No, I wasn't in the service.

The other day someone in conversation asked if I was a veteran. It wasn't the first time... this month. It happens all of the time. Maybe it my fondness for wearing a high-and-tight. I usually just say "no" and let it go.

Not today. This new nonsense about HIV+ armed service members being forced out has me grieving and furious.

My father and his three brothers all served in the military. Dad was in Korea with the Army, post-armistice. My Uncle Dick was career Navy. My Uncle Howie died in Korea, leaving behind his young wife and my six-month old cousin, Sharon. As I grew up in Manchester, Connecticut, I either attended or marched in the town Memorial Day parade every year. My grandmother rode in a car as one of the 'Gold Star' mothers. When I was little I was so proud of her, and only caught her sadness as I got older. I have cousins who served.

I turned 18 in 1976. I registered for the draft. My birthdate, June 7, was drawn #28. In a year that the draft was implemented I likely would have gone into the service, as I did not go to college right after high school. But 1976 was still in the penumbra of the Vietnam War, and the US government was winding down its military capacities, determined to realize some sort of 'peace dividend'. The lottery was drawn and unused. I went to Colombia as an exchange student, then onto Bucknell. My freedom to choose was our family 'peace dividend'.

Let me be clear. I am not sure that my dad would have ever let me enter the service, while he had some say. He was a tough guy, bricklayer and football coach, my idol. His Army experience was part of his legend for me. I had images of Korea etched in my head long before M*A*S*H hit the airwaves. But there were things in his personal past that he had resolved that no kid of his would have to face. When at 14 I wanted to get a summer job, picking tobacco with the other guys in the neighborhood, but he forbid it. He had picked tobacco at that age. When you grow up in Manchester that is a thing you do. He said he would give me whatever money I might need, but no son of his was going to pick tobacco. Post-Vietnam, I had an inkling he might throw up another wall.

But by the time I might make that decision for myself, my life had taken another turn. During my year, living in Colombia, I had begun to figure out my late-arising sexuality. By my sophomore year at Bucknell I declared, to myself, I was gay (a terrible realization if you were at Bucknell, btw.) My closest Bucknell friend, Marshall, was angling for Naval Officer Candidates School- it sounded cool but, being gay, those doors were now closed. Openly gay people could not serve. Everyone knew that. A few years from my activism, I just rolled with it.

I have dozens of LGBT friends my age who served. Many of them enlisted when they were 18. How many of you had your sexuality sorted at that age? Others had aspired to careers in the Service and that sexuality thing was merely an inconvenience. Almost all of them served well and received honorable discharges. Others, however, mid-career, dealt with some homophobe in the ranks or (rarely) among the officer corps, then found themselves summarily dismissed, whatever the quality of service. Everyone has a story. I will let them tell theirs.

So, no, I never was in the armed services. As I watch the current administration attempt to deny whole classes of Americans the opportunity to serve I get furious. These people have stepped forward, put civilian life on hold, and have gone to work in our national defense. I respect that choice and that willingness to put country first. I am not trans, but I do live with HIV every day. I take one pill and see a doc once every six months. That is the current standard of care. Military medicine can handle HIV-- it has for years. Deploying for a year should not be a problem. This is just trumped-up bigotry.

Driving in Europe: Stick or No; Tolls or No; and Don't Do What I Did, Part II

Mount Teide, the highest mountain in Spain- on Tenerife

(We have one last 'story' blog post to come about a destination- Tenerife. I will keep my remarks here to the driving dimension of the trip, leaving to the main post the complete culinary and cultural adventure we had for those six days.)

Tenerife, in the Canary Islands, a part of Spain off the Atlantic coast of Morocco, was on our itinerary to see our old buddy, Fernando. A native of the island, he turned over his familial home to us for our stay. After a few days of exploring Santa Cruz, the capital, he offered us his car, a Citroen C4 Picasso, to explore the rest of the island. Nature is a big part of Tenerife's wealth and the car would let us get beyond the where the tram and bus would carry us.

Fernando kept it in a city parking garage at the central market as a courtesy to us. Parking in his neighborhood was brutal- like urban Europe in general. There's usually (subterranean) city parking somewhere nearby. On the continent they can be high-tech, with red and green lights over each slot, indicating availability. Santa Cruz wasn't quite that modern, but the garage was easily-accessed and not too busy.

Our first day in the car was my 60th birthday, June 7th. We planned to climb Mt. Teide, a slumbering 12,000 ft volcano, the highest mountain in all of Spain- by car, as far as the road would take us. (There is eventually a cable car to the summit, but such things a bit too 'touristic' for us- queues, tour buses--bleh.) Fernando, the ever-amazing host, recommended that I have my birthday lunch at a parador in the national park that was renown for its local cuisine, right on the main road. We could then proceed through the park to the southern end of the island, see some sights, the speed back to Santa Cruz on the island's main highway.

The main woman in my life on the road is that lady at Google Maps. She talks to me. I talk back. Ours can be a contentious relationship. She perseveres through it all directing me onward- on foot and in a vehicle, both in Europe and here at home. There is one main route from Santa Cruz to to Mt. Teide National Park through town to the park's highway. It is like this:

Cool, right? all interstate-level highway to the start of the park road, 130kph much of the way. 

How I went:

This route, on crowded city streets, lots of stop lights and a few unmarked detours, climbing 1700 feet, took 20 extra minutes and provided a clutch-use 'final exam' in an unfamiliar car. I aced the test but it was more of a challenge that I was seeking. I cursed that Maps lady, occasionally in less-than-politically-correct terminology. Don't do what I did. Check all of the settings on your navigation. I had no clue that I had checked 'no highways' but that is what I got. That Google Maps woman faithfully executed my instructions and I only responded with abuse. I am chastened by this experience.

Me, Mark and the cone of Teide

The driving for the next two days was often breathtaking. Tenerife is a product of ongoing volcanic activity (1909 was the latest eruption) and the drop to the sea is often dramatic. I am not afraid of heights but I do have a healthy respect for them, as measured by my adrenalin levels while navigating the island. The drive was filled with narrow roads, switchbacks and rolling off into the gutter to allow a massive tour bus to pass while staring down a sheer cliff. Aayyyyyyy.

The second day of touring took us south and back via the highways of the northwest side of the island to Masca. Masca is a village, clinging to the volcanic cliffs, halfway down the very vertical south side of the island. You can do a challenging hike the rest of the way down to the water, and boat will snag you to get you back up... My ailing knee would not permit consideration of this (foolish) pursuit. I am sure it would be memorable. We were to go down to check out the village, participate in the tourist economy (double-espressos and dessert for us.) Then just climb back up and head to touristy Puerto Cruz. Pretty. Sure.

The road began with a switchback-laden climb to the coastal crest. As I ascended, two types of vehicles were coming down the slope toward me- massive tour buses, seemingly too big for narrow right-of-way; and tiny rental cars, stuffed with British tourists driving on the right side of the road for the first time in their lives. Or so it seemed.  We arrived at the crest, only to begin the descent to the town. 

Photos of the road do not do it justice. It was a rocky wall on one side and sheer drop on the other. At every switchback you needed to anticipate someone ascending. Buses and trucks often had to stop, then back up, before successfully proceeding through the narrow turns. Here's a satellite map of this last stretch that might give you a feel for it.

Up and down to Masca

When I finally parallel-parked along the road in Masca it was with a relieved sense of satisfaction. It was thrilling, but I handled it. I wanted the merit badge. That said, I was thoroughly dreading the clutch-pumping thrill of the climb back out. With a rental car we generally only put one driver on the agreement, as it usually costs more for two. But it was Fernando's car, and Mark could drive it.  Mark, eager for a dramatic drive up the cliff, jumped at the chance. I felt nothing but relief.

I imagined that I would now be able to ride peacefully in the passenger seat, snapping photos of the vistas that would last us a lifetime while Mark steered us smoothly along the way. Hoo-eee. Wrong. I did not anticipate that, without the road for my focus, I was now riding a cliff and not in control. I won't deny that may have hollered (ok, shrieked...) a few times, coming around the outside corner as one more tourist bus pushed us toward the concrete bollards between us and a fiery death. I did try to be cool--Mark wanted me to take photos. I failed. He, meanwhile, was thriving, throwing the clutch with great aplomb, backing up to let buses turn. A few miles down the road we swapped back, and I took the wheel, with only a few flashback moments.

The road as we climbed out of Masca. I left part of my mind near this corner. That's La Gomera island visible thru the notch.

The woman at the Hertz rental counter at Barcelona was busy when we arrived. The two customers ahead of me had both been denied their rental cars, after much consternation. One had a credit card that did not work and the other was a 22year-old American kid who did not grok that he needed to be 23 to rent a car, whatever reservation he may have made online. I had a ton of empathy for those folks. Not getting your rental car when you made it part of your plan could be a bitch. 

This was our one planned car leg to the vacation, a long drive from Barcelona to San Sebastian, on the northern Atlantic coast, close to France-- over five hours. We could have flown but the costs were about the same. I wanted to drive through the Pyrenees and into the Basque country. I took a ton of Spanish lit in college. I've read about this land. Now it was time to see it. While we were in Tenerife we got advice from Kiko and Fernando. They were dubious, but brightened up when I redrew the route, checking the 'no tolls' option. Kiko seemed to know a thing on two about driving in the region. He said that this route would be a gorgeous excursion through rural Spain. 

On the way to San Sebastian

Back at the rental counter, as I was paying way too much for insurance, the nice lady asked if I was going to be driving a lot. Yes, I replied. She then went about the task of finding me something to drive with great mileage. She came back with a Skoda diesel with an automatic transmission, and for no additional cost. I made sure... but inside I was giddy. I am sure I could have driven a standard across Spain and back but having an automatic would be nice. I was also able to download Android Auto and run it through the car media system. We were cruising, baby.

The Skoda

One annoying/scary 'feature 'of the Skoda was a 'stop/start' ignition system. Now common in new European cars, 'stop/start' ignitions shut the car off when the vehicle is stopped, only to automatically restart it when the foot brake was released. It is estimated that this 'feature' will save an average of 5-7% on fuel, reducing both urban air pollution and carbon emissions. With this car, a diesel, there was a demi-second hesitation before it restarted, just enough to cause a heart flutter, before roaring into action. Hey, no prob. I'm chill... Bring on the open road.

The first chunk of the drive was on big-time highways. For the full experience we stopped at a big truck stop for lunch. No decent grab-and-go option here. We were seated in the diner and selected lunch from a three course fixed price menu which included a beverage. Most of the truckers on hand were having the red wine. Ah, Spain. We had sparkling water. The service was stunning. A battalion of young women swarmed the dining room, presenting the food as it emerged from the kitchen, then dropping the bill. Very impressive. 

We soon got off the big road and onto the two and four lane roads that would carry us into Basque Country. With the navigation, it was pretty effortless. Pretty soon we were climbing into the mountains. As we got higher, the road got narrower. The route was mainly rural. Long stretches of very green mountains were decorated with medieval castles or hilltop villages. The drive took a little longer than anticipated, but it was completely a gorgeous excursion, just like Kiko promised.

A medieval castle, with more ancient ruins in front off it, in some wheat fields...

Our quirky AirBnb came with parking. We took the car out one day to drive to Bilbao. We again had to choose, toll (1hr) or no toll (2hr). We paid the toll, 21 euros in total. Ugh. One treat was listening to Ms. Maps rattle through the impossibly long Basque street names. We were staying on Heriz Pasealekua. We still choke on it but she just plowed through that and every one of the other tongue-twisters. I have heard enough of her Spanish to know her pronunciation is a guess, but she rattles it off at a fine pace.

Our final day driving was longer than originally planned. Rising early, we drove across northern Spain to Figueres, the site of the Dali Theatre-Museum. No tolls. Only with our own transportation could we have effectively made such a last-minute addition. As a result we got to scratch something off on the bucket list. I wrapped up that last day dipping into the craziness of a Barcelona evening rush hour then returned the car.

Your usually don't need a car as a tourist in Europe and it has its challenges. Driving this time for us added so much to the experience. It helps that Mark and I travel very well together. We finished off "The Girl Who Takes an Eye for an Eye" as an audiobook together, and I listened to Russell Brand read his brilliant book "Recovery" when Mark napped. One artifact of listening to books is the unlikely linking of a story with an incongruous location on the road. So when I hear Russell Brand I will think of a particular rural railroad crossing in the Basque Country, waiting for a slow train to pull its few cars across the road.

If you get a chance, do go for a drive abroad. Mind the things that I did that I told you not to do. But if you like driving, get out there.

Driving in Europe: Stick or No; Tolls or No; and Don't Do What I Did, Part I

Driving in Europe:
Stick or No; Tolls or No; and Don't Do What I Did, Part I

Snow-capped Pyrenees in the distance, looking north

I love to drive. Our current car, a 2016 Honda CRV, has 45,000 miles on it in its 19 months living in our garage. She's a true road warrior. I drove three times during this trip- Croatia/Bosnia-Herzegovina, Tenerife, and northern Spain. We rented cars in the first and third instances. In Tenerife Fernando proffered his Citroen to us for a couple of days of island exploration- such a trusting soul. Each of the these episodes was completely worth it. We had a liberty to roam and discover with maybe more exhilaration than I was prepared for. We came away with a much more intimate relationship with the country and countryside in these places. And all of it was quality time for me with my most favorite companion. Perfect.

We lived in Europe for five years, so we had driven there before, though we never owned a car. On the rare occasions we decided that we wanted to travel by car we rented. Mark and I both maintained our US driver's licenses under some legal construct which currently escapes me (maintaining deniability).We learned one year into our Dutch stay that we could have easily converted our US licenses into Dutch licenses-- in our first six months of residence. After six months you weren't supposed to use the American documents. You were required to test and likely take a very expensive licensing training course. Screw that. We simply rented cars like tourists, plopping down our blue passports and US licenses, hoping that they never noticed our residence sticker in the back pages of the passport. They never did.

Renting a car in Europe can be intimidating. Europeans generally drive standard transmissions. (Our Parisian host, Patrick, drives an automatic,  insightfully explaining that Jewish women of certain age did, too. Exceptions to the rule.) You can rent an automatic, but the rates usually double. My first road warrior Honda, a 1986 Civic, was a stick, so I have experience with a clutch in a car (and motorcycle). I do go through a little shakedown (literally) as I lose my clutch cobwebs and become a shifting demon. There's some weird masculine validation in play as well. I would never pay that American tariff anyway- stick it is.

The second scary place in euro-car rental is the intersection of narrow European streets and rental car insurance. Part of the charm of driving in urban and rural Europe are those cozy passages on cobbled alleys and country lanes with have conveyed Europeans for hundreds of years, but cars only recently. European drivers routinely park in spaces I would use for my bicycle. I dread returning a car to a rental agency with any sort of blemish, only to have my credit card deposit (700+ euros) and more charged against my card. I load up on insurance. I ignored the standard credit card CDW thing and bought the mega-package, effectively tripling my cost. 

Don't do what I did. Research your car rental insurance options with your credit cards before you travel. I did not need to pay as much as I did. Car rental agents are not honest brokers-- they sell insurance. There are independent insurers who sell car rental insurance policies you can acquire before you walk up to the counter, putting you in a better position to know what you need. That said, consider your appetite for the risk of a scrape or scratch in an unfamiliar vehicle on unfamiliar roads. I had no dings in any case this trip. Inspect your vehicle fully before signing off on your contract. They should offer a chance to do so. If not, ask. Our Barcelona rental had several wounds previously noted, and I added a few more in the notes on the contract.

The first car rental was a spontaneous one, in Split, Croatia. After spending three days exploring the city, we wanted to get out and wander the region. Specifically we were interested in seeing Mostar and Medjegorje in Bosnia-Herzegovina- a long day trip, and everyone had virtually commanded us to go to Plitvice Lakes National Park, three hours away and another day trip. We could have done either by bus. The tours were priced OK, but you multiply the price times two. We also cherish our independence, and the thought of being part of one of bus tour herds really grates. We were also free to add stuff on, like the fortress where Game of Thrones' was shot. We also love that sense of discovery that comes from driving down a road you really don't know. These days Google Maps et al make it all easier.

Our Nisan SUV in Croatia

We went online and booked a cute little car at a rental office a short walk away. Don't do what I did. Don't rent more car than you need.  I had booked a Fiat 500, a little car. (I fold well.) It wasn't a big deal but it also would be easier to park... wherever I might need to park it. But I got sold an upgrade, tied in with insurance (see above) to an SUV with navigation. (I am already a Google Maps jock with my phone and had a local data plan- I had nav.) Still, it was great to have the space and we did use the nav to get where were going.

We live in New Mexico. We have no toll roads. We only have three interstates. The thought of paying to use a highway is off-putting. I like that Android Auto/Google Maps has an 'avoid tolls' option. In Europe, however, that option can double or triple your travel time. And European tolls can bite-- Geneva to Avignon last year, through the south of France, was close to $50. Oohlala. The longest part of our trip on that Friday was on big new Euro-standard highways, from Split to Medjegorje. The tolls weren't so bad and they took cards. The highway ended at Medjegorje, and we were on two lane roads into town, around the shrine, and all the way to Mostar.

That road, from Medjegorje to Mostar was pure joy to drive- a rambling road, passing through villages until you begin to drop down into the Mostar valley. The highway began an endless series of hairpin turns down to river-level. As we descended the city, with its collection of minarets and occasional war-scarred relics rose up to surround us. Our goal, the Mostar Bridge, an icon of the post-war city, was in the middle of it all. Now we just had to park. Right. Don't do as I did. Don't rent more car than you need. We pulled down one street, only to find that it was a car-clogged dead-end. It took us ten minutes to carefully navigate our way in, only to take 20 minutes to turn and go find a proper parking place. We paid a couple of euros. I was relieved. After having a a few hours of food, shopping and listening to the call to prayer echo around the valley by the bridge we attempted to leave. All of Mostar seemed to be trying to come down our little alley, with no room to move. Patience isn't a virtue. It is a practice. One fun part of the Bosnian adventure was trying to read highway signs that were half in Cyrillic.  As a result I pulled into a closed lane at the Bosnia-Croatia frontier. The border guard had a good laugh. 

Mostar Bridge

Mark and I don't quarrel much, but finding a legal parking place in Split on a weekend evening got us both grouchy. We opted for a slot in front of a supermarket, destined to open at 7am. The threat of a ticket was added incentive for us to get an early start. We needed to get moving, to beat the tour bus crowd to the park. At 6:50 Saturday the trip up to Plitvice began again on the E-65 toll roadas we sped at 130kmh up the coast then inland. The coastal range along the Adriatic rises quickly and soon the highway was climbing up the side of sheer cliffs-- stunning engineering. By 10am we were parked and shelling out 40 euros to walk through the waterfall wonderland that our friends had so vociferously recommended. Amazing.

Travel mechanics: Six weeks in Europe, one night in a hotel

Travel Mechanics:  Six weeks in Europe, one night in a hotel

Nether Craigwell Brewery, our AirBnb in Edinburgh

This post is about accommodations, principally about our use of AirBnb. We ended up paying for a traditional hotel room only once in six weeks. Catching up with old buddies was the biggest part of this trip, and they hosted us 25 of the 41 nights. They made this trip possible. They were also the best places we stayed, and awesome company. We took a friendship back live after years of virtual, occasional communication- priceless. Mark and I are very grateful to Tim, Peter, Gerard, Patrick, Fernando and Ramon. We dare them all to take us up on our offer to visit New Mexico.

Here is the breakdown on how we stayed:

Buddies:     25

AirBnb:      14 (Venice, Split, San Sebastian, Edinburgh)

Hotel:          1 (Ravenna, Italy)

Ferry Cabin: 1 (Ancona, Italy- Split, Croatia)

 AirBnb- We are no longer AirBnb virgins, having used it in Florence, Vienna and Prague last year. AirBnb and its brethren (VRBO, et al) suit us. We like to economize not only on the accommodation, but also on meals. Until Edinburgh we rented apartments. We enjoy landing somewhere, dropping our luggage, taking our shopping bag and hitting the local market. Mark is forever in search for great yoghurt and weird soda pop. We usually pick up food for breakfast and lunches and lots of beverages, including whatever format of coffee we might need. (espresso, capsule coffeemakers, etc.) We stock the fridge then head off in the city.

We try to locate ourselves as close as we can afford to the sights and activities we're planning. Time in transit cuts into activity time. It is a balancing act. For example- you can find very reasonable AirBnb places on the mainland, close to Venice, but then you're day-hopping on buses and trains to get to the focus of your trip, the islands of Venice. Tick-tock, And commuting is a bit wearying. You can walk though St.Mark's Square late at night if you're staying a couple of vaporetto stops away. We found a tiny AirBnb apartment in the middle of everything for less than a hotel would have been. Part of the fun for us is the immersion in places like Florence or Venice, where every corner is a postcard. We get to live out the lil fantasy of actually residing in these places, imagining daily life.

Like the airfare, we booked and paid for our Airbnb's in advance, at least partially. In the midst of our planning AirBnb began permitting lodgers to pay 50% upfront, then the remainder a few weeks before travel. We were able to take that option with two of our gigs. AirBnb has a huge range of refund options, depending on the property. You have to read up. We only had one with a strict policy, in San Sebastian. I started to waver on that leg of the trip a couple weeks before going, but the room at that point was non-refundable, so we went ahead- I am so glad we did. You have to consider your need for flexibility.

AirBnb would like you to believe that theirs is a person-to-person service. Occasionally. In Europe tourist apartment rentals have been big business for a long time. In many cities the established guest apartment businesses just became 'superhosts' on AirBnb, with multiple properties and a staff that does the direct client contact. Initially, I found this folksy insincerity off-putting but now I understand that this is part of doing business. You're also expected to review your host and they review you (double-blinded). Until we got to Venice, we wrote innocuous commentary but honestly, we had only had great experiences.  Our Venetian stay did not end well, and our host's review of me has had me rethink my approach.

outside of Ca' Nene, our Venice AirBnb

The place in Venice was a tiny ground-floor apartment near the San Toma vaporetto stop on the Grand Canal.  We were not met by our host, Elisa, but by Luca, her contact person. We now recognize this as standard in European tourist settings. Luca led us back through the alleys to our place. Wow. The ad said it was small and indeed it was. But who needs space when you have Venice right outside your door? He then asked if we could get out early on our check-out, as they had a quick turn-around. We agreed, as we had plans in Ravenna on our check-out day. He gave us the instructions on where to leave the keys, etc.

We were happy if cramped in our lil place. One the third morning of our four we awoke to sleeping on a slight slant... A leg at the foot of the bed had buckled. I immediately contacted Luca to let him know what had happened. I told him I thought that we would be ok for our last night. He agreed, and said he would look at it when we had checked out. We scooted out to the train station at 9:30am.

I dutifully scrawled my review into my phone while on the train to Ravenna. We did love the location and while it was small it was fully appointed for our stay. 5 stars. A few days later Elisa had written my review, so AirBnb unblinded both. Elisa  had slammed me for leaving before they could review the damage. Ugly. And we had 3 more AirBnb stays planned... I did not want any trouble. Of course I had dealt with Luca. I wrote Airbnb to complain, then saw that they allowed for me to write a response. With all of the diplomacy I could muster I told our side of the story, offering a chance to review the time-stamped text exchange with Luca. And that was that. We later were advised that Elisa's response is very Venetian. Venetians can be very haughty in business and have quite the reputation...

Split- Our kitchen window opened onto the flowery balcony

The places vary tremendously. In Split we stayed in a one-bedroom apartment in the middle of Emperor Diocletian's Palace, which functions as the 1500 year-old old town at heart of Split tourism. It was a bargain, probably due to the fact that they were restoring the stone courtyard facade. We entered and exited up and down stone stairs covered in scaffolding and draped with plastic. Our living room windows opened onto one of the main alleyway thoroughfares of the Palace. It was initially overwhelming but eventually it became a hugely convenient base of operations. The host had the 'cleaning person' let us in hours early. We later ran into her on a walk along the beach. More than being the 'cleaning person' I think she was the actual owner, a retired physician, now an artist, based on an opening announcement I found in the apartment.

Onderreta Beach, San Sebastian

I noticed that we didn't take any pictures of our home in San Sebastian. San Sebastian is an old-world resort town and in June not cheap. When I booked our accommodation I wanted wanted to be near someplace interesting and needed parking. Our AirBnb fit the bill. We were located in Onderreta, a cool beach neighborhood south of the center city. It was a sub-basement apartment, with parking in a garage right next door-- all as advertised. On arrival it became clear that this wasn't your average apartment. Apartment doors in the tidy building had a wood-finish with wide wood molding. Our door was a standard steel frame fire door. Inside, we had a full set of windows which opened onto the courtyard. It was essentially a studio apartment on the main level, sans bath. The bath was an upper level, a few steps up. That brought the ceiling to 6', and the doorway to 5'6". Both Mark (5'9.5) and I (6'3) thumped our heads numerous times on the first day. Eventually you do learn when to duck. We concluded that the 'apartment' is a storage space conversion and maybe illegal. The mattress was uncomfortable, too. The parking set-up was brilliant, however.

AirBnb has become a huge issue in tourist-overrun European capitals. Amsterdam is on the verge of banning them in the city center, and restricting them elsewhere. Many other cities are taking action to limit them, as they suck up available housing and bring in people who don't always respect the community and culture. One Amsterdam friend, who pays handsomely for a pair of parking places, has found them occasionally appropriated by AirBnb clients in his building. He had little recourse. In some cities you have to fill out registration paperwork on arrival, as you would at a hotel. The host often pay lodging taxes. This is a dynamic environment, and I expect there will be more limitations on capacity and availability.

Our last AirBnb stay was Edinburgh. We were to be there for 48 hours and opted for a room in an apartment instead of our own place. It was a perfect fit- Adam's place was a condo in a converted brewery, a block off the Royal Mile. We could insert ourselves into and extract ourselves out of Scottish tourism at will. Adam was genial- a veterinarian for the Edinburgh Zoo who began renting his place out for some extra cash during the annual Edinburgh Festival, and just stayed in the game. Many of the condos in his complex are being used as guest accommodation. Adam said that the AirBnb market has provided needed competition to the high-priced Edinburgh hotel market. 

We did only stay the one night in a hotel. We were going to be in Ravenna for one night, arriving and departing by train. I think I used booking.com, relying on a map. We opted for a cozy 3-star hotel across from the station-- a short walk with the bags. Ravenna is a small city, eminently walkable. We were able to see the impressive mosaic-filled sights all on-foot and ran into a local pasta festival for dinner. Staying in a hotel is a lot less hassle, but usually a little pricier. Anything is cheaper than Venice. We were able to check out in the morning then wander the city a while longer with our bags secured in the hotel office.

In the two-berth stateroom, SNAV ferry from Ancona

We then boarded a train to Ancona to begin our one other housing option-- a stateroom on the overnight trans-Adriatic ferry to Croatia. As Mark sleeps with a CPAP machine, I opted to drop some cash on a room so he could plug in and try to get some quality sleep. My justification was that 1) the ferry was relatively cheap as travel, city to city; and 2)we would have paid for a place to stay that night if we flew. It was a great decision and I recommend the whole experience.

Our vacation, away from our friends, was just 16 nights, like a big vacation. Our costs for the two of us came in under $90/night. You can do Europe cheaper, hostel-style but we were staying our way and it completely worked. It was almost entirely prepaid before we traveled. I would do all of it again. 

My next Travel Mechanics entry will be about the joys of driving on the continent, with advice to do a better job than I did with car rental.

Let There Be Haggis!

Let There Be Haggis!

Mmmm...haggis

We finally made it to our final destination in Europe.  Edin'brah, Scotland.  This was more of a two day layover. In Spain, dinner could start at 11 pm, we remembered that the UK slows down a lot earlier.  Kitchens are closed by 9 pm.  The city is pretty quiet by 10.

Arriving at the train station my first thought was, wow this place is white.  Some of these people could get a sunburn under a full moon.  I think the tall socks go with the kilt to minimize the area of exposure.  One guy in shorts had alabaster legs the color of a freshly thawed Butterball turkey.  These people made me look tan.  Ok, you get the point.

The high street in Edinburgh connects the castle on one end to one of the Queen's palace on the other end.  Along the way are the expected pubs, restaurant, and kilt sellers.  What kind of kilt do you want? Off the rack? Wool? Polyblend? Or even Custom.  Do you come from a clan?  Everybody has a book to help you trace your family name.  Stu's family come from the Crawford clan.  It is not a popular clan probably because the last of the Crawfords in Scotland had a fire sale and emigrated to America.  It is a perdy plaid, none-the-less.  There were also specialty shops that could custom tailor a wool 3-piece suit complete with jacket, vest, and well, kilt (duh).  They were quite dashing to see in the windows but at 900 or so dollars, you better look good.

I joked that we would see these nasty Toby Jugs on our trip.  They are caricature of people made into mugs.  Watch the British Antiques Roadshow.  They show up all the time.  Horrid things they are.  

Ugly Racism 

We were shopping I was dragging Stu from shop to shop to find something interesting to take home.  One shop had a Sikh man out front and my first impression was, oh God, foreign tourist trap.  Since every shop looked identical after a while, we stumbled upon his shop.  Remember, he was Sikh.  Britain, um, helped them run their country for a while, kinda?  Many Sikh had immigrated a long time ago, some multi-generational.  With his Scottish accent and much pride, he described the quality of his goods.  He explained why his wool was of higher quality, thus justifying the higher price tags.  He also told us about some good deals he had on one-off pieces he attained at good prices.  He pointed out the quality shops and told us where the junk shops were located on the mile.  He even defended the cheap Chinese-made shops.  Some people just want a cheap souvenir instead of the real-deal, he said.  He went on to say that if you want quality, it costs money.  He loved wool and loved to share his trade.  I started thinking, hey, I think I would look nice in a cap.  (In the end New Mexico won out over a wool cap.)  Every shop had foreigners working in retail with Scottish accents.  This man actually owned his shop.  Since he wasn't white, I had assumed he "wasn't authentic"--whatever the hell that means.  Sigh. Always an opportunity to learn.

Stu's Crawford Clan Tartan

We got to eat a few meals in Scotland as well.  We went for Sunday roast.  By 4 pm, it was sold out.  I got the fish and chips, Stu pouted ordered the meat pie.  We ordered two non-alcohol beers called "Hee Haw".  We found the name amusing and I instantly thought about being trapped at grandpa's house on Sunday nights.  He watched Hee Haw. Every. Sunday.  The waitress asked us if we knew what hee haw meant in Scottish. We blinked and she said it mean you ain't gettin' nuttin' like what we havin' for tea, mum? You getting hee haw, now go to bed. I politely asked her about haggis. She said everyone who has had it has actually liked it--but sadly they were out of it as well.  Bummer.

I was at a car boot sale and it was marked 25p...

A joke sometimes maintained is that a haggis is a small Scottish animal with longer legs on one side, so that it can run around the steep hills of the Scottish highlands without falling over. According to one poll, 33 percent of American visitors to Scotland believed haggis to be an animal.  In reality it is sheeps 'pluck' a minced combination of heart, liver, and lungs with spices. One article describes a conversation with a chef  "...Leave the windpipe out of the pan to disgorge the phlegm.”  Oh---and boil it in tripe. Mmmmm.

Santa was one BAAAD dude!

The next day we ate at the home of Scotland's best scone, a cheese scone.  Stu ordered one with butter.  I opted for the cherry one with clotted cream and jam.  It is so hard to find a passable scone in the States.  These were amazing. For dinner, we both had fish and chips.  See a pattern?  We also had....a haggis starter.  It was now or never baby.  It arrived on a small round of mashed potatoes. It was dark and minced.  We both picked up our forks like we were concerned about our culinary growth.  If the guys on the Discovery Channel can eat bugs, surely I can eat the stuff rescued from skips.  We waited to see each others reaction.  We didn't die. Stu thought it was ok.  I really liked it--probably because the similarities to its contents were ground to bits.  It had a strong taste of peppercorns.  I ordered it on a pulled pork sandwich the next day.  Yes.  I'm a badass.  Our host told us vegetarian haggis is quite good.  I am going to try to make it.  I can see where root vegetables and grain would work with the peppercorns.

Christ in the House of Martha and Mary by Vermeer.  One of only 34-37 known paintings!

To play tourist, we decided on the National Gallery and the Castle.  The National Gallery was free and absolutely amazing.  The entire collection was strong including a Vermeer, three Raphaels, a couple Degas and the Gaugin masterpiece, Vision after the Sermon.  I just stood there staring at the painting.  I had no idea it was hiding out in Scotland. I smiled. I started. I was happy. Stu texted me to ask where I was.  I responded, Still in the same room.  I remember the room also had a Van Gogh and a nice Sargent.  The collection was unexpected and delightful.

Gaugin, Vision after the Sermon

We went to the castle to discover they were giving something away for free. Well, at least it looked like that since it was so crowded.  The herd was activating my anxiety.  Maybe I could just call it $20 to get away from the people?  Once we were in the castle my anxiety and the crowd were more manageable.  I thought the experience was more enjoyable than the Tower of London.  The Tower was £27 over 15 years ago.  Like Star Wars, I had seen the entire Tower on TV before visiting it so there was nothing new except the crown jewels displayed briefly via conveyor belt.  I didn't know what to expect in this castle so everything was a surprised.  It was not nearly as grand but still a beacon of Scottish pride.  The building were arranged like a small maze and I constantly had to think if I had seen it before.  Stu said, yes you have. Over. And. Over. The first time (again) is always the best.

Barcelona, 8pm

Benvinguda a Barcelona!  

Ramon and Thor

That's how you say welcome to Barcelona in Catalan.  We pulled up at 8 pm.  I grabbed the bags and Stu returned the car.

Mark Says Hello to Ramon

I have not seen Ramon in years.  I took intensive Spanish 8 years ago and we last saw him before that. Typically, I can understand Spanish but can't generate it very well.  I just need practice. Lots and lots of practice.  Since Ramon speaks no English, we are a perfect match.  He also has a new mascota (pet) a hyper-active bulldog named Tor. (Actually it is like the god, Thor.  If you listen carefully, you can hear 'Ta-hor'--but in one syllable.)  How the hell do you make a dog behave in Spanish?  You know, like 'get down' or 'stop'.  Ramon kept barking commands at the dog and I was clueless. It turns out, the dog learned Catalan, not Castilian. He handed me keys and asked a friend to guide me to his apartment.  It has been years since I have been here.  What do the letters in the elevator mean?  The ground floor is "0", but there was not even a "0". Which door was it? It turns out it was the one with a feminine shopping bag.  It took me a while to get the keys in the door.  I sighed and went back to Ramon at the shop, already exhausted.  Even if I can say something thought provoking, I probably won't understand his response.  If you have read David Sedaris' Me Talk Pretty One Day, you understand my dilemma completely.  I successfully asked him about the flag and some friends but not much else.  I asked him about the weird name for the dog.  That is when he showed me pictures of "Thor" on the internet. Dios Mio.

Stu Returns the Car

Hi, it's me, Stu. I will write elsewhere, extolling the virtues of driving in Europe, but this is about last Thursday, 8pm. I managed to get both Mark and Ramon to agree to having me leave Mark and the bags at Ramon's place. I would then refuel and return the car to Hertz at the airport. I admit that I was leaving two guys together, with with imited language skills and a silly dog for an hour of two. I was hopeful that they could cope. Otherwise we would be needlessly schlepping bags back on the bus from the airport. Five and a half weeks in, I was over the luggage. Anyway, that was the plan.

This plan required that I get down off the highway and negotiate driving on the overcrowded streets of the Catalan capital, in their rush hour.  Ramon lives and works two blocks from Praça Espanya, a major urban epicenter-- think a major, multi-laned traffic circle, centered on a gorgeous gushing fountain. This was to be my Driving in Europe final exam, and I was going to do it with only my Android Auto navigation avatar to help. Mark was off discovering how adequate his Spanish was.

It only took two passes around the block to find a place right in front of Ramon's shop to unload.  That place actually was double-parking across four parked cars... but hey, I was living the chaos. Mark quickly unloaded and Thor, the silly puppy, jumped into the car to head-butt me. Just as the first of the four drivers I had been obstructing strolled up I was able to pull away, down Carrer Sepulveda toward the airport.

Praça Espanya, swirl is in my head....

200 meters later I was at the light that would then dump onto the swirl of Praça Espanya. Like all traffic circles, I entered at the '6-o'clock' position. I had to exit onto the Gran Via de Corts Catellana, the main thoroughfare toward the airport, at about 11 o'clock. Ms. Android Auto was chirping away but it was more like noise. I did a lot of work in Barcelona in 2001-2002 and had done this airport ride at least a dozen times, but now...

The light turned green, then the next light on the circle turned red... but I managed to get off onto the Gran Via without having to make a penalty lap around the circle. I was then moving toward the airport in solid traffic, constantly getting cut off by cabs, merging out of the bus lane. I moved over and was seemingly in the clear, moving at the speed limit toward the rental car return. Woo-hoo.

Ms. Android Auto interrupted my moment of masculine validation. There was a slowdown and she recommended another route. Suddenly I was less sure. I listened closely as she dumped me off the highway early and looped me around a long loop to the rental car return. Still I triumphantly pulled into rental car return, grabbed my pack and prepared to head for the airport bus back to Praça Espanya. As we were completing the paperwork I panicked- I forgot to refuel- an 80 euro fee error...

About this time I got a panicked call from Mark... what floor was Ramon's apartment on? That would be 13yr old data... I confessed ignorance and felt terrible... but Mark would not forgive me for paying the 80 euro fee instead of refilling the tank. The sweet guy at Hertz let me take the car back out. Here's where Ms. Android Auto completely screwed me, sending me twice to a phantom gas station on airport property... I eventually silenced her, opting for my own dead reckoning... There had to be a gas station somewhere nearby...

I drove a few kilometers south of the airport to a shopping center exit and found a fully automated gas station. After topping off the tank with 47 euros of fuel, I cruised back to Hertz where my attendant awaited, signing off on my fuel level and saving 33 euros. Mark, ever frugal, would approve.

I got on the Aerobus back to Praça Espanya more relieved than satisfied. I texted Mark, trying to act cool. He started describing the scene above... I think I still qualify for the Euro-driving merit badge, though I did lose a few style points.

Sagrada Familia, Barcelona

Sagrada Familia, Barcelona

I am jumping ahead since today is so fresh in my mind.  Some of these images are just too detailed so they may be off the page a bit.  I also stole the image of the altar because I wanted to share a good image of it. It’s my blog so I can do that.  Today was our first full day in Barcelona.  We have been here a few times so we both decided that walking around the city and checking out the progress on La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi’s vision for a Catalonian Cathedral.  The word gaudy comes from the name of the artist, Antonin Gaudi.  If you were not a fan of Gaudi I think you would say anything like: If it’s worth overdoing, it can be ridiculously overdone.  Like a lot of art, the world needed to catch up to the artist.

Painting with light

Gaudi was a deeply religious man who devoted his entire life to the glory of God.  He had some other amazing commissions but the cathedral became his raison d'être.  Upon his accidental death, he was honored by the city and buried in the crypt of the work site.  Knowing the church would never be finished in his lifetime, he prepared detailed plans for the completion of the project. Unfortunately, most of the plans were destroyed during the civil war. Well, it was impossible to re-imagine his vision so they decided to use a complimentary style with no similarities.

View of the palm trees

The ceiling of interlocking palm trees

I remember the first time I had seen an image of the tree of life side of the church.  Damn it seemed ugly. It looked like melting something.  In person years ago, it was awe-inspiring.  You just can’t take adequate pictures of the old side of the cathedral.  It is too big and there is too much detail for a picture.  There is so much movement in the stone.  It is quite busy to say the least.  Waldo of Where’s Waldo fame may be in the tree.

Gaudi’s passion and inspiration for the church was the glory of God through nature.  The entire structure is more or less a metaphor for life.  Nature is central theme.

Although the church was started over 100 years ago, they have picked up the pace.  They expected it to be completed by 2026.  I remember tearing up when I saw what was essentially a worksite 15 years ago.  The Passion side as well as the tree of life sides of the church were more or less complete but the interior required imagination.  Much of the current work is being done on the immense spires on the outside of the church so the scene within is closer to completion.

We entered the from the Tree side and notices a few small details before entering the church.  Walking inside we were greeted with light and tears.  We both started to cry.  How can something be this beautiful?  We were both overcome with what could best be described as a whiff of ecstasy. You do not know what to think, what to say, or what to do.  You are just overwhelmed.  The ceiling and columns are interlocking palm trees.  We saw how this was going to done but not the execution.  The stained glass created large soft swaths of colored light throughout the church.  It was so moving.  I also discovered being 50 has its privileges. When I shush, people listen.  It is like like a polite STFU.  We are in a soul-touching expression of God and people are loudly prattling on.  While we are at it, Daisy Dukes have no place in any church.  Yes, I’m that old.

On our last visit the altar was a construction site.  This time, the altarpiece was in place.  I can’t comprehend envisioning the design but it was also no surprise.  It is a hoop-like structure floating over the altar.  It has hanging lights and vines with grapes.  There is a medieval English Christmas tradition of building something somewhat similar from greenery.  It seemed to float in place.  In the photos it appears to tilt but that is only an illusion.  The ring is parallel to the ground.

On the outside they have added more spires and will ultimately have one in the middle that planes may hit.  It will be huge.  Perhaps I will live to see it completed in 2026.  I should be here but do we ever know?

Welcome to the Funhouse with Salvador Dali

Welcome to the Funhouse with Salvador Dali

Of course there is a crab on his lap

I was rewarded for waking up early by having enough time to travel to Dali’s hometown, Figueras, Spain.  The Google lady (bless her haart) kept directing us up and down small streets.  Initially she directed us the Dali Theater. While attempting to find parking, we came across a large building covered in bread and statues wearing baguettes on their heads. Oh, and giant eggs on the roof.  I guess we found it!

She is so wholesome

We had been to the Dali museum in Florida assembled from a Cleveland couple’s private collection. (What Cleveland wasn’t good enough?)  We were told the St. Pete collection was second only to the collection in Spain.  It is hard not to compare and contrast the two museums.  The museum in Florida explores the evolution of the artist.  Most people do not realize that Dali went through a deeply religious period.  The museum contains a few major religious monuments as well as some other strong pieces.

I know.  Those legs look good but no meat.

The museum in Spain is based on Pee Wee’s Playhouse or probably vice versa since Dali died before the show appeared on Saturday mornings.   The museum is billed as the largest Surrealist exhibit in the world.  Yup, no complaints here.  I can’t imagine anything comes close in scale or downright bizarreness. Is that a word, bizarreness?  It is now.  If you were to compare the museums piece by piece, I would say the Florida collection is actually stronger.  As an experience, the Catalunyan experience is quite the experience.  In the center of the building in a garden containing several structures that look like academy award statues surrounding a Caddy sitting above Dali’s final resting place.  If you put a coin in the slot next to the car, it starts to rain inside in the car like a wishing well with mannequins.  Yes, it’s that kind of place.  Freak.

There were other coin operated motifs as well.  One ball of fabric slowly opened up as Christ on cross.  Another was a dancing mylar crucifix with carnival music.  Each room was an opportunity to be amused.  The Mae West room was a masterpiece? I think, kinda sort of, defininely.  You walked into the room to see giant lips and other parts of a face.  When you climbed some stairs you noticed you were standing below her hairdoo.  In the middle of the platform was a lens.  The entire room came together as her face.  Freaky.  Inside here “head” was another display.

The artist was also probably a genius to in the true sense of the word.  There are some pictures that when folded create different images and when folded again create something else.  How do you plan something like that?  He was also an accomplished fine artist.  The man could paint.  In one room he played with styles that epitomize other artists in great detail like Matisse.

Overall, it was a surreal experience.  Exactly what he wanted.

It's like a tombstone, but you can drive it.

Big mouth!