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.