuck in snowbanks, we continued down the road, passing
vehicles whenever possible. Our aggressive driver had
obviously not been driving in his first blizzard. Slower
cars blew their horns at us as we passed them by, snow
flying from our chains. We hadn’t reached the bottom
when the first of our links failed and the clacking from
the chain hitting the fender well began. The driver
continued unfazed, then the second link went, creating
an even- louder cacophony. My Floridian companion,
sitting on the opposite side of the bus, was more
frightened than I, especially several times when the
white-out eliminated all views through the windshield.
For some unknown reason, I was relaxed during the
excitement, confident that this wasn’t the driver’s
first rodeo, uh, blizzard.
With snow and slush still on the
roadway, the driver stopped at a tiny rest stop, removed
the chains, we all had a “pee-pee” (driver’s
terminology) and we continued on our way to Toulouse.
The road cleared almost immediately, morphed into a
four-lane expressway and we sped into Toulouse only an
hour later than a normal trip. Across from the bus/train
station was an Ibis Hotel and we took the “last room”
(NOT) for 104 euros. We were too tired after our
nine-hour ordeal to shop for hotels; the beds were what
we were after and they were great. So was the shower
this morning.
This morning, we shopped a car
rental to drive across southern France to Nice, but
there were very few cars available and they were cost
prohibitive. We then attempted to book a train to Nice
at 10:48 only to find, as we ticketed, that that train
was canceled. We finally secured tickets on the 12:48,
which will get us into Nice around 9:00 p.m. after
another long day on the rails. We’re game, though, but
will probably stay two or three nights in Nice for some
rest and recuperation.
I realize this was a long
update, but just how many blizzards have I been in? One!
Perhaps, just perhaps, the next update will be more
brief. Au revoir!
01/26/19 - Nice,
France
Nice is Nice!! Probably not an
original opening, but it was the best I had at the
moment. I almost began with “Clean Clothes!”, but went
with the obvious. When leading the nomadic lifestyle,
there is nothing as invigorating as getting your laundry
done and having a suitcase full of clean garments. At
check-in in Nice, I inquired at the front desk about the
location of a nearby laundry and was told that the hotel
provided that service. When I saw $12.00/shirt, I
ignored the rest of the list; I found the price a little
extravagant and Schim went absolutely apoplectic; he
rinsed out his undergarments and socks that evening,
taking all the limited hanging space in the luxurious
(thanks again to Dorita) room.
The following morning I
inquired again at the desk, carrying my laundry bag on
the way to breakfast. Breakfast in the hotel was not
included, but served buffet style for just over $25. We
passed on that! Different personnel at the front desk
were delighted to explain that there was a laundromat
around the corner from the hotel. Not what I had in
mind, watching my laundry being agitated and dried in
the cute little windows of a machine but, after viewing
research on the internet about the absence of laundries
in this very-upscale city on the Cote d’Azure, I was
running out of options. Fortunately, there was a
patisserie (bakery) across the street and a coffee shop
next to that, so I decided to plug the machines with
euros and watch the laundry spin while Schim and I had
breakfast. Oops, no machines selling detergent in the
place, but Schim had spotted a grocery store around the
corner on an early morning walk and I purchased a small
box there after securing the assistance of a kind,
middle-aged employee who accompanied me to the laundry
department.
I loaded a numbered machine,
sprinkled some detergent on the clothes, punched number
three into the keyboard on the wall, and dropped fewer
than five dollars of coins into the slot. Almost
magically, the number four machine started agitating my
clothes as it filled with water. This was very
entertaining since all the machines were front-loading
and the action was both colorful and breathtaking. Two
or three other machines were also spinning, but there
was nobody else in the place. We adjourned across the
street to the coffee shop and consumed our breakfast
while the machine toiled. I returned to the laundromat
while Schim took to the street on another one of his
forced marches. After 40 minutes, the machines displayed
the time on a screen, the machine stopped and it was
drying time. Four, large dryers were all available and I
selected number 10 which required no bending to transfer
the clean, wet clothes. Back to the computer with the
coin slot where only one euro was required to dry my
garments for 10 minutes.
I sat waiting for the clothes
to dry and Schim to return when a man entered the
laundromat with scooter helmet in hand. We exchanged
greetings and he inquired if that was my box of
detergent on the table. Replying in the affirmative, he
pointed to the instructions for machine usage plainly
written on the wall in French. When he comprehended that
my French was too weak to read the sign, he got an
English translation of the instructions on his phone to
share with me. Instruction number four clearly said that
“NO DETERGENT SHOULD BE USED!” It seems that the washing
machines automatically injected detergent as it washed.
Wow! This was a new, ultra-modern laundromat. I
apologized profusely, my French being that good, at
least, and he was most gracious about my ignorance.
Turns out, that as your clothing nears completion, he is
automatically called to visit his new business to offer
assistance. Amazing! Schim showed up, watched me fold or
roll my clean clothes and we returned to the hotel.
Ahhhhh. Fresh clothes for the next week or 10 days.
We toured the old city and
walked through the new part of town to the train station
where we purchased tickets for a direct train to Milan,
Italy, for Sunday. After a one night stay in Milan,
we’ll head to Venice for a three-night visit, before
Schim heads home to Orlando. Yes, the big fellow has
purchased a ticket and I will travel the length of Italy
alone. First stop for me will be San Marino, the tiny
republic south of Venice and east of Bologna. It appears
that, like Andorra, the only way to San Marino is by
bus. The route is through Bologna, so I will attempt to
figure out the ticketing and the scheduling to get to
the mountainous republic for a one night stay. I have no
hotel reservations there, but I have reserved an Airbnb
room with private bath in Rome for five days after that.
Here’s hoping the plan comes together. Au revoir!
Our last day in Nice provided a
beautiful finish to our short stay on the French
Riviera. Breakfast at the hotel, so Schim can eat the
eggs (scrambled, soft boiled, matters not) he laments
every day, almost from dawn until dark. He will very
occasionally say, “when in Rome, do what the Romans do,”
but where breakfast and eggs are concerned, he hasn’t
really gotten the message. The Portuguese, Spanish,
French, and Italian breakfasts usually consist of a
sweet roll (think croissant) and a small cup of coffee
or espresso. That doesn’t stop the Floridian from
lamenting the absence of eggs and approaching
hyperventilation when we can enjoy a hotel buffet which
usually includes eggs.
After breakfast, we walked to
the bus stop on the famous Promenade d’ Anglais to catch
a ride to the Place Garibaldi from whence we could walk
to the Port. There we boarded another local bus that
would hug the coast and pass through the beautiful,
exclusive towns of the Riviera, like Ville France,
Monaco, and Menton, among many others. We lunched at a
pizza shop in Menton before catching a return train to
Nice. A pleasant day with sunshine and temperatures in
the mid to upper 50’s, then pack and prepare for another
morning departure.
We left the hotel, where one of
the French League football teams (Nimes) was also
staying, to take the 8:01 train to Milan. We grabbed
breakfast at the station - Harry: croissant, Schim: two
ham and cheese sandwiches, one for later on the train.
This is a diet?? Drat, again no eggs at the Patisserie
for the big guy. We passed along much of the route we
had bussed the previous day and into the Italian
Riviera, before heading inland to Milan. More,
snow-covered fields along the way in what appeared to be
a three or four-inch coating of the horrible, white
stuff.
We exited the snowy, elevated
fields into very cold, rainy, dreary Milan. Only an
overnight stay planned here to break up the long trip to
Venice, we forced ourselves through the drizzle on two,
confusing trams to reach Il Duomo, the famous,
spectacular cathedral in central Milan. A couple photos,
a quick cab ride back to the hotel and our first, great
Italian meal (the slice of pizza in France doesn’t
count) had us ready for the warmth of our beds. Up early
again the following morning, we had to stay for the
hotel buffet because of the EGGS. Schim had two kinds,
scrambled and soft-boiled. We slogged through the frigid
morning weather to Milano Centrale and arrived in Venice
around 1:00 p.m. in the middle of more drizzle. We
boarded a vaporetto (boat taxi), located our ancient,
five-star hotel (thanks again, Dorita) and grabbed a
quick nap before dinner. We’re safely in this beautiful
city and I hope to update one more time from here before
shipping Schim home and heading to San Marino and Rome.
Tchau!
01/30/19 - Venice,
Italy
Time for a health update:
The pain from the root canal
lasted from the time the Novocain wore off until
24-hours later and was pretty severe for part of that
time. The pain and ache gradually abated and I have had
no problems since then with the dental procedure.
Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the head cold
that I thought was almost over when I took off from
Newark for Portugal. My left ear clogged during the
descent into Lisbon and remained annoyingly clogged for
much of my time in Cascais and Seville. It and the head
cold gradually vacated my body and I thought I had
beaten the bug that caused it. That is, until yesterday
afternoon here in Venice when a relapse occurred and the
head cold returned worse than ever. I struggled with
coughing, sneezing and runny nose yesterday afternoon
and through the night, not even venturing out for
dinner.
Schim has been most
compassionate, even buying Vick’s cough drops for me at
a pharmacy while out for dinner and his afternoon forced
march. I would love to have a video of that purchase,
since he takes no interest in learning even the most
basic Italian phrases. Despite Schim’s vocal lack of
interest in the trip, we did get in a vaporetto ride to
Murano, the island known for glassblowing, yesterday
morning and enjoyed a fine lunch at a trattoria there.
It was after that the head cold made its relapse known
and I could hardly wait to return to the hotel.
This morning, I accompanied
Schim to breakfast and on a trial run (walk) to the
train station whose location Schim discovered on
yesterday’s march. We had taken a vaporetto from there
to the hotel when we arrived the other day. It took
twenty minutes of steady walking, including traversing
four canal bridges to reach the place where Schim and I
will part company in the morning. He heads to Milan for
a flight home and I through Bologna and Rimini to San
Marino. Hopefully, my health will improve enough to make
that walk to the station with baggage in the morning.
I think Schim has really
enjoyed the trip, especially his first trip to Venice,
but I think he’s ready to go home. I imagine part of
that eagerness is because he has had to play nursemaid
to me for part of the trip. He’s done a good job of
that. I do feel bad that I haven’t felt up to par for a
large portion of the trip. I recommend that anyone with
arthritic knees visit Venice before the pain gets too
severe. I had forgotten how many canal bridges one must
cross while visiting the city. Here’s hoping for
better health tomorrow as I begin the solo portion of my
journey. I’m really looking forward to five days of Rest
& Recuperation in Rome. What better place could
there be than the “Eternal City” to regain one’s health?
Tchau.
02/07/19 - Roma,
Italia
Why no updates? Where is Harry?
Is he still alive? It has been a while since I updated,
light years, actually, from my typical stream of words.
I just checked my last update and it’s been a full week
since I sat down at this keyboard. I only wish that
during that vacuum I was enjoying wild parties and a
social life keeping me too busy to compose an update.
Sadly, nothing could be further from the truth. In my
last update that I just re-read, I hoped that my health
would improve as the solo portion of my journey began.
Just the opposite occurred, sad to say. The walk to the
train station in Venice over four bridges, a stroll in
the park when healthy, was exhausting enough that I
didn’t recover by the time I reached Rimini, doorstep to
San Marino.
I struggled across the street
from the train station to a tiny Albergó, like a
tiny hostal with private rooms and baths. Taking a room
and feeling worse by the minute, I decided to board the
bus immediately to San Marino. It, fortunately, stopped
right outside the door of the Albergo and I wasn’t
feeling that I would be stronger in the morning. Not an
enjoyable ride in my condition, with more round-a-bouts
than I have ever seen in a city. So many that traffic
was restricted by them, instead of made smoother. The
swaying of the tour bus around the circles certainly did
nothing to improve my condition or the views from the
window. But, 45 minutes later, we arrived inside the
limits of San Marino, the fifth smallest country in the
world and #62 on my list. No exploration of the city was
attempted, there being about four inches of snow on the
ground and the return bus departing in 20 minutes. I
took a few photos of the beautiful, surrounding,
snow-covered mountains/hills, walked around the parking
lot watching workers chisel ice and snow from the
sidewalks, and boarded the return bus to Rimini.
Seven blocks of reconnoitering
yielded only an empty Chinese restaurant as a potential
dinner stop. I ate some fried rice, drank some green
tea, and returned to my room where my deterioration
continued. If only I could make it to Rome, where a
five-night Airbnb reservation awaited and where I could
recover. NOT! By the time I crawled or, more accurately,
fell into bed (the bed was six inches off the floor), I
had developed the stiffest neck I have ever experienced.
More than stiff, this neck was painfully locked into
place. Getting into and out of that bed for the next
five nights was an excruciating experience and I spent
most of those five days right there, in the sub-marinal
sack. The pain was agonizing no matter which way I
moved. It is now six days later and the pain in my neck
is finally at the level of a severe stiff neck. Welcome
to Rome!
I visited a clinic here, was
examined for meningitis by a beautiful, young doctor,
and cleared of that frightening possibility. I was given
prescriptions for muscle relaxants, pain (super
Tylenol), an antibiotic (the deep, stubborn, head
cold/flu compounding my recovery), and drops for the
conjunctivitis I had no idea I needed. Sure, my eye has
been a little red in the morning, but conjunctivitis?
How much for the doctor’s visit? “In Italy medical care
is free,” the doctor told me in her extremely-limited
English. Off I went, seeking farmacias to fill my
prescriptions over rough, cobblestone streets bouncing
my neck painfully with each stride. 49 euros of
medications later, I retired to my room to seek relief
from the drugs. Suffice it to say, and Cheryl, my reader
who thrills at my medical escapades be damned, I am not
having my favorite winter vacation.
On the train from Rimini, after
being cornered by a conductor-Nazi for getting on the
wrong train (same destination, same departure time, same
track) and forced to pay a $16 up-charge for the
mistake, I decided that I could be this miserable at
home, snow and all. I decided to pull the plug on the
remainder of the planned trip and return home.
Unfortunately, there is no way that I could make the
trip to the airport, board the plane, and ride ten hours
in my condition. I have holed up in a tiny, plush hotel
until the neck loosens up enough to take a few
air-pocket bumps in the sky. Who knows how long that
will take? Know that I have only seen in passing, a
Roman ruin or building of note out the taxi window.
Furthermore, I have no interest in seeing any more of
this great city. Sleep and eat, sleep and eat, repeat
until recovered. I hope that makes you happy, Cheryl.
02/09/19 - Roma,
Italia
They’re everywhere,
everywhere!! Kids, I mean. I was 19 years of age before
my first foreign adventure and that was courtesy of the
US Army on a 19-day cruise aboard a troop transport with
5,000 other close, personal friends dressed in fatigues.
My family was so poor that we didn’t have a family
vehicle until I was in my early teens, so there wasn’t a
whole lot of foreign travel in my family’s history,
although my brother, sister, and I never realized we
were poor. There was always food on the table from the
family’s store, so how were we to know? Today, there are
kids (young people - they all look like kids to me)
everywhere! Traveling the world before they’re dry
behind the ears. My grandchildren are world travelers
and to list the countries in which they’ve lived or
visited would approach my life’s list of countries
visited.
Today and yesterday, I had
breakfast with a young couple, and their adorable,
one-year-old son. Yesterday in the afternoon, the little
guy ran/wobbled across the small lobby into my waiting
arms and I lifted him with the experience of a veteran
grandfather. He could sense the love and he shared it in
kind. His father is on a three-month student program in
Belgium out of Utah State University and his lovely
wife, who once resided in Peru, is sharing all his
cultural experiences. A lovely couple and a son who is
traveling at one year of age. Exchange programs, college
breaks, mission projects, study abroad, wealthy parents
eager for a little peace around the house - all reasons
that the world has become the playground of the young.
Almost all have seemed respectful and courteous in any
encounter I have had with them. Almost makes one proud
to have been a parent, grandparent, and educator.
My health continues to improve,
but only slightly each day. I continue to take four of
the five meds prescribed for me by the free clinic’s
doctor, only stopping the magna Tylenol that I cannot
discern having any effect on my much-reduced pain.
Today, I will taxi across Rome for my second massage.
The first provided such relief that I can’t pass up the
second. I also had to make a 20-euro deposit to arrange
the appointment, so I’ll “git ‘er done.” I have
been able to manage a four or five-block walk around
this block, where the pictures just posted have been
taken, but I still get exhausted quickly. I have booked
an inexpensive, direct flight (Norwegian Air Shuttle)
from Rome to Newark, a ten-hour flight, for next
Saturday. I don’t arrive until 9:30 p.m., so my wife
will drive there early, book a hotel room, and wait for
me to shuttle to meet her. We’ll then make the last leg
of the journey home next Sunday. FEBRUARY! Home!
SNOW! Something went wrong this winter, but it
will be great to get back!
I was quite busy the last few
days for a guy who was so near death just a few days
ago. For sure I felt near death, actually I spent a few
moments encouraging the grim reaper to take me home when
my neck was so stiff that I couldn’t move and every
attempt to get in or out of bed was met with
excruciating pain. Past that now, I have been able to
take three or four hour trips, see some sights that held
little interest for me a few days ago, and relax the
rest of the day seeking full recovery before my flight
home.
Saturday, feeling stronger than
I had in days, I decided to walk to the Piazza Navona
near where Dario was waiting to deliver my second
massage. Asking distances in Europe is an exercise in
gross underestimation. The very helpful desk clerk
assured me it was only a mile to Piazza Navona,
carefully drawing the route on a map of the city.
Walking slowly and stopping for lunch on the way, I
arrived in the piazza with the famous fountain after
only 3.1 miles of effort. There are times when I wish
that Schim had NOT installed the walking counter on my
phone and this was one of them. I waited an hour for my
appointment while in the Piazza, watching people while
perched on a cold, marble bench with no back, then
headed for Dario’s spa an hour early. Fortunately, Dario
took me right away, delivered another great, though
frequently painful, deep massage, and I was on my way
back to the hotel. Being observant on the way there, I
noticed the numbers on the buses that passed the major
street near my hotel. Finding a stop with that number, I
boarded a bus only to learn that I needed a ticket; the
drivers took no cash. I found a kiosk right around the
corner and purchased a three-day transportation pass for
$18, caught the next bus, and I was safely home. Ahhhh.
Sunday, for a mid-day dinner, I
headed to a familiar restaurant in Trastevere where
Schim and I had dined on great spaghetti carbonara
during our last visit to town. The restaurant was
familiar, but I had only a faint mental picture of where
it was located in Trastevere, the oldest section of
Rome. After missing the stop I wanted, I decided to stay
on the bus and get off on the return trip. An hour
later, after a tour of neighborhoods never before seen
by tourists and full of condos, apartment buildings, and
sycamore-lined streets, I disembarked where I wanted and
walked straight to the restaurant. Almost a miracle.
Getting my money’s worth on that transportation ticket!
Schim must be so proud. Great carbonara and I squeezed
onto the bus (barely), with my back squashed against the
front door, preventing it from opening or closing at
every stop until one person squeezed through the crowd
and disembarked. The bus got me home, tired, but proud
of my day’s adventure.
Monday, exercising a
deep-rooted memory of a show Anthony Bourdain did from
the coast of Rome where once the city flourished as a
major port, now almost completely ceding that role to
Civitavecchia, a little farther north on the coast, I
got directions from the front desk and headed to Ostia
for lunch. A metro ride, a change of trains, and an hour
later, I exited the station at Ostia Lido, a town with
little to recommend it, although it appeared it may now
have a role as a summer beach destination. Just beating
a thunderstorm to the main square and ducking into the
only restaurant I saw with people inside, I enjoyed the
finest fried anchovies that I have ever tasted while
waiting for the fried calamari that the folks at the
desk had recommended as famous from that town. The
appetizer of anchovies was so good that I wished I had
never ordered the calamari. I ate too many anchovies to
finish the calamari, so I carried a box home to share
with the folks at the front desk. They were well
received.
I got carried away there,
describing activities I was unable to accomplish just a
few days back, but they covered the past three days.
I’ll be a little more Schim-like (frugal, frugal) in any
additional updates. Ciao!
02/14/19 - Roma,
Italia
The weather in Rome has been
very cooperative for my limited sightseeing. Two,
all-day rains greeted me when I could work my way to the
window with my stiff neck, but I didn’t and couldn’t do
any sightseeing on those days anyway. As I recovered,
the weather improved and there has only been one
thunderstorm, Italian lightning and all, whose few,
large drops had me ducking into a restaurant and briefly
pulling the emergency rain hat out of my pocket.
Otherwise, daytime temperatures have risen to between 55
and 62 degrees Fahrenheit with bright sunshine. Not Baja
warm, but quite tolerable, even though morning lows have
occasionally dropped into the high 30’s. With breakfast
included at this delightful, small hotel and lounging
over a second cup of cappuccino or cafe latte part of my
morning routine, it is almost 11:00 a.m. and much warmer
until I peek outside. By mid-afternoon, the temperature
has warmed enough that one of my clothing layers has to
be discarded until dinner time.
Since today is Thursday and my
flight back to Newark on late Saturday afternoon, this
will be my final update for 2019. I will probably send
the last few pictures tomorrow; I know that you’ve seen
enough of the Trevi Fountain, but one photo of that
spectacular work of art didn’t seem to do it justice. My
bad!
This year’s adventure was not
as upbeat as I hope many were in the past, but feeling
poorly in a foreign land had a lot to do with the tenor
of my scribblings. Sorry about that. I hope that, as the
snow flew and the wind blew, some of my words were
interesting enough to help you survive the winter and
prepare for spring. I’m certainly ready for that and I
am not looking forward to winter’s remaining blasts of
cold air and snow. I’m planning to add a few layers to
survive. Thanks for joining me. Ciao!
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