Tierra de Tortugas

Getting to Kino Bay

 BY AIR  

• A passport is required for reentry to the US. 

• Fill out the tourist permit application on the airplane before arrival at Hermosillo airport. 

• Rental cars are available at the airport, or…

• Catch the hourly ‘Costa’ bus on the main highway right in front of the airport. (Only some buses stop here. Don't believe the taxi drivers who tell you no buses will stop.) Cost +/- $5US; change buses at Miguel Aleman (also called Calle Doce), about mid-point of trip.

 

BY BUS 

• Large express buses depart from Tucson Bus Terminal. About 5 hours to Hermosillo; movies onboard. Cost +/- $35 one-way to Hermosillo. 

• "Super Shuttle" 13-passenger Mercedes Benz small bus between Tucson and Hermosillo. Around $40. The number in Tucson is (520) 807-4210. Carry your passport to reenter the US. Fill out the tourist permit application on the bus, before arrival at the km 21 checkpoint, south of Nogales. 

• Take taxi to Costa bus station for hourly bus service to Kino. Cost +/- $5US; change buses at Miguel Aleman (also called Calle Doce), about mid-point of trip.

BY CAR 

Meet the people, see the landscape, feel the mystery that is Mexico. We travel these roads on a regular basis without incident. It can be adventuresome to drive in Mexico because some things are done differently here. Just relax and make the most of it.

• Gasoline. Costs about the same as in US; available in Magna (regular) and Premium; no middle grade available. Diesel commonly available. Pemex stations are clean and well-maintained, with clean restrooms. Sometimes credit cards are accepted; usually they require cash.

• Tucson to Nogales, AZ on I-19. Few billboards, lots of natural landscaping, many scenic attractions (San Javier del Bac Mission, Tubac Presidio, Tumacacori Nat’l Hist. Park). All I-19 mileage markers are in kilometers.

(You can double click on any image to see a larger version.)

• Near the border. Large sign advises tourists that firearms and ammunition are prohibited in Mexico without special permits. 

• Truck Bypass exit. Take first Nogales exit on right, around kilometer (km) 4 or 5 north of Nogales. Clearly marked, but it's right around a bend behind a hill. Easiest way to enter Mexico, with least traffic. (Or continue to where the freeway ends in downtown Nogales and go through the old crossing.)

• On the Bypass exit ramp. Turn right; go straight to border. There are franchise restaurants and a Holiday Inn Express. Best to cross by 10:00 a.m. so you’re refreshed and have time to deal with paperwork and get to Hermosillo and/or Kino well before dark. If you need gas or diesel: large Shell station at the border on left just before you cross over from US side; large Pemex station on left about 10 to 15 miles south, just before the km 21 Tourist Checkpoint. 

AT THE BORDER

• Drive through the US side; don't stop at the commercial checkpoint on right for truckers bringing goods into the country. Follow the road bypassing Nogales, Mexico.

• First "Caseta de Cobro" (Toll Booth) on this road costs around 60 pesos. This one accepts U.S. money; you'll receive change in pesos), but you'll need pesos at the other Casetas and at businesses in Mexico. 

• ATMs - You'll get pesos at the official rate at any ATM (usually up to 3,000 pesos per day) by using your credit or debit card; there are ATMs in Kino, but you may get a lower transaction fee in larger cities like Hermosillo.  IMPORTANT: Amounts on the ATMs are shown in pesos, not dollars! Often, people punch in 300, expecting to get 300 dollars worth of pesos, and instead, they get only 300 pesos. The exchange rate is usually between 11 and 13 pesos to a dollar, so do your calculations before you punch in the number. And don’t forget your PIN – called a NIP (“neep”) down here. There's an ATM at the small branch bank at the first Checkpoint, where truckers pay duty.  

• The first Mexican checkpoint is NOT where you do your paperwork. As you pass through, chose the "Nothing to Declare" or "Nada que declarer" line. You will get a red or a green light (it's a random system). If it flashes red, they might ask you to stop so they can check your vehicle for anything illegal; or they can just wave you through. If they stop you, it's usually not a big deal. They look a few things over and send you on your way. Tip: At any checkpoint (US, Mexican, etc.) be relaxed and friendly; don’t offer too much; answer questions in a simple, direct way. Be pleasant and patient,  you have nothing to hide. A little friendliness and respect goes a long way, and can save you a lot of grief. 

 

THE TOURIST CHECKPOINT

The Nogales bypass road merges into Mexican highway 15. After about 11 more kilometers you’ll come to the Tourist Check-in Station. 

• STOP HERE TO GET YOUR TOURIST PERMITS. Process is not difficult but may seem confusing the first time; personnel are usually very patient and helpful.

• Hassle Free Zone. A large portion of Sonora is a ‘Hassle Free Zone,’ meaning you no longer need a temporary vehicle permit (with exceptions for tow vehicles and trailers). This zone, referred to as "Sonora Only" (Solo Sonora) extends past Guaymas and includes San Carlos, Hermosillo, Kino Bay, Magdalena, Santa Ana and points west. 

• If you plan to travel south of Guaymas (even though this area is still inside Sonora) or deeper into Mexico, you’ll need to get an All-Mexico car permit (available at this tourist check-in station and at the checkpoint south of Guaymas).

• If you’re traveling only in the Sonora Only free zone, you need:

1) Tourist Permits (Passport required). You must get a Tourist Permit! Tourists Permits are valid for 180 days, and there is a fee. However, IF YOU WILL BE IN MEXICO FOR FEWER THAN SEVEN DAYS, you will NOT need to pay the fee.  

2) Mexican car insurance for the time you will be in Mexico. For your own protection. Best way to be sure you are covered and get the help you need from Mexican authorities should you have an accident. Insurance is available at KM 21.

At this Tourist check-in area there is sometimes a very nice young person who speaks good English waiting to explain how to do everything. They don’t expect a tip, although you may wish to tip someone in the parking lot a dollar (or 10 pesos) to watch your car. There’s usually also someone who wants to wash your windows for 10 pesos.

THE ROAD TO HERMOSILLO

• Beware of SERIOUS, axle-busting speed bumps in almost every "area de poblacion." Warning paint is sometimes worn off! You are usually warned by a yellow sign with black bumps and the word "TOPES," (pronounced “toe – pays”) and indicating how many meters ahead. Often there are people selling interesting items at the topes, or collecting for a school or the ‘Cruz Roja’ (Red Cross). 

• Speed limits are in kilometers. Multiply by .62 to convert to miles. “VELOCIDAD MAXIMA 100 Kilómetros” means 62 mph; 90kph is about 55mph. (Easy method: divide km. by 5 and multiply by 3 to get miles. Example: 100 km/5 = 20 x 3 = 60 miles.) Honor the speed limits, even if others don't. It's easier to avoid the hassles.

• Green Angels. The State of Sonora has a program to help tourists who break down along the highway. The ‘Green Angels’ cruise this road, and the one to Kino, in green trucks loaded with many car parts (fan belts, spark plugs, etc.). They do their best to get you going again for free. 

• Mexican highway 15 to Hermosillo. Divided four lane toll road. At Imuris, a narrow sinuous road leads eastward through the mountains toward the mining town of Cananea and to the border at Agua Prieta, or Naco. The highway bypasses Magdalena de Kino; there is a Casetas de Cobros (Toll Booth) at Magdalena.  The next town is Santa Ana,  a good place to stop for a break or lunch. At the big intersection, bear left (a right turn takes you to Mexicali). At the top of the hill, on your right, the Restaurant Elba has good, inexpensive food; parking area with an attendant. 

Give him 10 pesos for watching the car. You can also get a car wash and oil change while you eat. The Elba Hotel, next door, is clean, comfortable, and inexpensive, with parking inside a well-lit fenced area. 

• Next stop, Hermosillo – about 90 miles away. Only a few small towns and Pemex stations (with clean restrooms) along the way. Highway is currently being upgraded. Be careful! Traffic volume is generally moderate, but there are currently no shoulders along this road. Slow down if things look tricky. 

• The toll road ends just a few miles before Hermosillo at the last Caseta de Cobro.

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SPECIAL TRAVEL DIRECTIONS AS OF AUGUST 23, 2011

Traveling south from Nogales to Hermosillo on the 4-lane toll road (el cuatro carriles), Mexican Highway 15:

(Note: Currently, there are several large road construction projects underway in Hermosillo. These instructions will take you on a well-paved bypass to avoid these areas.)

(Double click on the map to get a large, readable version on your screen.)

As you near Hermosillo, you come to the last toll booth (caseta de cobro) at approximately kilometer marker 16 - Km16. Pay the toll and go on through. Check your odometer here.

At Km15, you will pass the turnoff to MINAS PILARES on your right. Do not turn here.

Continue on past Km12 (+/- three miles from the toll booth) to the next right turn, which is clearly marked BLVD MORELOS. 

TURN RIGHT onto this new 8-lane divided highway heading west through a scenic area and go about 3 miles. Once through the hills, it curves south toward the city of Hermosillo. 

The first stop sign (not light) is at a round-about planted with cactus. TURN RIGHT (west) onto EL ESCALANTE and drive approx. five miles west until this street ends at a 'T' intersection. (There are several large supermarkets along this route; the Soriana stores are good places to stock up on food, drinks, and other items you might want while you are in Kino.) 

You will pass Ave. Solidaridad, with signs pointing left to Bahia Kino and the Aeropuerto. To avoid construction problems, DO NOT TURN LEFT ON AVE. SOLIDARIDAD. 

Proceed straight ahead past nine stop lights on EL ESCALANTE, to where it ends at QUIROGA. In front of you on Quiroga is a large junk yard/recycling area and an Hermo Gas business. Turn LEFT (south) on QUIROGA for almost three miles, past four stop lights. 

Before the fifth stop light, orange signs direct you to turn right (west) onto JOSE MENDOZA, toward the Airport and Bahia de Kino (Kino Bay). There's a large BODEGA AURORA on your right hand side. Go one block to a stop sign and turn left (south) on SAN AUGUSTIN DEL CAMPO. This will take you to GARCIA MORALES, where you will turn right (west) . 

This street becomes Sonoran Highway 100. It goes past the airport (which you'll pass on your right) and directly to Bahia de Kino. 

 A WORD ABOUT SPEED:

The route to Kino is heavily policed (especially on weekends), and you should stick to the speed limits. Be particularly careful after you turn onto Garcia Morales until you're past the airport. There are several school zones, and speed limits change back and forth from 60 to 45 to 40 (that's kilometers, not miles, per hour!). The police are notorious for stopping tourists here. So be careful that you are not vulnerable.

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Under normal circumstances, you can use this route through Hermosillo:

 WELCOME TO HERMOSILLO

• The highway becomes a wide tree-lined boulevard called BLVD. EUSEBIO KINO. It goes through the Zona Hotelera (Hotel Zone) and makes a long arc to the left toward the center of town. There are Bancomer, Banamex, and Banco Santander branches where you can pay your tourist fee (during the week) or get pesos at an ATM.

• When BLVD. EUSEBIO KINO curves left (and changes names), move to the right-hand lane. Watch for an overhead sign reading BAHIA DE KINO at the first street past the Carl’s Jr. (Yes, in Hermosillo!). Stay on NAYARIT until it ends, after about a mile. Move to the middle lane before it joins with BLVD. LUIS ENCINAS at an angle, then flow (like water) with the traffic. In Mexico, don't expect others to stop and let you in. It could happen, but it usually doesn't. Driving here is a competitive sport; you yield, you lose points. Drive straight west on BLVD. LUIS ENCINAS to Kino Bay. 

• At the intersection with BLVD. SOLIDARIDAD there are shopping centers on the left and right, if you need supplies before getting to Kino. 

• On BLVD. LUIS ENCINAS, follow signs toward the AEROPUERTO and onward to BAHIA DE KINO!

 

THE ROAD TO KINO 

It's best to leave Hermosillo no later than about 3:00 pm (4:00 pm in the summer) as the road travels due west; late in the afternoon the sun will be in your eyes. This road has recently been widened and repaved, so there are good markings most of the way. However, the middle line is sometimes very faint or non-existent and there’s often no white line along the edge (two common conditions in Mexico). When in doubt, it doesn't hurt to slow down, or even pull off someplace and wait till the sun goes below the horizon. Be careful and make sure your windshield is clean, inside and out. 

If it's late, you might stay at a hotel in Hermosillo and make a fresh start in the morning (good choices: the Hotel Bugambilia in the Zona Hotelera, the Hotel San Angel near Blvd. Solidaridad, and the Royal Palace, just past the Hotel San Angel.). 

The Kino road is straight across the desert flats, past a small volcanic mountain range, with a few curves along the way. There's a Pedro Domecq brandy distillery just outside Hermosillo. You’ll pass broad fields of vegetables, large vineyards, pecan orchards and orange groves. The road goes directly to Kino Bay, with side roads leading off to the north and south (including a back road to Guaymas at kilómetro 52). 

 

MIGUEL ALEMAN (CALLE DOCE)

The road to Kino passes through only one other town – Miguel Aleman, also called Calle Doce – a dusty, hard-working desert town with trucks and colorful little shops on both sides of the main street, people walking across the road, kids walking to school in uniforms and backpacks, cowboys, farmers – a real street scene. If you have time, take a short break and enjoy life in rural Mexico. 

There's an ATM in Miguel Aleman on your left at a Bancomer, about halfway through the town, and inside the Super Del Norte market. (We also have ATMs in Kino.) Across the street from the bank is a Santa Fe market with fruit, vegetables, groceries of all kinds, and a nice selection of wine and liquor. 

The drive from Hermosillo to Kino takes about 1 1/2 hours. The most comfortable speed is about 60 to 65 mph. The 2-lane road has very wide shoulders. Watch for people on foot or on bicycles on their way home from work, and don't be in a hurry.

 

BAHIA DE KINO

There is one stop light in Kino Viejo (the old fishing village). To the left is a Pemex station, with one of the ATMs. After the stop light, continue straight ahead and the road curves to the right up a small hill. The view from the top of the hill shows Kino Nuevo stretched out along a beautiful 7-mile beach with Isla Tiburon as a large mountain range backdrop in the distance. 

 

MILEAGE FROM the STOP LIGHT in KINO VIEJO:

• At 1 mile – La Playa RV Hotel on the left and La Posada Hotel on the right. 

• At 2 miles – Palapas (thatched shade shelters) line the beach, La Palapa restaurant and La Cobacha restaurant, all on the left. On weekends there will usually be lots of people and vendors at this spot. Drive slowly and watch for kids.

• At 2.6 miles – Tienda ‘Super Juliana’ on the right. 

• At 3.4 miles – Tacos Bar on the right, Posada Santa Gemma on the left. 

• At 4.1 miles – El Pargo Rojo restaurant, bright red, large sign. 

• At 4.5 miles – Casa Tortuga on the left, just past the Punta Chueca road. There’s a stone address marker (2645) on the garage, and "Casa Tortuga" on the wall to the left of our entry. We have two off-street parking spots in front.

• If you go past us, you’ll see the Super Bahia Kino grocery store at 4.7 miles on the right, and you’ll know you’ve gone too far!

 

WELCOME to BAHIA de KINO AND CASA TORTUGA!

 

Transatlantic 2011: Bilbao

On our last morning in Barcelona, we roll our bags through the city streets and savor some final 'Barça moments' on our way to catch the bus to Bilbao.

Soon we're passing through Aragón, with its 'solar and wind farms' and the famous wine-growing region of La Rioja, home to many of the fine bottles we've enjoyed in Spain.

 

The rolling hills of grape-laden vines are intriguing to the imagination, but we make no stops for wine tasting. And I'd rather do that in the evening anyway, at a sidewalk cafe over a fine table laden with delectables. 

As we near Spain's northwestern coast, a cloud cover hangs over the mountain range standing distant to the north.  

   

Finally we leave the dry lands and fertile desert valleys of central Spain and pass through a scenic cleft into the rain-blessed Basque country. The landscape is suddenly greener, the hills tree-covered, the air misty. One understands that there might well be basic differences of perspective between the peoples who live on different sides of these mountains.

From the bus station, we wheel our luggage onto the closest Metro train and debark somewhere across town. Then it's onward downhill through a light drizzle to our hostel on the banks of the Ría de Nervión. After settling into our room, we head out again, to a semi open-air family-style place for chicken, fries, and a large pitcher of beer.

Besides the rain and the sudden appearance of street signs and political slogans in Euzkadi, Bilbao already has a very different feeling; it's a different kind of place than the rest of Spain. It feels instantly more Atlantic and far less Mediterranean. Not surprising, since we're now near the shores of the stormy Bay of Biscay, and far from the balmy Med. It appears we're in for yet another very different kind of adventure on our TransAtlantic sojourn.

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First things first. As with every place we've visited, there's the matter of taking a long walk to get the 'lay of the land.' Some of our first impressions are of the large panels of edgy graffiti endemic to this section of town.

Our hostel is in an older industrial part of the riverfront that appears to be redeveloping as something of an artist colony. Jane Jacobs (The Death and Life of Great American Cities, 1961) pointed out the value of older industrial areas as incubators for small businesses and arts areas. Artists need cheap space to renovate as studios and living quarters, and in the process they often take the lead in rebuilding the 'iffy' sections of cities. That's usually where we find ourselves billeted, in interesting areas where the cheap rooms are. 

(A few friends have asked how we could travel in Europe these days without going bankrupt. Cheap hostels and public transportation, that's how. We try to live like the average European and not stay in gilded digs, far from the realities of daily life. So far, it's worked well for us. The downside of rambling is not knowing in advance about those unknown wonderful and affordable little lodging places that each city has. The great ones in the guidebooks are already taken!)

Our hostel is maybe a mile from the center of town, on the other side of the river. A walk to the center takes us over one of several pedestrian bridges, into an parkland area of lush greenery along the river.

 Several beautiful older apartment buildings border the park and separate it from the moderate bustle of downtown streets, where there are also pedestrian-ways and squares filled with flowers. On a downtown corner we pass a bust of John Adams (!), who apparently spoke highly of the Basques at some point in his long career. 

The pain of joblessness is evident here as in most of Spain, and there's an encampment, or manifestation, along the riverside, complete with organic garden, beside a bridge into the narrow streets of the Casco Viejo, the oldest section of town.

There are posters in Euzkadi (which we can't read) and Castellano, stating, "It's not a crisis. It's a swindle!" and "It's not a lack of money. It's an excess of thieves!" Does any of this sound familiar, from a US perspective?

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  From there, it's a long, beautiful walk along the other side of the riverfront through tree-lined walkways, with fine views over the water into the city. We pass sculptures (including one awaiting assembly), bikeways, and a sweeping bridge by Santiago Calatrava, Spain's premier bridge 'Star-chitect' and large-scale sculptor.

So far we've seen his dramatic work in Buenos Aires, Sevilla, Lisbon, Barcelona, and Redding, California(!), and we've never failed to be impressed with the ingenuity of design and the sheer presence it gives to a city.

And then there's the Guggenheim. Ever since it opened in 1997, there's been plenty of hype about the Museo Guggenheim Bilbao by Frank Gehry. Architects are notorious for giving each other awards – sometimes even for famous failures like Chicago's Pruitt-Igoe housing project, immortalized in its destruction by the 1982 movie "Koyaanisqatzi"– with full orchestration by Philip Glass. I have to admit I was skeptical about the Guggenheim Bilbao. I was wrong.

The Guggenheim Bilbao is a very impressive piece of urban sculpture nestled into a bend of the river between two of Bilbao's eye-catching bridges. It doesn't tower, jarringly and out of context, over the skyline; rather, it nestles into the riverscape.

We catch a glimpse of the city-side entry down quiet Calle Iparraguirre, flanked by Jeff Koons' flower-covered "Puppy" sculpture. A second main entry embraces the riverfront, an important part of Bilbao's history. So which is the 'Main Entry?' It appears they both are as they share the same lobby – a thoughtful stroke of design in its own right. 

The titanium-tiled exterior walls (said to evoke herring scales) seem to work well in the gray atmosphere of this old port city, and carry into the interior, past large glass panes. Inside, the exposed supporting steel structure creates a sculptural lacework with an added complexity when viewed from different floor levels. It's been said that the building overshadows the artwork within. On our visit, this was largely true (unfortunately, no pictures are permitted inside the building). Yet it's easily worth visiting Bilbao just to experience the architecture of the Guggenheim. And not too surprisingly, its dramatic exterior has become a major 'photo op' for travelers.

The current exhibits (Summer of 2011) include a permanent installation of large pieces by Richard Serra (Does he make any small ones?!), European art from the chaotic period between the World Wars, and "The Luminous Interval" from the D. Daskalopoulos Collection, featuring some of the edgier artists of the first quarter of the 21st century. These are strong (and large) 'statements,' about the human condition. They challenge our perceptions of body, personal space, comfort, and society. But are they 'art?' And what is 'art,' anyway? Innovators are rarely embraced by the establishment. Even the now-famous Impressionists, Expressionists, Cubists, Modernists, etc. were derided in their time, but eventually accepted and lauded. So it is that some of today's artists will also be memorable, while others will be forgotten.

The exhibit included a piece by Martin Kippenberger, but I missed it. We saw a posthumous Kippenberger show at the Museo Thyssen in Málaga and I mostly remember images of a middle-aged, overweight, dissipated guy in his underwear. And, yes it was challenging.   

The French philosopher, Montaigne, said, "Each progressive soul is confronted at the crossroads to the future by a thousand men appointed to guard the past." That's not always a bad thing, especially for large buildings that may risk people's lives. Yet how essential is that when regarding 'art?' Is the debate worthwhile? Are we pole-vaulting over mouse manure here? 

On a personal basis there are practical considerations. Is it a huge piece that requires an addition to the house? Is it a convoluted three-dimensional piece that requires frequent cleaning? I like elephants, but I don't want one living in the house with me. In the end, will it pass the 'wall test?' Would I hang it on my wall?

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In contrast, and almost next door to the Guggenheim, stands the quietly impressive Museo de Bellas Artes – impressive for its art, if not its under-stated architecture. Here you'll find the classics (Murillo, Zurbarán, El Greco, Goya, van Dyck), the more contemporary (from Gauguin to Francis Bacon), and the great Basque sculptors (Oteiza and Chillida). So if you don't find what you're looking for at the Guggenheim, you'll probably find it in the next museum just a few steps up the river.

Meanwhile, there are big plans afoot in the region. The Botín Foundation has plans for a major arts facility in nearby Santander and has already hired Vicente Todolí, the former director of London's Tate Modern, to head its programming.

Íñigo Saenz de Miera, director of the Botín Foundation referred to “the perverse consequence of the success of the Guggenheim. The problem in Spain has been that everything has gone into having a great building, and often only then has there been some thinking about the content.”

The Santander project is conceived as part of a 'modern arts circuit' for northern Spain that would include venues in Bilbao, San Sebastián, Santiago and Avilés – another very good reason to visit the Basque country.

Also, the July 11 issue of El Correo (the local newspaper) reports that Bilbao is now a port city for MSC Cruceros line's "Opera" cruising liner. It's a modest-sized ship of 2000 passengers that serves mostly northern European tourists, and will hopefully visit many of these new art venues. They plan nine passages per season to Bilbao's Getxo (pronounced "getcho") port facilities. So 'getcho' buns on the ship and get to Bilbao! (But later, there's a report that the MSC "Opera" broke down in the Baltic and had to be towed to port. The passengers were off-loaded and given chits for a future passage.)

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A few extra tidbits: 

In Morocco we saw few pets – mostly just some scrawny cats left to fend for themselves. Most Moroccans seemed to have more important things to do with their money. And in Portugal, we rarely saw pets. But in parts of Spain (and previously in France) we find numerous 'sidewalk logs' – of the dog variety. Best watch one's step while out walking in certain European cities. (Unlike the scatological character played by Eliot Gould in Jules Pfeiffer's movie, "Little Murders," a parody on 1960s NYC life, we'll spare you photographs. You're welcome.)

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Carolyn was scanning the obituaries (No, I don't know why.) and found that most Bilbainos seem to live to their 80s or 90s. Every day we see people out running, walking, riding bikes, and simply enjoying life in this charming small city. Overall, people seem to live fully and well in Bilbao.

This has been a busy and adventurous Summer for us. We have explored several countries, traveled thousands of kilometers, and visited seven of Spain's major cities. Still, some friends may ask, "You didn't get to Córdova?" or "What about Segovia, and Toledo, and Valencia?" or "Surely you didn't miss San Sebastián and Pamplona! How could you!?" 

Those are all places we'd love to visit, but our pesos are limited. And after so much time on the road, a kind of rootlessness takes its toll. The time has come to make serious headway back to New Mexico for a couple of weeks with family before heading back south of the border to quiet Kino Bay.

But before that, we'll catch a cheap flight (on RyanAir) to London for a few days. Then we'll hitch a ride back across The Pond on the Queen Mary 2. So our ridiculous adventure will continue for a bit longer. Please bear with us.

 

Transatlantic 2011: Barcelona

We arrive early at Madrid's gorgeous old Atocha station, and enjoy a light breakfast at a Starbucks-like café. This is probably one of the busiest train stations in Europe and it's about the size of many airports. When the city expanded the original station they converted the classic towering old waiting room into an arboretum, a sort of indoor forest that includes a turtle pond. The turtles are a big hit with waiting children – and their thankful parents. In the modern new section there are shops of all sorts, selling everything from food to clothing.

Departure time arrives, and we head for our waiting AVE train. The name stands for Alta Velocidad Español. They're very comfortable way to travel and they look like lozenges, designed to split the air at very high speeds, if not to fly. 

We're in luck. This time we have great seats, with no support post to block the view. I lean back to absorb the sweeping vista of Spain that drifts past my window as we accelerate to 300 kph (about 180 mph). Life is good. We slice easterly across the dry and harsh deserts of La Mancha carved by a few fertile valleys and small towns – the land traveled by Don Quixote on his misbegotten adventures. I can relax, gaze out the window, and dream of my own 'castles in Spain.' 

Along the way to Barcelona we pass small desert cities and the occasional ruined farmhouse. Is it semi-recent? Medieval? Roman? Pre-Roman/Lusitanian? It's hard to tell. Probably some of each – built on a 3000-year-old foundation, using scrounged Roman stones, and medieval roofing tiles. The history here is amazingly deep and it pervades the life of the average person. Maybe many don't realize it, or even care, but it's literally part of their DNA.

A voice from the seat behind me asks, "Señor. Habla Español?" 

I say, "Sí, pues (Yeah, some)."

He wants to close the blind because it's hurting his eyes. 

It hurts his eyes? What are the chances? I finally get a great seat, and this guy ends up sitting right behind me wanting to close the blinds? Hey, I want to see the countryside. I can't take pictures with the blind down. He pulls the blind down. It's a kind of screen cloth through which you can still see some of the view, but not much. It's a major annoyance. He says, 'You can raise it when you need to take a picture.' 

It's enough trouble trying to get a picture from a speeding train window without having to deal with the shade. But I don't want a hassle here on the train. I take a deep breath of resignation and remind myself there are people in the world with real problems. I'll just have to deal with it.

There's an empty seat beside him. He lays over, curls up, and he's out. I raise the screen and enjoy the view. We pull into the station at Zaragoza and he wakes up. After we leave the station, he lowers the screen. Carolyn says, "Caballero, do you know how far we've come to see the landscape of Spain?"

We ride along in silence for awhile. Then he raises the screen and says he's decided to go to the bar car. We try to smile at each other.

A little later, he returns with a magazine about Spain as a gift for us. He explains that he was up most of the night in Madrid, then his buddy got their train tickets messed up. He spent hours dealing with that mess. Now he's exhausted and has to be back at work in Barcelona. We find out he's an architect. He makes notes in our Lonely Planet book and even more on a napkin – a list of all the things we need to see during our visit. Then he gives us his phone number if we need anything while we're in town. Everybody has a bad day now and then. Carolyn's appeal to his 'Caballero' side paid off.

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After our arrival, we check into a simple but decent hostel, and then dinner is in order. We wander the broad streets and find a good place to enjoy yet another good bottle of Rioja, as the heat of the day segues into nighttime. Gradually, it settles in: We're actually in Barcelona! This is one of the world's great cities for eclectic design and architecture. I've been wanting to visit this city for years, to enjoy its evening café society, to walk the fabled La Rambla to the sea, to wallow in the bizarre architectural essence of Antoni Gaudí. I hope I haven't constructed an impossible 'mental wonderland' that can't be fulfilled. For now, we relax and enjoy our first wonderful evening in 'Barça,' while we look forward to tomorrow's explorations.

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The strains of a distant jazz trumpet are drifting in through our open balcony door at the Pension Nevada as I take a few minutes to put down some early thoughts about this intriguing city. Our balcony opens onto a narrow alley named Carrer de Montsió which is just off the Avda del Portal de L'Angel, a wide pedestrian way lined with shops. Somewhere out there, maybe a block away, there's a small combo playing for Euros as hundreds of people drift by. The band finishes a tune and the crowd cheers. If I were among the throngs, I'd gladly add another Euro to the till.  

At night, we leave the balcony doors open and the continuing general rumble of life three stories down lulls us to sleep. We hear couples trailing home along the narrow alley after another good night in the renowned clubs of Barcelona, and it all blends into an endless general 'city murmur' that I find restful. The muted sounds of distant music drift in, the clink of dishes from Els Quatre Gats (the modern version of the old Picasso hangout) just down the block, the crescendo of soft voices and fragments of conversation as people pass below then fade on into the night. That's how it works after midnight anyway, after the very loud late night garbage trucks have finished their rounds. Better midnight than 6am. 

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The famous La Rambla, a wide tree-filled pedestrian way with a narrow traffic lane along each side, is one of the city's 'don't miss' experiences.

The street is crowded with people enjoying the day. There are stands selling some very interesting art, but we can't buy any art while backpacking through the Iberian Peninsula, so we avoid even looking in that direction. There are beautiful flowers for sale, and fragrant potted herbs. The delicious smell of plump basil leaves wafts our way and Carolyn wishes she had a kitchen. One of the problems of constant travel is that you eat lots of restaurant food. It's good restaurant food, but it ain't really 'home cookin,' no matter what the signs say. If we were here for a month, we'd rent a cheap apartment and cook in now and then. That worked out very well in Buenos Aires a year ago, but it's not happening this time.

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We're headed toward the harbor but soon get sidetracked by a glimpse of the charming old Mercat de la Boqueria down a crowded side street.

It's only a block away, and it draws us like a magnet. All that wonderful food whispers, "Lunch time." to us. There's a crowded stand by the door with a case full of delicious-looking items, but we can't even get close to it. We decide to press on, deeper into the Mercat, and find a nice quiet stand with plenty of good, simple things to choose from. It looks like a mother-daughter operation and we order plates of goodies, and two small beers. Behind the counter are liquor bottles, and we could have had a hard drink if we'd wanted. It's a little too early in the day for that, but liquor seems easily available here in most cafés and restaurants. Yet, we don't see lots of drunks walking the streets. Maybe all that Puritan stuff we grew up with was overstated. I'm just wondering. 

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We wander the waterfront, enjoying sailboats, ships, and all the playful public art. We pass one of many 'Borrow a Bike' stations and plenty of scooter parking, just like those we saw in Sevilla and other cities. Imagine the mess if all those people drove cars!

Then we take a different route back toward our hostel through the narrow medieval lanes of the Barri Gótic and La Ribera. At first glance, a few passageways look a bit spooky, but we soon find hidden art galleries, enticing restaurants, and edgy hair salons.

Carolyn decides not to explore her 'Goth side' with a new cut, and we continue through the warren. 

We enter a small plaça housing the Palau de la Música Catalana, one of Barcelona's Modernista treasures. It was designed by Doménech i Montaner, a contemporary of Gaudí, to celebrate great Catalán composers. I knew nothing about Catalán composers, but there would be a piano concert that evening in memory of a Catalán composer named Frederic Mompou and his pianist wife, Carme Bravo. We buy two tickets.

  The piano soloist is named Marisa Gupta, and she's an impressive interpreter of the music, having been a Fullbright Scholar and playing with symphonies in Houston, Berlin and London's Royal Academy of Music, along with a variety of famous musicians. She throws herself into the music of Mompou's "Impressions of Muntanya," which has modernist echoes of Ravel's "La Valse" and the music of Satie. I'd never heard the music of a Catalán composer before, but I was intrigued.

After a short break, she plays Chopin's entire Opus 28. It's a 2-hour concert. All of it played from memory – no sheet music, nobody standing by the piano flipping pages. Just her and the ivories. It was very impressive.

OK, I admit I don't know enough about Chopin's Opus 28 to recognize if she made stuff up along the way. And anyway, I'm always up for a bit of 'jazz improv.' But there were old guys in the audience with white mustaches and thick glasses, looking like music professors and watching her every move; they applauded at the end and nodded their approval. 

Yet I couldn't help wondering about the two young ladies sitting to my right, who somehow looked like budding young pianists themselves. Were they impressed. Or maybe intimidated? On the way out the door, did they whisper, "Ya know, my father might be right. Maybe I will go into engineering, after all."

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There's an El Corte Inglés store half a block from our hostel. It's a Spanish chain of large department stores, like Sanborn's in Mexico, or Dillard's in the US. Although we've seen them all over Spain and the Canary Islands, we've never been inside one so we decide to take a look. Carolyn soon spots the Desigual clothing section. It's time to buy a new dress. I wander away, one floor up, to the book section, where it's safe.

Desigual is a Spanish company, started in 1984 by a Swiss guy. Since then, it has grown in amazing spurts, including 60% annual growth from 2002 to 2009. In 2009 revenues were 250 million euros, jumping to 435 million euros in 2010. They have a design philosophy based on "Positivity, tolerance, commitment and fun," and they produce high-design, off-the-rack goods at an affordable price. They're based in Barcelona.

Ever since Carolyn saw our friend Catherine wearing a Desigual dress in Kino Bay, she's wanted one. She saw their stores in Tenerife, Málaga, Sevilla, and Madrid, but didn't want to drag more clothing around the continent. She's also a committed second-hand shopper and was having trouble with the concept of 'buying retail.' Now that we're nearing the end of our Spanish Sojourn, she lightened up and bought herself a Desigual dress. She'll look great on our return cruise across the Atlantic.

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  In Europe's charming older days they had Guilders, Marks, Franks, Lira, etc. Now it's all Euros. Pic 45 The Euro economy has undoubtedly helped make the entire continent more efficient as each country no longer needs to print and manage a separate currency. And cross-border travel and trading is a lot easier now without all those border guards. Euro paper money is now consistent throughout the entire area, although the coins are imprinted with the country of origin. Mostly we've had coins reading "España" or "Portugal." The EU is having a few problems these days, but overall the union is probably beneficial.

I find a 2 Euro coin in my pocket with "Lëtzebuerg" printed on it. Miriam, our German hostal host in Barcelona, doesn't recognize it so I Google the name. The tiny country of Luxembourg has three official languages: German, French, and "Luxembourgish." Lëtzebuerg is the country's name in Luxembourgish. The IMF says the 500,000 'Lëtzebuergers' have the world's highest GDP per capita. It's rumored they also have the world's highest external debt. Is there a correlation here? Have they borrowed too heavily to throw this party we call Modern Europe? Maybe I don't want to know.

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Thursday is our 'Gaudí day.' By nightfall, it will have been a grueling experience. We walk to the Sagrada Familia shrine, about a kilometer away, and arrive at 10:30 a.m. (Hey, it's Barcelona; we were out late the night before). There's a ticket line stretching around the corner and down the block to see the "most visited site in Spain," according to Lonely Planet. The building is an ongoing construction project that began in 1882 (Gaudí took over in 1883) and is ongoing today. People are sitting at a cafe across the street watching the work crew finish the building. They'll probably be sitting there for about 30 more years.

   The line is not moving. We decide to head for the Gaudí works at Park Güell, instead. It's a considerable uphill hike from the Sagrada Familia, but there's a Metro station nearby. We buy two tickets and then take a look at the large Metro wall map. There's no mention of Park Güell. It's one of the city's most famous sites. We can't believe it's not on the map. 

We look again at the map. It's not on the map. We find it on our large, folded-up, pocket map, and see two stations that are not really 'close-by.' But we're still young; we can walk from the closest station. We get on the Green Line train and get out where a nice older gentleman tells us to. At street level, there are no signs pointing us to Park Güell. We look at a few street signs and figure out roughly where it is from where we're standing – mostly uphill, of course – and we start walking. Soon, it's all uphill. There are still no signs pointing to Park Güell. So much for helpful nice older gentlemen.

The street segues into steps, then we come to the end of the pavement. We're in a park of some sort, a kind of urban wilderness with dirt hiking trails. We keep going. We come to an overlook where I expect to find those famous tile-encrusted benches that Gaudí built more than a century ago. We approach the edge with its magnificent view out over the city, and the Gaudí plaza is way below us.

We climbed over more hills than we needed to. Good thing we're not lame. Yet.

It's a wonderful Sunday in Park Güell and from our vista point we can see the place is crowded. We walk downhill toward the famous plaza, across bridges in a style that we use to call 'free-form' in the 1960s. They seemed daring and innovative back then; through older eyes, they tend to resemble molded excrement. Sorry, I just don't know how else to describe it. Soon we're at the famous overlook with the Gaudí benches, and we wait for a chance at a few photos. It's very crowded and everybody else has the same idea. We relax and wait our turn. 

The benches, stairways, and gates are actually quite remarkable and still gorgeous after 100 or so years of wear. The entire park has many good photo opportunities, and there's a kind of carnival atmosphere that adds to the day. Far below, we can see Sagrada Familia's distinct form against the skyline. It beckons us to return. 

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According to our map, the closest Metro station to the Park is more than halfway back to Sagrada Familia. It's all downhill, so we decide to skip the Metro and walk. We arrive back at Sagrada Familia around 4:30.

By now the line is manageable, so we get two tickets to see the shrine, and pay extra for the lift inside one of the towers to a vista point near the top. The ticket-seller tells us our turn at the lift is scheduled for 6:30. That will give us plenty of time to study the amazing (and somewhat zany) work on the ground floor. We find two chairs and relax. Soon we're snoozing in the church while a concert of tourist-babble and foot-shuffle goes on around us. Piped-in organ and choir music weaves through the din, punctuated at the hour by the pealing of bells. The random staccato of hammer-drills adds a modernist counterpoint as the construction project continues around us. I snooze through the noise.   

Soon it's time for the lift. It's small and we're jammed in with several other people, but then the door opens high over the city for a true 'wow moment.'

There are ants crawling on the sidewalks far below, and toy buses. After a few moments at the top to breathe in the view, we start our the long winding descent down the narrow stairway. The winding, and rail-less (!) stairway is the only way down. (Note to Staff: Please send someone up to wipe down the years of 'hand grease!')

It's quite the experience, with view portals and small balconies here and there on our way back to earth. There are so many places to take a good photo that small memory cards may not hold it all. At closeup, the stark and angular sculptures by Josep Subirachs pierce the sky. Back at ground level, columns, vaults, and ceiling intersections create patterns that mesmerize and grow, plant-like, from the earth. This is such a fantastical and Modernist construction that it's sometimes hard to believe that Gaudí died in 1926 (!).

Just because you're insane it does not mean you're destined to become a great architect. But it probably couldn't hurt. As he grew older Antoni Gaudí became more and more of a religious fanatic, driven to finish his masterpiece. It now generates a tremendous cash flow in ticket sales and merchandise and, at the present rate of construction, it may well be finished within a hundred years of his death.

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Unfortunate translations always bring me a chuckle. During our Spanish sojourn we've encountered such menu items as, "Crashed Farm Egg with Truffles," "Iberian Cheeks Casserole," and Duck Breast with Pear and Outbreaks." It's a good thing we're not squeamish, but I don't recall actually ordering any of those items. Especially the 'Iberian Cheeks.' 

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Our time in Barcelona is drawing to a close, and there's much left to see. (Note to self: Watch Vicky Cristina Barcelona again, and pay closer attention to the architecture.) We find our way to the Museu Picasso (well hidden in the alleys of the Barri Gótic) for yet another dose of the world's most famous contemporary Spaniard. He spent some of his early years in Barcelona before moving to Paris, and the city remembers him well. After Franco became dictator he did not return to the country of his birth. Still, some of his formative moments occurred here, hanging out at Els Quatre Gats with fellow artists, poets, and philosophers during the heady early years of modernisme. Just down the alleyway outside our balcony is the restaurant's lamplit doorway, or at least the modern version of it (the famous original failed around 1915).

We wandered into the new Els Quatre Gats early in our visit. The food was good, but we mainly remember the kitchen staff trying to make as much noise as possible while sorting flatware in the adjacent room. It was ear-splitting and we didn't linger over a second glass of wine. 

Only after seeing his work in numerous museums on various continents do you realize just how productive Picasso was. He worked continuously and rarely took any time off. He also kept much of what he produced, since money really never interested him. He experienced great success early in life and had more money than he knew what to do with. At his death, there were around 50,000 pieces in his estate to be allotted to his heirs and various other claimants. That's why there's probably no major museum in the world without several representative pieces done by this amazingly prolific artist who dominated his field for much of the 20th Century.

Barcelona's Museu Picasso (no inside photos allowed) has his massive Las Meninas studies from 1957, based on the famous Velazquez piece hanging in the Prado. These pieces, done at the same size as the original, show almost every possible re-interpretation of the masterpiece that Picasso could imagine. There are several rooms at the Museu devoted solely to these very large pieces.

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After leaving the Museu, we pass a small market filled with beautiful vegetables. It's time to enjoy a very simple, and cheap, dinner in our room. Sometimes there's just nothing better than some good cheese, sliced fruit and vegetables, with a glass of fine wine while looking out our balcony window to the alleyways of Barcelona. 

We wrap up our Barcelona stay with a fast walk to a few more famous architectural sites – Gaudí's graceful Casa Batiló, his heavy-handed La Pedrera, and the unfortunate 'wire haircut' that Antoni Tápies installed on the roof of his studio.

Then we enjoy yet another savory dinner at an outside cafe accompanied by yet another fine bottle of Rioja as the evening spreads out against the sky. We're in no rush to leave this unique city.

But in the morning we'll leave for our last Spanish encounter. Although we'd like to stay longer in Barcelona, we're looking forward to the Basque city of Bilbao and it's famous Museo Guggenheim.

 

Transatlantic 2011: Madrid

From Salamanca, our train heads across the wheatfields, farmlands, and dry plains of central Spain toward a pass in the Cordillera Central, the rocky spine of the country. We're quickly into dry, high-desert forestland. On the descent, I get a glance at the famous palace of El Escorial as we pass through forests and villages. On our map, to the south of Madrid, I find the town of Aranjuez and I recall the beautiful strains of Manuel de Falla's "Concierto de Aranjuez." I seriously want to find a way to visit both of these places during our six-day stay in Madrid. But as it turns out, we will visit neither of them. We simply won't have the time.

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Madrid is a world-class city where it's all about the art, and the music. With a population of around 3.5 million and almost another 3 million in the area, Madrid is a large cosmopolitan city with all the offerings you would expect. We arrive at the large Chamartín train station and board the metro for the Antón Martin station. We emerge at street level and roll our bags down Calle de Atocha to our hostel. 

We'll be right near the center of things, only a few blocks from the Prado Museum and others. Along the way we pass graffiti and sex shops. Looks like an interesting neighborhood!

The hostel is surprisingly nice and near plenty of good restaurants. We relax for a minute or two in our room before heading out for dinner. Outside our second-floor window, we hear a protest march coming up the street. The protestors are followed by a small army of Policía. The Spanish middle class, workers and professionals, are under stress as prices rise and jobs disappear. We're seen protests all across the country as people speak out after years of terror under the Franco Dictatorship. Posters are taped to store fronts, denouncing pending deals with German banks. The storekeepers don't scrape them off. It remains an interesting time to be in Spain.  

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   After a short rest, we head toward Plaza de Santa Ana for dinner in fine Spanish style, at an outside cafe. Along the way, we pass music stores, jazz clubs, street musicians, street art, just about everything you'd expect in a great inner-city neighborhood. 

 

 

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 The food at one of the many outdoor cafes is wonderful. And so is the wine. A father is helping his young children navigate through the Plaza; they're dressed in cardboard box costumes and can hardly see where they're going. The smaller one stops to wave at me while I take his picture.

 

Carolyn buys a necklace from a Somali street vendor with a very pretty smile. 

Along one side of the plaza is a garishly-lighted building called The Penthouse. We don't know if it's Larry Flynt's headquarters or what. We find out later it's a popular nightclub. A guy rides through the plaza on a unicycle. I run after him and get a very blurry picture. 

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Another night we return this plazam and try another of then many outdoor restaurants.

This is Madrid! Every night is carnival time! Hemingway once wrote, "Nobody goes to bed in Madrid until they have killed the night." We're starting to understand.

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A visit to Madrid has to include the famous 'big three' of museums: the Museo del Prado, the Centro de Arte Reina Sofia, and the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza. They're all within a block of each other, and just a few blocks from our hostel.

In the morning we head directly to the Reina Sofía to see what may be Picasso's most famous work: his massive painting of "Guernica." Picasso did this work to commemorate Franco's brutal attack on this Basque village using aircraft from Hitler's forces. It was the centerpiece of the Spanish Republic's exhibition at the Paris World's Fair of 1937. 

The work itself is enormous – probably 10 feet tall and 40 feet long – and the room is filled with other people trying to experience it. The scene reminds me of standing behind a crowd straining to see the Mona Lisa at the Louvre about 20 years ago.

Picasso's work was often autobiographical, alternating between the joy and drama (and former wives and lovers) of his personal life. In her 1964 book, Life With Picasso, Francoise Gilot says, "… the woman whose large head leans out of the window and whose hand holds a lamp, is clearly based on Marie-Thérése. The rest of the painting, together with its preparatory sketches, is focused about the figure of a weeping woman. And Pablo often told me that for him Dora Maar was essentially 'the weeping woman.'"  

The museum has dedicated an entire wing to this painting and the series of studies that Picasso did before attempting it full-size. A dedicated art student could spend a day, a week, a month, going through all the Guernica material on display. It's one of the most important Modern Art exhibitions in the world, and a real coup for the Museo Reina Sofía.

Photography is not permitted in the Guernica area, but are allowed elsewhere. The rest of the building contains numerous galleries, with an impressive collection of Braques, Mirós, Dalís, Gris, and the other superstar artists of the period, along with many excellent but lessor known artists of Spain (Tapiés, Arroyo, Zuloaga, Chillida, etc.). 

In addition, the museum mounts challenging displays of some very edgy contemporary works. Among them is the penis-and-polka-dot influenced work of Yayoi Kusama. In interviews she says she's always had a penis fascination(!). She was an important figure in the 1960s New York art scene, and her art is wide-ranging in content and execution. A room filled with one of her hanging electrical works becomes an adventure to explore. She's now in her 80s and still producing the edgiest art in her native Japan.

Among the more interesting exhibits was a display of strong 1930s anti-fascist posters by John Heartfield and others. It was complimented by "A Hard Light, Without Compassion," a photographic study of workers and working conditions from the same era. The two exhibits make a powerful commentary on the times.

It's very easy to spend a day at the Reina Sofía.

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Outside in the plaza as we leave the Museum, a group of skateboarders has a large blue tarp spread on the concrete. As each young 'sidewalk surfer' crosses it a guy lifts a corner of the tarp, curling it over to create "the green room," as surfers call it when they're on a wave deep into the curl and the water tumbles over their heads. They were riding the 'pipeline' in mid-town Madrid. It was way cool. There were a couple of guys filming it. 

On our way back to the hostel I got some 'upper body workout' by lifting a building. Hoo boy! That felt good!!

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The next day finds us at the Prado. Of Madrid's three large and famous museums, the Prado is probably the largest. It is undoubtedly the most famous, holding most of the artistic treasures of Spain's rich history. A huge number of the paintings we've all seen in books and magazines are here. You could just reach out and touch them. And get arrested. 

The Prado is only a block or so from the Reina Sofía, down broad and shady Paseo del Prado. Statues of Velazquez and Goya greet us along the way. Inside are entire rooms devoted to both of these great artists, and dozens more. To say the place is absolutely filled with priceless works is to state the obvious. 

No pictures are allowed in the Prado, but we pass seven or eight 'copyists' in paint-stained tunics and standing at easels, patiently painting exact replicas from the originals. These are not youngsters. They're clearly master painters in their own right, and as I stand there briefly I can tell each brush stroke is filled with intent. Many of Spain's most famous artists through history, including Picasso, learned their craft from the legendary masters by painting copies of their works in much the same manner. I wonder idly how much a 'master copy' by one of these guys costs these days. And I regret not being able to photograph the juxtaposition of the modern copy painter with the centuries-old original. That would have been a good picture!

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Summer evenings fall slowly and gently over Madrid, embracing the city like a lush mantilla. We walk a few blocks to the Barrio de las Letras, where the woods of famous writers are enshrined in the pavement. 

 We're heading to the Café Central at the Plaza del Angel for a night of jazz with Susana Sheiman and the Ignacio Terraza Trio. We've never heard of them before, but that's because we're not really 'with it,' in a European sense.

We google her later and find out she's been a well known part of the Madrid jazz scene for years. And this city's jazz scene is considered to be among the tops in Europe. I don't know why, but we keep falling into really good stuff whenever we travel. It's very late when we leave and head back to the hostel through the cooling night.

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Another day, another plaza. We will only see a few of the dozens that Madrid has to offer. But one of them has to be the Plaza de la Puerta del Sol. 

All across Spain, the young have been taking a stand against the country's powerful elites who want to mortgage their future, and saddle them with debt and unemployment. The Indignados protest in Madrid has been the heart of the movement, and their encampment is in the 'Sol.' In true Spanish style, there's plenty of anguish and anger, mingled with a bit of fiesta. Along with the tents of protestors, public comment signboards, and information desks about the plight of Palestinians, an incongruous Mexican Mariachi band is playing for donations in one area of the plaza.

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A few blocks further on, we enter the Plaza Mayor, the heart of Madrid. It's a sight well worth seeing. But, as rich and imposing as it is, it's just not as impressive as the main plaza we enjoyed most evenings in Salamanca. Few plazas in the world compare to the majesty of the Plaza Mayor in Salamanca. 

 

We relax over a bad pizza (one of the few bad meals we're had on this trip) in the scenic and tiny Plaza de Canalejas and watch the crowds go by. Throughout the center city, buffed young guys are hanging out together. And some women are holding hands. But there's so much going on in Madrid all the time that the big gay and lesbian celebration just blends into the overall scene. There's a Gay Pride march near our hotel while we're there, but we manage to miss it entirely. As we sit there, fiddling with the pizza, a young Madrileña goes by in her finest red dress.

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Madrid's third big 'all-star' museum is the Thyssen-Bornemisza. It houses one of the greatest private collections of art in the world. My first encounter with the name was when visiting the Museo Carmen Thyssen in Málaga. Since then, the name has become very familiar as we see it on almost every escalator we ride in Metro systems through Spain. In Madrid, Carmen had her own wing added to the museum to display her personal collection. I wish I could say it was a magnificent addition to the beautiful old renovated palace of the original museum. Unfortunately, the new wing looks like a cheap hotel from the outside and makes no effort to relate to the older building. That would be fine if it were an important architectural statement in its own right, but it's not. We try to ignore it as we enjoy a wonderful lunch on the terrace among the flowers. 

On the inside, again (sigh), no pictures are permitted past the lobby. The walls are hung with astounding art. Think of any famous painter (Hans Holbein to Edward Hopper, Rembrandt to Rothko, Canaletto to Chagall) and you'll find their works here. This museum is an amazing gift to the public  from one wealthy family.

Our big regret was not having time to see the (extra charge) exhibit featuring Antonio Lopez. We saw very little of his work (a huge and unsettling child's head in the forecourt, and a massive torso in the lobby), but it only whetted our appetites for more. Apparently he's a very talented and productive artist who works in all media. From what we saw, he may well be 'the next Picasso.' We'll look for him in the future. 

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 That night – our last in Madrid – finds us enjoying a big bowl of salad in one of Madrid's many sweet little hole-in-the-wall cafés. It was only a block or so from the hostel and we don't even remember its name. Then it's time for a few drinks and jazz at the nearby Cafe Jazz PopulArt. 

I order a couple of scotches and the waiter says they don't have any, so I order something else. Before he returns I notice a bottle of J&B on the shelf behind the bar, so I tell him that's scotch.  He says it's all just 'whisky' in Madrid. I try to explain the difference between scotch and bourbon, but it's a very busy night and I soon realize how ridiculous the discussion is. So I shut up, sit down, and enjoy my drink. I'm actually an 'ecumenical drinker' and don't really care much one way or the other. Life is good. Don't sweat it.

The band is really hopping. The Canal Street Jazz Band has been a Madrid staple for a very long time. These guys have been doing gigs for about 40 years together. Carolyn finds an article about them in a Madrid magazine. Jim Kashishian (call him 'Kash') was stationed here in the US Air Force, and stayed on after his discharge. The rest are all Spanish, and they all love jazz. What could be better?

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We've had another very good day in Madrid, followed by another fine night. We could find plenty to do here for another week or two. Easy. But it's time to move on again. This time to the fabled city of Barcelona.

 

Transatlantic 2011: Salamanca

Our train pulls out of Porto's Campanha station heading south over the Rio Douro and beyond, to Coimbra. This will be our longest travel day so far.  We're on our way to Salamanca, Spain.

 Going all the way to Madrid would have made it a very long day. We've found that limiting our train or bus time to 4 to 6 hours makes the trip more relaxing and gives us plenty of time to enjoy the countryside. It also allows time to find our lodging and a good place for dinner, well before dark. After a quick look at our map, Salamanca was the obvious stopping place. We're glad we spent the money for a Michelin roadmap of Spain and Portugal.

At Coimbra, about halfway back to Lisbon, we change trains. We find our seats aboard the direct line from Lisbon and enjoy a passage through the forested mountains and small villages of Portugal. Throughout the entire country, each village seems to have an old solitary brick chimney, probably part of a former brick yard that supplied the materials to build the village itself. Most homes have a backyard garden. And these hills have long been 'farmed' for trees. We pass pine plantations, with the trees all in long rows. 

We also pass thousands of acres of eucalyptus trees. They've been farmed extensively in the highlands of Peru to reforest the Andes, denuded over centuries of land abuse. Reforestation with eucalyptus, a native of Australia, is controversial in many countries, as it crowds out native species. But it's a remarkable tree that can be harvested without killing its extensive root system, which stays to continue stabilizing the land against erosion. Multiple trees then sprout from the remaining stump to be harvested again in a few years. From our window we see train yards with stacks of pine and eucalyptus logs ready for shipping to lumber mills.

It's challenging to take pictures from a moving train, or bus. So many times I've had the perfect shot lined up when I press the shutter button. But there's a delay in digital cameras to allow for focus, etc. – except for really expensive ones. The shutter clicks as a tree, power pole, overpass abutment, truck, window reflection (choose one), obscures the view. I've tossed out dozens of bad shots along the way. That's life when you're cheap. If I were more savvy, I'd figure out a way to market the throw-outs as 'art.' I'll have to work on that angle.

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From the descriptions, Salamanca sounded like the perfect stop before pressing onward. The descriptions were correct. Our taxi driver drops us off at the end of a stone-paved pedestrianway and points to our hostel. It's a short distance down the alleyway past numerous outdoor cafes. We're back to those magical evenings in Spain, with good food and good wine, at an outside table on a quiet street. 

There's something beguiling about the 'Mediterranean lifestyle' that embraces the afternoon nap, and a late dinner under the stars. The fact is, it's usually just too hot in much of Spain during the summer to relax over dinner before the sun goes down. After a long morning and early afternoon exploring ancient and historic churches and museums, we're usually ready for a short nap. And sometimes, a long one.

There's plenty of opportunity to explore the sights in quiet Salamanca, where the towering stone walls of historic buildings create a sort of urban canyonlands. Throughout the day, we usually find a walkway in the shade, or a well-shaded table for a snack and a cold midday cerveza.

But one of the seminal experiences of Salamanca is to enjoy a relaxing dinner after sunset in the famous Plaza Mayor. The Plaza is enclosed by some of the best Renaissance architecture in Spain. It's a cultural treasure worth savoring along with a good wine. 

 

Shady colonnades line each side of the plaza. There are medallions of famous Spaniards mounted between the arches. One of them commemorates the Dictator Franco. It's made of durable plastic for easy cleaning. The remains of red paint stain the column below, leftovers from a previous protest.

Spain is famous for its "Jamón Iberico," and there are haunches of it hanging in shops and mercados throughout the country. But for us, it's time for some vegetables – a rarity in this land of carnivores. 

We find a table in the Plaza Mayor and order a bottle of the local Ribera del Douro, a bowl of gazpacho, and a paella de verduras. It's a fine night to relax with a good wine and watch the nightly paseo, the timeless ritual of wandering this historic Plaza. Other young people are sitting with groups of friends and fellow students on the ancient stones as the sun blazes its final orange rays against the upper reaches of carved stone parapets. It's 10 o'clock and the sunset still lingers on a long summer's day.

By 10:20 p.m., the sun has gone and the sky finally dims. Suddenly a blaze of floodlights illuminates the historic facades of the entire Plaza Mayor, and a cheer rises from the crowd. It's the same every night as the city enjoys another splendid evening out together.

It's 11:00 p.m. Do you know where your children are? 

If you're a family in Salamanca, your children are probably with you, on your nightly paseo through the Plaza Mayor. The young ones are playing with a small ball, or are fascinated by a street-puppet show. The teenagers are talking to others of their age. Everyone had an afternoon nap, and all is good. The family is spending the evening together in a time-honored tradition, enjoying what is probably Spain's most impressive plaza. 

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There are many things to see in Salamanca. It's a world-class city, hosting traveling exhibitions. We visit the Leonardo daVinci exhibit highlighting his skills as an inventor. Someone has built most of the stuff he dreamed up out of wood, the material he had available at the time. There are flying machines, catapults, rolling musical carts, a wooden bicycle, and even a wooden 'battle tank' or armored car filled with cannons. I can't imagine how it could negotiate rough terrain, but there's a model of it to study. The roof is cutaway, exposing the gears and other mechanisms.

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The Casa de las Conchas is just around the corner from our hostel. It was named for the conch shell emblems attached to the exterior and is now the Public Library. There's a beautiful courtyard inside with a classical colonnade. The corinthian capitals are wonderfully encrusted with acanthus leaves, a decoration that dates back to the Greeks.

 

I had never actually seen an acanthus plant before visiting the Alhambra in Granada, where they grow wild next to walls and walkways. It came as a revelation to me when I first realized what I was seeing. Now, I understand why the leaves were used so often in classical architecture. Just the experience of wandering in Europe can be an education in the Classics. 

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  In 2018, the University of Salamanca will celebrate its 800th anniversary! That makes it about 3 times older than the United States of America. We pause at an entry to study the old columns and stonework leading to cool walkways of cloistered courtyards. Groups of students pass by, talking in various languages. The University is a summer destination for students enrolled in intensive Spanish classes, or a variety of other languages and subjects. There may be no better place for cultural, historical, and language immersion than the streets of Salamanca.  

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A 'don't miss' event is climbing up the Catedral Nueva tower to a high vantage point overlooking the time-encrusted rooftop of the church and the city below. The growth of centuries of lichen has colored the tiles around the flying buttresses. It's a rare way to view one of Spain's colossal old cathedrals and well worth the climb. The walkway continues through a doorway to the inside, with views down into the core of the Catedral, and the adjacent Catedral Vieja. Huge and disconcerting cracks in certain areas – reminders of past earthquakes – add plenty of drama and highlight the 'dynamic' aspects of stone construction. 

   

On the Cathedral's intricate gothic facade, people look for the carved astronaut, added by stone carvers during a recent restoration.

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The nearby Museo de Art Nouveau y Art Deco is housed in the former home of a wealthy art patron whose new home, built in the cast-iron Art Deco style in a prominent spot overlooking the Río Tormes, outraged many Salamanca citizens at the time. Today it's a wonderful curiosity filled with important artworks of the era.

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After 'museuming' for most of the day, a walk by the river is a nice way to ease our way toward an afternoon nap. A low dam pools the water and creates rapids to aerate the river. 

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We pass through a cloistered garden on our walk back to the hostel. A chain of locks bearing messages of love hangs from an arbor. We remember that we saw a bridge with 'love locks' back in Tenerife. Do these young lovers throw away the key and hope they never break up? It's just another of the philosophical mysteries of life. But now it's time for a nap before enjoying another fine dinner in the Plaza or some other of Salamanca's fine sidewalk cafes.

And soon enough, it's time to move onward again. This time we'll be heading to Madrid and all it has to offer. As our train leaves the station I notice the land is flat around Salamanca and maybe it's The Plain we've heard so much about. We can report that, on the day we left, in late June, there was no rain. On the Plain. In Spain.

 

Transatlantic 2011: Porto & the Douro Valley in Portugal

PORTO

Our train sweeps northward from Lisbon through cities, small towns and green countryside. In three hours we're on a very high bridge, crossing the Rio Douro and arrive at the Campanha station in Porto. A short ride on the Metro puts us at the unassuming Atum Guest-House. It's not in a prime neighborhood, but it's clean and comfortable, with kitchen facilities. It's near a Metro Station, and it's a reasonable walk to many interesting areas around town. Pedro, the owner, is very accommodating – he's already sent us numerous emails about upcoming events in Porto and we're barely in the door when he even invites us to a party that's happening in two days time. As we found in Lisbon, the Portuguese are generally a warm and welcoming people without lots of 'attitude.' It's a nice place to be.

 

We spend the next few days exploring Porto. Several blocks away from our hostel is the odd, modernist Casa da Música, designed by Rem Koolhaas and opened in 2005. It looks like a giant metallic 'crystal' dropped into an older decaying neighborhood with little attempt at integrating the two. Maybe it was hoped the investment would generate nearby private efforts, but the overall impression is that the money ran out before the project was properly finished. 

 

It's surrounded by a vast and empty plaza that's well-enjoyed by the city's skate-boarding youth, who go hurtling by the rest of us at high speed. But it's not a welcoming space. And that is a common problem with much Modern Architecture. The end product often looks as if it were intended as a stand-alone sculpture in a park. Something unapproachable and not to be bothered by humans. It might have looked good in a presentation or as a model, but we wonder if the architect ever knelt down and really looked at the first floor, as pedestrians might see it.

The Casa da Música is also not aging well on the exterior, and that calls to mind a common problem faced by much of the world's 'modern' architecture. So much of what began life shiny, gleaming, and full of promise is soon shabby and dull, with rusting screws and rivets drooling brown stains down the surface. There's hardly anything sadder-looking than a Modernist structure that's aging poorly. 

Modernism broke the rules of the past, but there were good reasons for some of the rules. Like proper overhangs, for one, to drip water away from the building so it doesn't discolor the surface. And a certain amount of complexity – anathema to many modernists – can give a structure a bit of charm that off-putting modernism often lacks. 

Mies Van de Rohe's dictum that "Less is more" was quickly adopted by developers as "Less is cheaper!" and the public accepted it as 'progress.' In later life, Mies himself once said (I'm paraphrasing), "Sometimes when I wake up, I sit on the edge of the bed and wonder, 'Where did we go wrong?'"

I'm a fan of good Modern Architecture, but it's a difficult thing to accomplish and important details often seem to be overlooked. Most cities are studded with an abundance of bad examples of the genre. Good advice for architects: if you're not a true master of modernism, it may be best to stick with the classics. Classical architecture is more forgiving.

We step inside to explore the challenging interior spaces and buy two tickets for a recital by three talented young pianists. It's a well attended event in a simple, elegant, recital hall with very good acoustics. Afterward, the piano is caressed by daylight streaming through tall curtains. It begs to be photographed. We emerge into the hallway to find large numbers of suited dignitaries sipping bubbly in an adjacent lobby. We quickly make our exit, as we're not wearing anything appropriately uncomfortable to blend in with that crowd. 

Pedro has invited us to his artist friend Isabel's house for a São João (Saint John) party. São João is the most important holiday of the year in Porto, and we just happened to be there! We'd never even heard of it before. We've been pretty lucky to just stumble into good things during this trip and others. Planning ahead is definitely overrated.  

Pedro tells us the party will go on all night and few places will be open the next day. That's okay. We have tickets tomorrow for the train through wine country up the famous Douro Valley. We don't want to be up all night and hung-over the next day, but we're looking forward to the party. 

As we walk through the streets to the flat we pass people setting up wood-fired grills on sidewalks. It's a São João tradition. At the party, we step into a warren-like back courtyard. In one nook there's a grill with sausages roasting, and in another,  a fireplace where they're roasting 'sardinhas.' This will be a feast of fish, potatoes, sausages, bread, salad, and whatever anyone else brings in the door. 

A female guest arrives in a costume with, …, well…, a knitted 'dong' she has sewn onto the front. It's a very large one. I ask if this is a Portuguese custom, and am assured that it is not. The guest is an artist and, well, you know how they are. She's in her seventies and is still an overtly free spirit. She blends in well with the crowd at this particular party.

Isabel's upstairs apartment is a tasteful, comfortable flat, decorated with excellent art by the owner and her many friends. One of the guys on the outside stairway peers into the dark sky and says, "Oh look. There goes one of the fire balloons."

"The what?" I ask. I see a glowing object drifting high across the sky.

"The fire balloons they light for São João every year." he says. "There goes another one. And another one."

We count about a dozen 'fire balloons,' all drifting southerly at various altitudes. I still have little idea what he's talking about. He assures me there will be fire balloons lighted at this party. Someone always brings them.

A little later, three guys stand on the roof of a small shed and delicately unfold a paper balloon, careful to avoid tearing it. It looks like an orange Chinese paper lantern. The trick is to light a flammable substance that's suspended below the paper balloon. Without lighting the balloon. 

The first balloon is a spectacular flameout, as a breeze wafts the lighter flame into the paper. They release it to float upward and burn out – somewhere else in the neighborhood, I guess. The next one is a success. The flammable substance ignites, the balloon warms, and soon it's released to join the dozens that are already high overhead, drifting southward on the prevailing breeze. I hope it's rained recently and there's no great fire hazard. I can't imagine many US cities where you can release hundreds of floating flaming paper balloons into the night sky, but here it's an annual tradition.

  Except for us and a German guy who works in a European Standards lab in England, all the other guests are Portuguese. Lucky for us, most of them speak some English. A young woman named Antonita tells us that European Portuguese is a very difficult language. They even have to speak slowly for Brazilians to understand them! We don't feel so bad about our linguistic failures.  

We tell another guest we've had trouble finding a place to stay when we get to Madrid, in about a week. He says it's because we'll be there during the largest Gay Pride event in Europe and everything is already booked. We learn that Madrid is the most gay-friendly city on the continent; people will be there from all over in the world!

Oh.

After dinner the entire party heads down to the center of town, where the night's events are getting into full swing. Bands are playing and beer is being sold in large cups. People of all ages are 'bonking' each other on the head with noise-making plastic mallets and stuffing garlic blossoms under noses of the unsuspecting. It's another Sao Joao tradition. I get plenty of garlic stuffed up my nose, and people I don't know keep bonking me on the head with plastic mallets. It's a very weird tradition.

It's a massive crowd scene in the center city and it's difficult to stay in sight of our friends from the party, so Carolyn and I soon 'tack for clean air,' as we sailors call it. It's around midnight when we leave the happy revelers and head back to the flat. Tomorrow we have a train to catch.

The DOURO RIVER VALLEY

  Grapes are the game in the Douro River Valley. Grapes and wine. It's one of the world's premier wine growing regions. 

The train leaves from Porto's beautiful old São Bento station (most European train stations are beautiful) about mid-morning. 

We roll eastward through small towns and past lush backyard gardens filled with ripening vegetables. Porto's huge old Mercado do Bolhão is filled with such produce, but it's rare on menus. Vegetables just aren't a big part of local restaurant fare. We sure miss getting our daily ration of veggies.

 

The hills along the valley are devoted to grapevines, as we pass numerous vineyards and wineries. The industry here dates back hundreds of years, the cultivation of grapes may even date from Roman times. The train stops at various towns along the way. We especially like the looks of a small town named Pinhão. But we've bought tickets to the end of the line, in Pocinho. We want to see what things look like at the remote end of the tracks. And why there's little mention of it in guidebooks. Often we find that guidebooks overlook simple and attractive places that just don't exude that 'touristic vibe.' Sometimes these places are real gems. 

Pocinho is not. It's a nice enough little place in the dry hill country that segues over into Spain. But it looks a bit more industrial than we'd hoped. We hike uphill from the station to a little restaurant and get a snack. We ponder our next move. The train will be leaving in about 45 minutes. We decide to jump back on the train and check out Pinhão instead.

Back aboard, we tell the Conductor we'll get off at Pinhão instead. He tells us the tickets don't allow that. There's no 'hop-on, hop-off' provision. Then he looks away for a brief moment, and decides not to punch our tickets. It's Friday, after a big holiday; there's no large crowd on the train. He winks and says OK.

The beautiful Pinhão station is decorated with large and historic tile murals. We spend the next several hours wandering the quiet streets and riverfront. It was a very good decision. 

It's a hot and lazy afternoon and we're soon enjoying a tasty lunch with a fine bottle of Ogiva, bottled by the inn-owner's family. The best wine country seems to be in dry areas with good water sources nearby. That way the vintners can control exactly how much water the plants receive. Pinhão qualifies, along with most of the Douro Valley.

  Many local families bottle their own wine. We enjoy another glassful as an occasional car or pedestrian passes by outside the window. But it's a sleepy day in the countryside. We're entranced.

We walk down to the waterfront and pass a luxurious-looking place, called the Vintage House Hotel. I'm getting photos when Carolyn says, "Watch out! There's a car behind you!"

I say, "That's no 'car.' That's a classic Jaguar." But if that's the kind of money we'd need to stay at the Vintage House Hotel, there's no need to look at the prices.

Several tourist boats are tied to the dock, replicas of the ones that used to ferry wine and grapes down the river to Porto. We soak our feet in the cooling water and speculate on the possibilities for a swim.

     

One of the tourist-boat guys says it would be better to swim above town. If you know what I mean. Behind him, kids are jumping into the river and having a great time on a hot summer's day. But the afternoon is wearing on and it's time to catch the train back to Porto.

 

    We enjoy our last few days in Porto wandering its colorful back streets and art museums for a few last impressions. The Serralves Museum hosts an exhibit called "Off the Wall." It truly is. There are massive installations to explore, electronic displays, and huge paintings to consider.

    A lady tells us we need to see the McDonald's just around the corner. She says it's probably "the most beautiful McDonald's in Europe." We are skeptical but decide to have a look. They've remodeled an old palace or something and it's certainly a step up from the usual, although I don't intend to survey the others for comparison.

 

As in Lisbon, there are plenty of Smart Cars on the street. The Portuguese are some of the more energy-efficient people in Europe. 

Portuguese architecture has unique qualities. Tilework facades are a common sight, but especially in Porto, the city for which the country itself is named. On townhouses, train stations, churches, and many other public buildings, tilework facades and tile details have long been a popular style and the variety of patterns seems endless. Intricate and curvaceous balconies are seen everywhere. And the rounded classical "Manueline" style, named for a former king, is classically Portuguese.

My friend Peter Pacheco has told me that, according to his grandmother, "Portuguese is the only language in which one can properly address God." It's little wonder that churches in Portugal come in for special attention.

While some areas of the old city are camouflaged by intense graffiti and the lovely old tiled facades cry out for care and restoration, the central area is well preserved and stunningly beautiful. We stroll the streets on our last morning and stop for breakfast at the elegant and famous Café Majestic.

It' a bit sad to see cigarette butts thickly littering the ground and filling nearly every crevice in the old cobblestone streets. Many Europeans are smokers, but the Portuguese seem to be among the most addicted. There's always someone smoking in a doorway, or outside a metro station. As a non-smoker, I've never understood the attraction. And the butts are everywhere. It's not a pretty sight.

 

Portugal has been good to us, and the people were very welcoming. We spend our last day doing laundry and hanging around the guesthouse. 

Our time was well invested exploring the streets of Lisbon and Porto, and the rich wine country of the Douro Valley. I can well imagine we'll return some day. But we have  a long passage ahead of us. We decided not to travel all the way to Madrid in one day, but to stop for a visit to the historic city of Salamanca, Spain. We'll share that great experience with you in our next blog.

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Technical note:  We assume you know that when you are looking at this blog, if you want to see any of the photos larger scale, you can simply "click" on it and it will pop up full scale in another window that won't interrupt your reading.

 

Transatlantic 2011: Into Portugal

FARO

After the big city of Sevilla we head for Portugal, to a small coastal town named Faro. The southern coast of Portugal, the Algarve, is a popular destination for northern Europeans. Since we live on a nice beach in Mexico we don't need to frolic in the surf, but we wanted a break from big-city-life. Faro seemed like a good choice.

Along the way we pass even more olive groves, vineyards, sunflowers, all that wonderful mediterranean stuff. Road signs tick off the kilometers to the border. We cross an impressive bridge over the river and wetlands that divide the two countries, and we're in Portugal.

At our first dinner in Faro we share a long table with two Brits from Devon named Bill and Terry. They're on a golfing trip to sunny southern Portugal, and leaving their grateful wives at home. We're having dinner at Adega Nova, which is known for it's 'homestyle' atmosphere. Everybody sits at long tables, and you can talk to each other or not, as you wish. We take notice of Bill when he's grilling meat on a blistering hot stone. It's a pyrotechnic event with a lot of crackling noise and smoke rising into the air. It's not a subtle dish. 

Soon Terry notices our wine glasses are low, and he fills them from the pitcher he ordered. The pitcher is now empty, so he orders another one and keeps filling our glasses. In the process we get plenty of information regarding the best places around London to find a reasonable hotel when we get there in a month. After several more pitchers of 'vino de casa' we take our leave, thankful we're only a block from the hostal. It was indeed a merry evening.  

 

We're in wine country, which is pretty much anyplace in Portugal, Spain, France, or Italy. And there's lots of good wine to be had. We order the 'vino de casa' – whatever the house wine is – on the theory that it's already been open for awhile and it's had time to breathe off the impurities. They also pour lots of it and it probably hasn't killed too many people yet. Then there's the other theory, an important theory when you're trying to budget your money, that it's usually cheaper. You can order a carafe of the local stuff at many places in Portugal for 6 to 7 Euros, and so far we've had some very good wine, with no hangovers. But we're not really the most discerning drinkers. If it tastes good to us, it's a good wine.

Faro is much like Tarifa, if a bit smaller. It's another nice town where you're not burdened with Things To Do. There are some nice older buildings to explore (Hey, it's Europe. They're everywhere.), and there are plenty of nesting storks to look at, if you need a 'nature fix.' But overall it's a good place to kick back a little and do that relaxing we hoped to find time for. So far, there's plenty of English spoken in the area so we haven't had to deal much with Portuguese. From what little we've heard, the language sounds more than a bit formidable. 

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After a couple of days to recharge, we're on the fast train to Lisbon. We zip along at 200 kph (about 120 mph) and watch the countryside go by, passing through more broad and fertile fields like we've seen in Spain. Yet the landscape appears somewhat greener in Portugal. A mountain range separates the two countries and probably causes a 'rain shadow' effect on the Spanish side, just as coastal California mountains create inland deserts in the southwestern US. The Portuguese side may get most of the rain. 

 

In a couple of hours we cross the very broad Rio Tejo and find ourselves in Lisbon.

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LISBON

My first impression of Lisbon: 'Wow, there sure are lots of people around here who speak Portuguese!' After difficulties dealing with French and Arabic in Morocco, and the comfort of returning to Spain where we could manage the language, we find ourselves back in another very 'foreign' culture. During our two weeks in Portugal, the language will remain mostly a mystery to us. We can read it, somewhat, but cannot decipher the pronunciation, which sounds like a mix of French and Russian. 

It becomes sort of an issue when we emerge from a Metro station onto a very busy street somewhere in Lisbon, and can't figure out which direction to head for the hotel. We also can't ask anybody any questions. Well we can ask, but we can't understand the answer! Even their Spanish has a heavy Portuguese accent. After a while we figure it out, drag our heavy bags about 6 long blocks to the hotel, and things are good. But the language thing will be tough. 

A yoghurt carton at breakfast the next morning gives us another translation challenge. It says the yoghurt "Ajuda a poupar!" It helps you to….what, exactly? Does that mean what I think it means?

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Our first day 'on the street,' we find we're only a few blocks from the Centro de Arte Moderna, with daring kinetic works by Miguel Palma, and an extensive permanent collection of the best Portuguese artists. Across the street is an 'auto dealership' with a few vintage Fiats in the window. It's kind of an artsy neighborhood. 

 

Sharing a large park on the same block is the Museu Calouste Gulbekian, one of the most renowned in Portugal. Like many museums in Latin America and Spain, cameras are permitted as long as you turn off the flash. I wander through the exhibits getting shots of fabulous porcelain pieces, paintings by the world's most famous artists, and the bust of a gentleman who gives me a whimsical smile. I get only an indignant glare from another bust.

The grounds outside are heavily wooded, with sculptural pieces set into wooded glens. There are water features that distract the mind so the feeling is of being far from city life. It's easy to ignore the nearby traffic that somehow sounds so distant.

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 After a long 'museum day,' we're hungry. And we're thirsty. Lisbon is a good place for that. There are lots of restaurants in the nearby neighborhood that serve a variety of fare. And again, the wine is plentiful, cheap, and delicious.

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You can't visit Lisbon without taking Tram 28, the oldest tram in the city, as it winds, rattles and screeches through the oldest neighborhoods. There are skinny spots between stone-walled buildings where you'd best keep heads, hands, and cameras inside the tram. Along the way we pass the distinctive and colorful tile-covered facades of Lisbon. Laundry of every hue, pattern, and shade flutters from ancient and intricate wrought-iron balconies. We see plazas and harbor overlooks that beckon to be explored at a later time. 

We notice a tremendous number of Smart Cars in the Lisbon area. They take up about half the space of a regular car (and probably get twice the mileage), so it's no wonder they're popular in crowded cities. But there are so many more here, we wonder if there's some program in Portugal to subsidize their purchase.  

After struggling its way uphill, the tram goes downhill. Brakes scream as we shudder and shiver to each stop. We find ourselves grateful to whoever invented brakes, however ancient the ones on the tram may be. The juddering of old horsehide on steel wheels is a reminder of how far the technology has advanced. At the end of the ride we find ourselves in some distant part of the city, at the gates of a famous cemetery. A visit to grassy graves seems less interesting than what we passed along the way. We decide to pay another tram fare and hop off at one of the little plazas we passed along the way. We step off at a little plaza, and watch two buffed young guys hitch a free ride, hanging onto the outside. Everybody just shrugs.  

 

The plaza is a good overlook with some decent fast food and a view over red tile roofs to a cruise ship dock, with a SilverSea ship gracing the view. We'll probably never be on one of those exclusive ships (have you seen the prices!?!), but they're nice to look at. 

After lunch, we wander slowly downhill through skinny streets filled with shops, and more colorful laundry hanging in the breeze. You could make a case for balcony-hung, flapping laundry as 'the Portuguese national flag.' We make our way back to the Martim Moniz Metro station for a return trip to the hotel, with time left over for a short nap. We're due later at a little place called "O Mamma Mia," just a few blocks from the hotel, for dinner and jazz.

We'd passed this charming small restaurant the night before and noticed a flyer in the window offering an evening of jazz. We stopped in and put our names on the list. The owner, a jazz lover, had decided to try it once and see how it worked out. The duet he picked, a pianist and a singer, did an excellent job and it was worth the modest cover charge. Fine food and good wine, with good jazz in an intimate cafe setting, the owner was very pleased with the result and plans to try it again.

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On Sunday we catch a different tram along the riverfront to the famous Mosteiro Dos Jeronimos. It's a "Don't miss" in guidebooks, but there was a long line for tickets to enter this huge and fabulous gothic structure. But we were distracted by so many other nearby 'Sunday in the park' activities that we wandered off to see what else was going on.

There was a colorful book fair to explore, and we're suckers for books – even in languages we can't read! There were excellent street artists, trees that looked like Van Gogh designed them, and an old lady in black who would read your palm for a few Euros. She looked like she'd just stepped out of the Middle Ages.

Then there was the adjacent Museu Colecçao Bernardo. We spent much of the afternoon there viewing and photographing works by most of the 20th century's finest artists. I got a little fascinated by the winding stairway with the Calder Mobile hanging over it and lingered for a few more photos.

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 After an afternoon coffee and pastry we walk another kilometer or two toward the 'nearby' Torre de Belém (it didn't look that far on the map!). It's a fantastic gothic confection that functioned as a fort to protect the city from sea-borne invaders. It's full of cannons that probably saw little use. 

Most potential invaders were probably intimidated by the very sight of it, and decided to go elsewhere. Water swirling around the base gave off a menacing sound that encouraged us to pay close attention while crossing the catwalk. A sailing regatta in the broad river provided a nice background for photos, although the sailors of old surely never envisioned anything like fiberglass boats and dacron sails.

We take the tram back to the Cais Do Sodré station in the heart of the waterfront, but it's a hot afternoon and a cold beer sounds like a good idea. We happen to pass "O'Gílín's Irish Pub," and can't resist taking in a bit of its odd ambiance. The Portuguese have actually had a long series of treaties with the British, and the Pub is a Lisbon landmark. The relationship with the Brits goes back several centuries, mostly as a way to keep the Spanish off their backs.

 
But we have to make it a fast beer because we're actually on a long uphill ramble (again!) into the Bairro Alto to find "Sr. Vinho," a 'Fado' club we read about. We struggle upward through narrow streets lined with houses that are a few centuries old. Everywhere we go, the tile details and iron balconies reflect the city's characteristic flair for design. We arrive, exhausted and hungry, and ready to experience the soulful singing of Fado.

It's an art form that recalls the sadness of loss. Loss of a lover, a loved one, a righteous cause, anything will work. Fado, and loss, is a deep part of the Portuguese soul, much like the mournful gypsy-flamenco heritage of Spain. In true Fado tradition, each performer sings three very sad songs – which we don't understand. But we get the overall feeling of it. A bottle of good wine also helps. Afterward, it's too late for the Metro, so we catch a taxi back to the hotel, and get another glimpse of nighttime Lisbon. Do they ever sleep?

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Metros are a wonderful way to get around in a large city. You rocket from one point to another, avoiding all that above ground traffic. It's especially handy when you arrive in a new city, catch the Metro near the train or bus station, or airport, and emerge right near your hotel. The problem is, you don't see or experience much of the life of a city that way. As a remedy, we'll take the Metro to some area we want to explore, and take the bus back. That way we can usually recognize where we need to get off the bus!

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One of the things we miss mostly in Portugal is the abundance of hand-dipped ice cream shops, that are so common in Spain. On a hot evening, after a good dinner, it's hard to beat an ice cream cone as you wander by shop windows, mingling with the crowds. But a cooling ocean breeze seems to moderate temperatures in Lisbon and the evenings are very pleasant. Maybe they just don't feel the need for some 'ice cream relief' the way Spaniards do, living in the hot interior of the Iberian Penninsula.

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Daily life goes on apace in Lisbon although the headline story in the June 25 issue of Lisbon's Diario De Noticias says "Government Advances Privatizations More Quickly and Cuts State Jobs." Pressure from the European Union mandates these cuts to balance the Portuguese budget and reduce their debt burden to 3% by 2014. 

Even so, by early July the Greek crisis will cause the country's bonds to be downgraded to "junk" status, on a par with El Salvador. Moody's provides 'risk numbers' for countries worldwide based on their overall debt burden. "El Pais," the Spanish newspaper carries a graphic showing the numbers assigned to four Euro countries. Greece is in the stratosphere, and after the Greek default, the numbers for Ireland and Portugal spiked strongly upward. Spain's numbers were far lower, but still above the comfort level of their main European partners. This will result in cash flow problems which will likely lead to higher unemployment and social instability, already a problem in all 4 countries. 

There's a lot of construction going on in Lisbon, but these countries all rely heavily on tourism, which has fallen due to the worldwide economic slowdown. The overall effect on the European Union is yet to be seen.

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Interestingly for those of us from New Mexico, and apropos of nothing else in particular, Portugal's Treasurer is named Maria Luís Albuquerque. She's not responsible for the country's current economic policies.

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Alas, there's so much more to see and do in Lisbon, but we have a schedule of sorts. We pack our bags and head to the Gare Do Oriente train station. It's another sweeping modernist structure by Santiago Calatrava, the famous Spanish Architect and I'm glad we arrived early enough to get some photos. Soon we're on another modern, fast, roomy, and very comfortable train through the Portuguese countryside. We're on our way north to Porto and the Douro Valley, the very charming heart of Portugal's wine country.

 

Transatlantic 2011: Back into Spain

In Tarifa Again

 

It's easy to hang out in the old section of Tarifa, to wander the twisting alleyways in search of new shops and restaurants, without being the center of attraction, as we were in Morocco. It's really nice to return to Europe, a place where we can enjoy relative anonymity – and back to Spain where we feel comfortable with the language. There's also not much pressure to visit this or that Important Historic Site. There are only a few minor sites in the whole place. 

After a good wander we return to the Hostal Africa to relax on the rooftop terrace, read a good book, or write the next blog entry (and hope somebody reads it!). Tarifa is a beguiling place to relax, the kind of laid back town where you could get stuck for a while. But after two days it's time to continue our pilgrimage around the Iberian Penninsula. 

 

There are no trains serving Tarifa so we catch a bus to Sevilla. The very modern highway follows the coast for awhile, then passes inland through open pastureland and some massive wind farms. In one area, towering windmills stretch as far as the eye can see. There are at least hundreds, maybe thousands, of them. We also pass a large array of solar panels. 

The USEIA (Energy Information Agency) notes that the average European country uses less than half the energy per capita of the US. The average Spaniard uses slightly less.

Spain, like most other oil-poor countries, realizes the current 'energy fantasyland' can't continue. In this race to the bottom, do the dependent nations use up all the 'cheap' oil before the producing countries drain the wealth out of us? Which comes first? 

 

We pass hillsides of vineyards, river basins of rice paddies, rolling plains of wheat fields, large tracts of smiling sunflowers, and many thousands of acres of olive groves. When you're in southern Spain, you are truly in The Olive Garden.

There are platforms installed atop power poles crossing the countryside, and each contains a large nest with a resident stork family. We stop in towns along the way, and stork nests abound on more power poles and atop abandoned buildings. In Chiclana, women dressed in colorful skirts are standing on strategic corners. Maybe there's a fiesta in town. 

The bus makes a brief stop in Cádiz before heading inland for the final stretch. Next stop: Sevilla.

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SEVILLA

At the Sevilla bus station, we roll our bags outside the front door and catch the new, modern, light rail train to Plaza Nueva. It's late afternoon, and we watch classic old buildings and historic sites pass by the window. At various stops there are free bikes available to borrow, and numerous recycling bins where people drop bottles, plastics, paper, cardboard, organic waste, etc.

In many cases, the recycling falls to collection areas below the sidewalks. The train crosses urban bike trails that are well-marked and well-used. The population looks healthy and fit – overweight people seem to be a rarity in central Sevilla. I already want to take pictures, but I'm too busy holding on to the train. I think we're going to enjoy our stay in 'Green Sevilla.'

We arrive at Plaza Nueva and roll our bags down pedestrian-only streets to the Hostal Nuevo Suizo. It's on a side street, right in the heart of things, so we can walk to just about anything we want to see. We look forward to exploring the rest of the inner city, but it's getting late, we're hungry, and we're low on cash.

We head to an ATM (a 'caixa') for a cash infusion. The screen gives me a choice of 8 different languages. Four of them (Euskara, Galego, Catalá, and Castellano) are native to Spain, and there are three others I don't speak. I stand there for a moment to absorb this information before reaching for my camera – and hope nobody gets suspicious that I'm taking a picture of the ATM. Then I meekly press the button for English.

With pockets recharged we're off in search of a late-night dinner like proper Spaniards – at a sidewalk cafe. In Spain, it's a family affair, parents pushing baby buggies, grandparents hand in hand with toddlers, enjoying the coolness of evening until late into the night. After dinner and and several glasses of good 'vino de casa,' we pass a nearby shop specializing in deserts that look amazingly delicious. We split a chocolate something-or-other that assures we'll return for more. Then it's back to the hostal for a good night's rest. We pass a street musician playing an excellent piece of classical music on a cello. I drop a Euro into his basket and we enjoy the music as it echoes through the narrow streets.

In the morning, a simple breakfast awaits in the lobby. We join the other guests with a cheery, "Buenos días. Bon matin. Guten morgen. Whatever." Now and then we even encounter English-speaking guests. We gather a few bites (plus coffee!) to start the day, and we're off to visit Sevilla.

Any guidebook will tell you the Cathedral in Sevilla is a must-see. It was built when Spain was at the economic and cultural epicenter of the western world, and little expense was spared in its construction. As Spanish galleons returned to the mother country loaded with gold looted from the New World, piracy became a problem. It was felt that the port of Cádiz was too exposed to attack, so Sevilla – located 100 kilometers up the Río Guadalquivir – was designated as the port of entry. The result is visible in Sevilla today. All around us stands the ancient wealth made possible when Columbus returned with fantastical (and scarcely believable) stories of vast new lands across the sea. 

We arrive early at the Cathedral and wander through nearby shops, where we buy tickets for a flamenco show later in the week. A father walks by leading his young white-clad daughters to church. Then we go stand in a long line for tickets to the Cathedral. It's already getting hot and we're glad the line moves quickly.

Soon we're inside the immense, cool caverns of one of the world's largest gothic cathedrals. The soft sounds of muted voices and shuffling feet echo from tons of towering stonework. Light filters down from stained glass windows and refracts through the massive spaces to illuminate the work of thousands of craftspeople. Whether a person is religious or considers it all bunko, there's no denying the architectural and artistic wonder of such a place. 

Just a few regrets: the Giralda tower was closed for repairs while we were there and we did not see the magnificent views of the city from the top. Also, our timing was off to hear a concert played on the very impressive organ. Many years ago we were lucky to be in Paris and attended the regular Sunday afternoon concert at Notre Dame. The incomparable acoustics of a huge gothic cathedral make it an experience not to be missed.

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After the Cathedral, we're in serious need of a late lunch. We stop in a narrow alley at a street cafe for tapas, and relax in the welcome shade as the world walks by. There's a very ornate steeple, bathed in sunlight, that's visible over rooftops down the street. I consult my pocket map and try to determine which church it is. Among dozens of other important sites, the map lists 29 historic churches (and 8 convents!). The steeple lines up with the narrow street where we're sitting, so I figure it must be the bell tower of San Salvador. I ask the waiter and he says, "Oh no, señor. That's San Felipe de Neri."

San Felipe de Neri? That one's not even on our map! How many more ornate churches are around here that would be historic monuments in many other cities, but don't even deserve mention in Sevilla? 

On our way to the old theater where the Flamenco show is held, we pass an enormous modernist structure that dwarfs the surrounding older buildings. We're not sure what it is, or why, but we'll return for another look later.

 The flamenco show is held in a large older theater that could use some attention. But we didn't come for the architecture; we came for the show. And it was a good one. We'd seen two shows in Granada, but thought we should soak up a bit more of this essential Spanish art form in Sevilla. The swirl of colors and passionate sounds evokes Spain as little else is able to.

The dark-eyed Gypsy passion, anguished song, and flying skirts always make for a memorable event. We shared it with a crowd of Japanese tourists who were clearly excited to be there.

    Later, in the waning afternoon, we stop at that 'structure' we passed earlier and discover it's now the meeting ground for Sevilla's recently united, disaffected youth – "Los Indignados." There are signs everywhere about injustice, political crimes, and the austerity measures that are being pushed by the European Union. Posters proclaim solidarity with Greek workers, and denounce "La Merkel," the current leader of Germany. Banners support gender equality. There's a large shanty-structure erected as part of the encampment. The ongoing protests that have been sweeping Europe continue to crop up along our path as the youth realize they'll be paying for the massive fraud perpetrated by bankers and stock swindlers. The swindlers of Europe seem not to have mounted an effective, Tea Party/Fox News-type, propaganda campaign yet. Or at least the youth aren't buying it. 

The structure itself soars high over a street and occupies a plaza, creating an elevated plaza with underground parking and some shops. The effect at this time is somewhat overwhelming and appears to have a deadening effect on its surroundings. It's an impressive engineering accomplishment, but as an urban investment I'm not sure it hit the mark, and it may have been better conceived as a much smaller sculptural piece. 

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 Each day we wander through the cobblestone streets of Sevilla, the same streets where Murillo, Velasquez, and other great artists have walked. Under an archway in the Plaza Nueva there's a plaque stating that Cervantes described this particular corner in Don Quijote. Sevilla was once among the world's wealthiest cities and its patronage of the arts was legendary. This kind of simple plaque will become commonplace before we leave this city where they revere their artists and writers. 

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It's Sunday, a good warm day for a wander toward the river and the Museum of Contemporary Art that our map shows somewhere on the other side. But just a few blocks away from our hotel we happen upon an open air arts fair in a shady square in front of the Museo de Bellas Artes. Banners hanging from the museum announce the opening of a major new exhibit. We are so easily distracted.

And there's more very good art sitting around the square than we would have expected. It's easy to imagine it's the product of centuries of local emphasis on training in the classics. As we wander through the square, we see numerous works that we'd happily have on a wall at home – if we had any more wall space, some money, and some way to cart it back home. I take a few pictures of the square with the gracious entryway of the museum in the background, being careful not to focus on any works in the arts fair. Nobody glares at me. 

Inside the museum, there's a comprehensive exhibit showing the influence of British artists in the early 19th century who flocked to Spain to paint scenes of picturesque local costumes and pastoral country scenes. This theme was later adopted and refined by Spanish artists who recognized the unique character of their own culture, and were slowly leaving the dominating influence of Catholicism behind. 

After the heavy and painful religiosity of the past, humor was now possible. A Spanish man standing next to me helped his young son understand one of the paintings. He pointed to the old friar seated behind the table, slumped in his chair, and explained that he was dozing after a heavy meal. Then he pointed to the young friar whose hand was sneaking over the edge of the table toward the half-empty wine bottle. He asked his son, "What do you think the young friar is doing there?" His son stared at the painting for a moment, and slowly smiled as he realized all art isn't painful. 

In another room, I noticed a painting of a small boy leading a blind man, and I recalled a similar one I'd seen a day earlier in the Cathedral, depicting a guardian angel leading the Christ Child. Both paintings were about the same size, the poses were almost alike, but now the child was leading the way. Do we have a continuing metaphor here?

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We manage to cross the river on another day but we were late getting started and the Contemporary Art Museum is about to close. We explore the grounds instead, enjoy a light lunch, and take notice of an 'artistic expression' in graffiti. 

The afternoon turns into a long wander, through the grounds of the Sevilla Expo 92, which is now a leafy center of office buildings and institutes. We wander along down streets named Calle Johan Gutenberg, and Calle Albert Einstein passing the Three Cultures Center.

The afternoon turns into a very long walk as we head toward one of the daring and sculptural bridges designed by Santiago Calatrava for the Expo. We finally reach a point where we confront a barrier and it appears we may have to turn back the way we came. We are very tired by this point, and maybe a bit grumpy. Lucky for us, some local person had 'modified' the barrier, enabling us to slip through. We breath a sigh of relief, and follow 'local custom.' 

Soon we're crossing the bridge, a sweeping, dynamic structure. Farther up the river stands another Calatrava bridge that resembles ones we've seen in the waterfront redevelopment in Buenos Aires and at a nature preserve in Redding, California. What better way to recognize such talent than with bridges that sweep across the sky? A few more blocks of walking and we're ready for some shade, a cold beer, and the inevitable tray of delicious olives that accompanies every drink, and precedes every meal. Life is good.

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There is so much to see in Sevilla, and so little time. We devote a morning to a tour of the bull ring. This is the one where Bizet set the opera Carmen. This is the famous one where the toreadors marched through the gate. This is the 'mother lode.' Nearby is the old Tobacco Factory where Carmen worked and started all the trouble – to a memorable soundtrack. It didn't work out too well for Carmen or Don José, but in proper tragic opera fashion, that's how things go. Things also didn't work out too well for the composer. Georges Bizet died at the age of 36, three months after the opera opened on March 3, 1875.

There are bullfights in the Sevilla bullring every Sunday afternoon all summer. Except when we're there. The Sunday when we're in Sevilla there's an important 'romeria,' or pilgrimage being held, and the bullfight is always cancelled on that day. This actually comes as a relief and avoids the necessity for us to make a decision whether to participate in this essential, and bloody, Spanish rite. During our tour of the famous bullring, I ask our guide what happens to the bull after the fight. "Off to the restaurant!" she says. The entire 'fight' is simply an entertaining way for the public to enjoy a vicarious visit to the slaughter house, to watch the bull be taunted and abused with much pageantry and flair. As for the bull, he has a very short, and annoying, career in the ring.

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On our map we notice something called Plaza de España. It's a large thing of some sort and it's in a very large park. We decide to take a nice long walk in that direction and enjoy a quiet afternoon in the park. What we find is another astounding structure that merits little mention in guidebooks. It's a huge semi-circular confection of brick and tile, built for the 1929 Exposición Iberoamericano. 

 

We spent considerable time wandering through it and the large adjoining park. Sevilla seems to have so many of these hidden gems they just can't mention them all. This is a city that requires time to explore. 

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On this trip I realize that I've become the person I used to envy – with enough time and resources to enjoy life and travel to the fullest, as long as we stay within budget. 

There's a very humorous aspect to the accommodations we can afford. At least, that way of seeing things makes it easier to accept. Most of them – well, pretty much all of them – resemble scenes from that New York City apartment in "The Honeymooners."

  I have memories of Jackie Gleason listening to various plumbing sounds coming from the upstairs neighbors, and then yelling out the window at them. We don't yell at the neighbors, but that has become a part of our traveling life. It's either that or spend about twice as much for lodging. We'd rather spend more time in-country, and not obsess over the plumbing noises.

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Dusk slowly falls over the city. It's 10:00 p.m., and the sun is just setting (!), still washing the steeples and parapets of Sevilla's classical skyline in a rich bath of liquid gold. Swallows dive through the evening sky filling the air with song, a proper serenade to enjoy a sidewalk table of tapas and a glass of good Spanish vino tinto. A guitarist ambles by and plays "Besame mucho." It's a 'tourist song' that I've grown tired of, and I wish he'd play something more 'sevillano.' He wanders off. Maybe I'll mention it when I see him again. 

After a good dinner, there's always room for good ice cream. Fortunately, there are plenty of ice cream stands in Sevilla. In fact, we've found excellent hand-dipped ice cream in every Spanish city we've visited. It's a wonderful way to enjoy our last evening in magical Sevilla.

In the morning we'll head out again on the next leg of our journey – this time to Portugal.

 

Transatlantic 2011: Besalama/Adieu Morocco

TETUOAN

Our bus leaves Chefchaouen on a drizzly day. 

Heavy, moisture-laden clouds drift in from the Atlantic over Northern Africa and get snagged on the Rif Mountains where Morocco borders the Mediterranean. The sharp peaks of the Rif tear the bottoms out and rain drizzles onto the fertile ground where olives grow, and wild peaches, and where fig trees sprout like weeds. Droplets dribble down the window, and misty rainfall glazes the highway. Tomorrow, or the next day, brilliant sunshine will return to warm the earth. It's clear why the Phoenicians, Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Berbers, Moors, Spaniards, and French have fought over this benevolent ground for centuries, besides its obvious strategic value at the entrance to the Med. 

As we wend our way down the sinuous mountain road, we pass a small delivery van that's skidded on the wet pavement, and is resting tipped over at the edge of the highway. The driver is lucky he didn't skid on the other side, the cliff side. He's standing in the drizzle waiting for a tow truck. A few more miles and we come to a complete stop. The bus doors remain closed as we sit there, unable to see what the problem is, although it shouldn't be hard to guess. Other drivers walk forward to check on the holdup. Several are speaking on their cell phones and gesticulating to the sky. 

After about an hour, traffic starts to move again, and we pass the smashed remains of a small car on the bed of a wrecker truck. But any lessons that may have been learned from the two accidents we've just passed seem to have no relevance to any of the other drivers, as they tailgate each other mercilessly looking for any sliver of an opportunity to pass. I'm glad we're in a long queue of cars moving no faster than the heavily loaded truck that's in the lead. 

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"Why are you going to Tetuoan?" asked the lady who owned the Dar el Baraka in Chefchaouen, "There's nothing to see there."

And that's why we're going to spend a couple of nights in Tetuoan on our way to catch the ferry that departs from the odd Spanish possession of Ceuta back to Algeciras, Spain. We like to see things for ourselves, and make our own judgements. As it turns out, the seldom visited city of Tetuoan will be one of our more difficult encounters with Morocco.

The sun is shining in Tetouan. From the bus station we make our way uphill to the Dar El Reducto, again in the medina. It's not easy to find, but it's a pleasure once we get there. The Dar is run by a lady from the Canary Islands. She's also a classical cello player, and wishes there were a few more like-minded souls in the city. That afternoon, we're very pleasantly surprised when a young woman arrives to practice a few beautiful classical pieces on the piano. Carolyn ponders how the cellist happened to be here running a small hotel in Tetuoan. "You mean, what was his name?" I quip. Carolyn groans and nods. 

Tetouan was the capital of the Spanish "Protectorate" in north Africa before Moroccan independence, and the language is still spoken by many. Due to the ferry connection between nearby Ceuta and Algeciras in southern Spain, the city is also a gateway for a few European tourists. 

The medina is large and confusing, but we head out to explore it. We really don't want another guide. After we've gone quite a ways, a tall man points and says "The workshops are just down that way. Just over there. Take a left." We walk to the corner, see numerous choices, and stop for a moment to get our bearings. He walks over to show us. He takes us down a street or two. It quickly becomes several twists and turns so that we're completely disoriented. There's no way out without his help. We've been bagged again!

Off we go deeper and deeper into the medina with our 'guide.' We refuse to even look at another carpet shop, but hope we get to someplace where we can end the 'tour.' Eventually he leads us into an ancient and very smelly area where animal hides are cleaned and dyed on their way to becoming those truly beautiful leather products we've just seen filling numerous shops along the way. 

The stench is gag-inducing and the scene is positively medieval, as we step carefully along slimy walkways around festering brick-lined holes full of dye and hides. Two young men are peeing against a wall, adding to the stench. I have this horrible apprehension about slipping into one of those rank and fetid chemical pools. I watch my footsteps carefully. Our guide points out a six-sided Star of David on a wall near the floor. It's a remnant of a once considerable Jewish population, although there are few left in Morocco today.

 

An adjacent stairway and railings are draped with hides drying in the sun, the ragged remains of dead animals casting an eerie quiet over the place. A few hungry cats linger in case someone drops a small fragment of flesh scraped from a hide. It's a ghastly place, but oddly compelling. One expects to see Bruegel painting this scene from a perch in the corner. I'm glad our guide led us to this spot, which probably sees very few tourists; and I'm very glad when we leave. It may take a week for the overpowering smell to leave our nostrils. I hand him 50 dirhams for his time. 

 On our way out of the medina, we pass whole streets where the windows are filled with exquisite jewelry. There are racks of scarves spilling into the passageways, shops are filled with intricate lacquered woodwork, and blankets piled with babouches of all colors that sparkle in the sun. 

We pass a film crew shooting a market scene that includes an old car and period costumes. Carolyn finds an herb shop with packets of fresh-smelling saffron and buys six for 120 dirhams (about US$15).

The leather dying area was not conducive to a strong appetite, but after a long walk to clear our nostrils and more colorful sights to cleanse the memory, we arrive back at El Reducto for dinner. Like many riads, it also functions as a palace-style restaurant. Most Moroccan cafes open about 8:00 p.m., and we're early, so we ask at the desk. She tells us the time doesn't really matter. The French tend to eat around 7:00 p.m., the Brits at 8:00 p.m., and the Spanish from 10:00 p.m. on into the evening. They'll fix dinner whenever we're ready. 

We clean up a bit, return downstairs and, lo and behold! We can order a scotch! That will be two Ballantines on ice, please. Our waiter keeps pouring until we tell him to stop, and we are happy, indeed. We really never got desperate for hard liquor during our Moroccan trip, but a bit of scotch sure makes the evening pleasant. The drinks are followed by a vegetable salad, couscous covered with chicken and veggies, and delicious natillas, Moroccan-style, with extra spices. Later, on the rooftop, we look out over the city. Just next door, there's a crumbling palace with a gaping hole on the roof.

The riad was a welcome oasis in the medina, but Tetuoan was difficult, overall, and it underscored a kind of discomfort with the culture that we never fully resolved. We recognize that we may have created part of our own problem by always staying in the medina and having to deal with the 'medina mentality.' Medinas are filled with colorful little shops. 

Each shop owner is hoping we look in his direction and he makes a sale – maybe his only sale of the day. The merchants are rarely women. The image, mostly, is of under-employed men sitting in shops all day with nothing else to do. 

Yet there are plenty of people working. Workshops are concentrated in certain areas, and most of the tradespeople are men. They work in traditionally male areas like butcher shops, woodworking, and upholstery; but they're also the ones who sew the most intricate and expensive long women's jellabas, and weave the finest threads into lacework. I'm walking down a narrow lane and I get snagged into filaments of thread. I look up, to see two men making lace in a small shop. In the street is a young man holding a device to keep the threads separated, and at the right tension. It's up to us to duck under it or go around, and not get tangled in the threads. We stop and stare for a moment.   

We're clearly foreigners and we don't speak their language. They study us as we wander by, our clothing and our mannerisms. Carolyn, especially, bears the brunt of this, as there are few women in the medina. The stares seem to bore in on her. There's no way we can ever 'blend in.'

We try to tune it out and watch where we step to avoid suspicious pools of liquid – especially in the meat and fish sections – and to avoid raising anyone's expectations that we might buy something. We quickly scan the stalls, avoid eye contact, and don't listen to the 'entreaties.' And that's a bad way to connect with a culture. 

In the end, neither of us recalls having such a strong reaction in any of our travels throughout Latin America, Europe, or Russia. It's hard to pinpoint the problem; maybe it's us. We're relieved to return to that quiet space behind the heavy locked door of the riad. 

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But then something changes. On the morning we leave Tetouan, we don our packs and walk downhill to the beautifully landscaped Lovers Park that nestles into the rocky cliffs near the bus station. We wander about looking for the taxis that go to Ceuta, when we're spotted by an enthusiastic group of young students. They want to know where we're from, how long we've been in their country, and they hope we've enjoyed our stay. They want a chance to practice a bit of English. They want us to take their picture, to remember them and the friendly people of Morocco.

Just when we're feeling down and discouraged, this happens. 

We also remember that a kind man gave us a ride to the bus station in Tangier, and many people helped us navigate through a confusion of French and Arabic in Méknes and back at that dusty bus station in Souk al Arba. So don't ask us. We probably need to return some day and try it all again.

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CEUTA

The students help us to catch a grand taxi to Ceuta (called Sebta, in Morocco) to take a ferry back across the Strait of Gibraltar to Algeciras. We're lucky this time, as there are only four of us in the cab. Carolyn and I share the back seat with a young man who's carrying an old backpack. On leaving Tetouan, we see work crews building a broad pedestrian walk beside the highway. 

As we travel along, we realize they're pedestrianizing and landscaping miles and miles of the roadway. It's more than an hour's ride to the border (it could be 40-50 miles), and a fourth of the work has already been done. But they're now finishing the whole thing. The shear extent of the project surprises us. The King of Morocco clearly has big plans for the Tetouan area and is putting some big money into this 'gateway road.' 

The roadway is a bit inland from the beach, and we pass the many upscale beachfront developments of M'diq. Billboards, in Arabic, English and Spanish, advertise ocean-view condos for sale. It looks like we've morphed through a space-warp into a part of southern California, or the Mexican Riviera.

I'm sitting in the middle of the taxi, straddling the hump. I stick my camera to the window, just in front of the young man sitting there, and snap a few shots. He glances at me and I smile. "We're tourists." I say in Spanish, "We're not from here." He laughs, and returns to watching the road ahead.

I ask the young man, in Spanish, if he's going to Ceuta on business. He says he's going to buy electrical parts for some installations he needs to complete. He tells me he works in a solar photovoltaics company with his brother. At that point, the conversation takes off as I tell him of the solar homes I've designed in the US, and he talks of the project he's doing for a British guy at a remote site outside Assillah, a beach town near Tangier. His name is Adnan Al-Morabet. He's been working toward an Architecture degree at the university in Granada. We exchange cards and we'll end up spending much of the afternoon with him.

At the chaos of the border, Adnan waves off the vendors selling forms you get for free at the customs window, and points us in the right direction. We follow him across the strange 'no man's land' at the border, dodging cars and random barriers. I notice the 'Welcome' sign in Ceuta is in Spanish and French – and not Arabic. We make our way to the bus stop. 

Soon we're in downtown Ceuta enjoying a beer and tapas at an outside cafe. Then Adnan is off to buy his parts before the stores close for the afternoon; afterward he'll head back to work on the Moroccan side of this odd little border spot. I'm sure we'll stay in touch.

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Ceuta is a little peninsula that juts off the coast of north Africa into the Mediterranean. There's a small mountain at the end. It reminds me a little of San Juan, Puerto Rico. The Spanish have claimed this tiny spot on the map, along with another one farther east named Melilla, and a few scattered uninhabited islands, since the 1500s. There's a heavy military presence in the area and there appears to be a tendency among the citizens to revere the 'good times' of the Franco dictatorship. 

We passed up any chance to visit the Franco monument, but wandered by several busts of Homer, Plato, and Aristotle that line the corniche overlooking the harbor. There's also a large statue of Hercules toppling two columns. 

We could have gone to Tangier to catch the ferry back to mainland Spain, but we wanted to visit this political curiosity. We had little interest in staying there for the night and looked forward to a brief stop before catching the ferry. 

As our ferry nears the Spanish coast, the bulk of Gibraltar looms just to the east of us. It's another regional political oddity, another mountain jutting into the Med and connected to the mainland by a sandy peninsula that nicely encloses and protects the busy harbor of Algeciras. The Rock of Gibraltar is the northern half of the pillars of Hercules; Jebel Musa, clearly visible just across the Strait, is the southern half. This is where Hercules, according to legend, pulled the two continents apart. This is where ancient history reads like yesterday's paper, and where nobody ever seems to forget.   

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Back at the Hostal Africa, in Tarifa, we talk to a young woman who lives part of the year in Marrakesh. She tells us the southern area, more Berber than Arab, is much easier to deal with; the Berbers are more relaxed and not as conflicted about women as the Arab northern part of the country. We're glad we experienced the northern area, but feel that maybe we avoided the wrong part of Morocco. 

From the rooftop terrace of the hostel, I glance back at Morocco and reflect on all the things I've learned in a short time. Our two-week stay was a very intense course of study at one of the world's major cultural intersections. There is so much to consider, it will take time to digest it all. In the end, I learned to say "Da bes (Hello)," and "Besalama (Goodbye)," and not much else in Arabic. As for reading the language, forget it. 

Again I look back across the Strait toward the shores of mysterious and compelling Morocco, and I wonder when, or if, we'll ever return. 

That evening we wander the narrow streets of Tarifa, where we blend in with Spaniards and various Euro-tourists. We'll stop and relax with some 'comfort food' – a plate of delicious raviolis, a bottle of good Spanish red wine, and some excellent apple pie. 

Next stop: Sevilla.

 

Transatlantic 2011: The Rocky Road to Chefchaouen

From Meknés, we will head to the mountain village of Chefchaouen as we return to the north and another ferry crossing, back to Spain – if we can figure out how to get there! We probably should have thought of that first, before Carolyn went online and booked us into a nice-looking little place for three nights. As we go through our travel options, it looks like getting there will be complicated. 

We wanted to visit a much smaller city than Meknés or Tangier to see if that changes our perspective on the challenges of Arab culture we've experienced so far. These include the hard 'medina stares' from men sitting in their shops as we go by – avoiding their hungry eyes, without buying anything. We ignore them to avoid their constant entreaties to buy something. Still, the stares take their toll and have often sent us back to our riad, where we're 'prisoners in the palace.' 

We've wandered many foreign streets and alleyways without discomfort, but something's different here. Those hard stares convey, what? 'You have money and we don't?' Probably. 'You're the other, the Christian infidel, our enemy for the past several centuries?' Possibly. And who knows what else. I feel it, but Carolyn feels it much more. I grew up visiting Mexican border towns when I was young and got used to the come-ons, but there's something different, something tougher, here. 

It's such a different culture. There are even two dates on every coin; one represents the 'western calendar year,' and the other dates from the Hejira, when Mohammed fled the city of Medina for Mecca. (i.e., a coin from 2002 also carries the Islamic date 1423.) 

People toss used paper table napkins on the ground to be swept up by the waiters. Is this thoughtless behavior, or do they consider it 'dirty' to have filthy napkins lying next to their food? Do they consider us 'unclean' for leaving them on the table? I don't know.

Morocco poses challenges we've never faced before. At this point, we could retreat to a more 'sanitized' and Europeanized version of Arab culture by avoiding medinas and simply checking into hotels in the ville nouvelle. But for our own odd reasons, we decide to deal with the challenge by going deeper into the unknown. We'll continue to stay in medinas.

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The train does not go to Chefchaouen, or even close, although we could take the train back to Tangier and hop a bus from there. That sounds like way too much backtracking. We try to find a way to take the train to a town along the way, and then catch a local bus onward through the countryside.

But we're in the part of Morocco where the only viable languages are Arabic and French, and we effectively speak neither. Away from the Mediterranean coast the Spanish language recedes, leaving us without any good options. At the ticket counter for the train, we realize how pitiful the remnants of our college French have become after years of disuse. And I wasn't even good at it back in college. But we understand enough to figure out the train idea isn't likely to work.

The high-quality CTM buses also have no route to Chefchaouen without going back to Tangier. Our only choice will be one of the cheap local bus lines, with all that may entail. We catch a 'petit taxi' to the cavernous bus station. It's a cacophonous place, with touts yelling out destinations for various bus lines. Much of Moroccan commercial life seems to be conducted at high volume. 

To our great relief, there is a bus going all the way to Chefchaouen. It looks like the whole thing might be less complicated than we thought. We buy two tickets, wait until our noon departure time, and hope the bus isn't too awful. 

Soon we hear the yelling of "Chefchaouen!" and a man waves us to the gate, along with a crowd of others. We follow him past numerous busses awaiting passengers, and then out across the bus lot to a shady spot against the far wall. He speaks some English and he tells us the bus will pull up over here soon. We wait. 

We pass our time studying the people around us, and we watch two men loading furniture onto the roof of a bus. The guy on top leans perilously over to pull a chest of drawers onto the roof. One of the drawers falls out onto the ground. Clothing scatters on the pavement. We cringe. 

Standing with us are women dressed in flowing robes, and a few old men in small round caps. The younger men wear 'western' clothing. Most of the women wear the colorful head scarves we've seen throughout the medinas. A few steps away, a soldier cuddles his infant baby.

After a while it is well past noon: we figure that's just the way things go. It's only costing us about US$5 each for the trip. It's really a bargain, so we expect a few delays. Finally the guy returns and says something in Arabic to the others waiting with us. They start yelling and looking very concerned. We interpret this as a bad sign. The other passengers begin gathering their things as he explains to us, "Monsieur, your bus, eet ees broken. But your money, eet weel be returned at thee weendow." 

We have reservations that evening in Chefchaouen, which is about four or five hours away, and now there are no other buses going directly to Chefchaouen. It looks like getting there at all is going to take some serious flexibility on our part. 

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It's important to be flexible. In Meknés, Carolyn finally admitted that the aloe toothpaste she bought way back at that aloe vera farm on the island of Lanzarote really wasn't much good as toothpaste. But she found that small amounts worked great as a hair mousse (!); it gave her fine hair lots of body. Flexibility is a good thing.

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We study the very basic Morocco map in the Lonely Planet guidebook and try to figure out our next move. After much discussion in 'Franglish' with the ticket attendant, we buy two tickets to a dusty crossroads called Souk al Arba, and hope we don't get stuck there for the night. We board the bus and sit for a while in the gathering heat – waiting for more passengers, we think. After nearly an hour we feel the bus move, but realize they're just lowering it off a jack! We're glad they're repairing it before departure. 

Soon we're on our way. The bus stops at small towns to let off passengers and pick up others. At each stop an assortment of hawkers jumps aboard to sell candy and drinks. A few offer 'miracle cures' in small bottles. Most of the passengers grimace and ignore them. I sure wish I knew some Arabic.

There's lots of yelling as they vie for attention. I raise my camera to capture the melee; I'm spotted by one of the touts who yells, "Photo!" just in time for all of them to duck behind seats. They emerge, smile, and say, "No photo." I laugh and put the camera away. They're probably not supposed to be on the bus at all, but the driver gets a kickback. Who knows? It's all a mystery to us.

We arrive at Souk al Arba (we think), and the driver motions us off the bus. We start to leave, but several people seem to be telling us not to get off here. This is not our destination. We sit back down and try to sort it all out. In French. Or Arabic. There's an ongoing discussion among the passengers as to whether the foreigners should debark here. The entire bus seems to be involved in the debate. We have absolutely no idea where we are, or what's being said. After this goes on for awhile, the driver returns and waves us to follow him. Yes, apparently, this is our stop. 

In the station we look at the Arrival/Departure schedule hanging above the doorway, and it's all in Arabic –they don't even bother with French here. Oddly, I'm thinking of Blanche Dubois in "A Streetcar Named Desire," who always relied "on the kindness of strangers." We'll rely on the ticket agent and various touts who work the Souk al Arba bus depot – who only speak Arabic or (maybe) French. It's all wonderfully colorful and adventurous, and it's completely unintelligible to us. There's much discussion while they figure out  that if we buy tickets to Ouezzane (Where is Ouezzane?!? We look at our tiny map.), we'll be able to get a 'grand taxi' (one of the ubiquitous Mercedes 240D cabs) to take us to Chefchaouen. That much we understand. This sounds like a plan. We buy two tickets.

The bus to Ouezzane climbs into the hills, with more stops at small villages. The peaks of the Rif Mountains rise in the distance. The villages and farms are timeless and pastoral. 

Our bus arrives in Ouezzane, and a gentleman in a seat behind us speaks to us in English. He's going home to Chefchaouen for a family gathering and will be taking a grand taxi. It will cost us each 30 dirhams (~US$4); he'll show us the way. Now that we're out of the medina, our perspective is changing. Many people help us, and few are trying to sell us something.

We toss our backpacks into the trunk and climb in the back seat. A Moroccan couple is in the front seat, having a quiet conversation. Soon, we hear a door slam and some other guy is sitting in the back seat with us. We wonder what happened to the guy who's visiting his family in Chefchaouen. Then he opens the door and argues with the guy sitting there. The new guy gets out, our friend gets in, then the new guy gets back in! There will be four of us in the back and three (including the driver) in the front. It will be a very cosy hour's ride to Chefchaouen. 

It's also a very fast ride, as our driver does his best Stirling Moss imitation on the curvy highway. The wide and fully-loaded Mercedes negotiates the mountain roads quite well, but I wonder how good the tires are. At this speed, one blowout and we're all history. I really don't mind dying in some exotic location. But not yet. 

At one point in the trip, as we're racing along through the mountains of Morocco and sliding through the turns, I flash a wry grin at Carolyn and say, "You're crazy, you know that?" She grins back and says, "So are you!"

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As a distraction from the driving, I engage our English-speaking friend in conversation. He's a manager for Moroccan Social Security and does a regular route through the country. He's on his way back from Oujda, at the Algerian border. I ask him why the border with Algeria is closed and he tells me it's very complicated. I get the impression we don't have enough time to get into it. It's probably also a sensitive subject best talked about in private. So I mention all the public works and investment we've seen during our trip so far. In every town we've seen infrastructure work underway, and cranes fill the sky over Tangier as private investors move in to build the new Center City. He says the entire country is embarked on major redevelopments and improvements, and that Morocco will be greatly different in five years. 

The country is clearly improving things on a broad scale, under the enlightened guidance of King Mohammed VI. If I were a rich developer, I'd be inclined to take a serious look at Morocco.   

At last we arrive in Chefchaouen, still alive, greatly relieved, and in reasonably good shape. We don our backpacks and thank our friend for his help. Getting to Chefchaouen cost us a lot more than the original five bucks we paid for tickets on the broken bus, but it still wasn't all that much. We think. We kinda lost track of the cost in all the changes along the way.

Then it's off to the medina (again!) in search of the Dar el Baraka, a B&B owned by a family of refugees from the cold of Leicester, in England. Maybe they're some of the early foreign investors here. Baraka means 'blessing' in Arabic, and we were glad to see that it was a very nice place, tastefully done, and reasonably priced at 35 Euros per night. The halls ring with a charmingly heavy Leicester accent – quite a change from the French and Arabic we've heard so far. 

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Chefchaouen is nestled into a valley surrounded by several peaks, with a view to several more lying to the west. It's the gateway to numerous climbable summits and a very large nature preserve. 

It's also the gateway to Morocco's booming kif industry. The UN's World Drug Report 2006 states that Morocco is a major supplier of high-quality marijuana and hashish to the European market, and that 56% of Moroccan production is centered in Chefchaouen province. 

(No, that's not why we decided to come here, and we did not inhale – we have no interest in visiting a Moroccan prison. But it made the trip more interesting.)

The cultivation of kif in the Rif Mountains (origin of the term 'reefer') goes back centuries; it's an important industry, as well as a backyard crop. The UN Report says that about 90,000 Moroccan households are involved in marijuana production. Morocco may be lucky not to have a land connection to Europe, with expensive and ugly security fences on a very long border. But smuggling is nothing new to the old "Barbary Coast" of North Africa, and the speedboats of modern Morocco seem able to meet European demand while the industry provides much-needed jobs in the agriculture sector.

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There seem to be many more young Europeans in 'Chef' (also called 'Chaouen') than we've seen in other parts of the country. One night, we're sitting next to a large table full of young Brits who are having a jolly time of it. Three other young people sit at the table beside us – a young couple from the New York/New Jersey area, and a young woman from China, studying finance in Paris. The young couple have been in Morocco for several weeks and enjoy the friendly, outgoing nature of the people. They may stay longer because Morocco costs about a third of what it costs to travel in Europe. They seem unbothered by the 'medina stare,' and actually, there seems to be less of it in Chefchaouen.

The young Chinese woman concurs about prices in Morocco. She tells us the delicious full meal we just enjoyed, for 50 dirhams each (about US$7.50), would cost around 20 Euros apiece (about US$30) at an average place in Paris. And prices are much higher in the fancy restaurants. We'll be heading back to Europe in less than a week, and we're expecting to suffer severe 'sticker shock' as the US dollar continues its slide. 

We might have picked a better time to visit Europe, but the thieves on Wall Street continue looting the country while the public is distracted by pointless 'Drug Wars' and other follies. Lily Tomlin has said, "The only problem with cynicism is, you can't keep up!" While we're all asleep, the robber-barons stay up late figuring out new ways to rob you. So we figure it's hopeless and we might as well go now, while we still have some money left.

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Walls in the crowded Chef medina are painted a luminous light blue, giving the place a freshness that's very easy on the eyes. It's a small city in a semi-arid mountainous setting that reminds us of the Santa Fe/Taos area. The hills above town are covered with small pines between large granite boulders – a familiar scene to someone who grew up in the Southwestern US. 

From our riad, it's a short walk through "the blue city" to just about anyplace in town. We're staying near the end of an "impasse," a dead-end alley, and each day the voices of local kids playing just below drift in through our window. Sometimes it's a group of boys playing street soccer, yelling about scores and rules. Sometimes it's girls playing an Arabic version of "patty cake, patty cake," complete with hand clapping.  I don't understand the Arabic, but the games are the same as anywhere else in the world. Every day, a man drives his donkey into the alley singing out in melodic Arabic. Our host tells us he collects plastics and other things for resale. 

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We had laundry done at the Dar el Baraka; we'd reached the point where we needed a few clean shirts and undies. In Spain we decided to leave most of our gear at the hostal in Tarifa and travel light, with only two small backpacks. We'd each have three shirts, three pairs of underwear, and two pairs of socks. I carried my old iBook computer and Carolyn took her new lightweight iPad. We'd make do with one pair of shoes each, and I took one pair of pants, while Carolyn took pants and a skirt. We'd wear each shirt and undies for two days at a stretch, but my pants were in it for the long haul. 

This would be a test of minimalist travel – where 'the rubber hits the road.' Could we really do it? We did laundry along the way, but by the time we got to Chefchaouen I think we'd both describe my pants as 'veree fonkee.' We'll get larger backpacks before we do this again.

That suggests the consideration of body odor. We really detected none among the Moroccans we encountered daily in very crowded streets. That may be due to a healthy diet with lots of grain, fruit, and vegetables, or to the cleansing that is required before entering a mosque several times each day. We were probably the most fragrant people in Morocco at the time! Does that mean we're 'in fragrante dilecto?' I'll leave that to the legal scholars.  

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The Chef medina is smaller than others we've explored, and we set off into the heart of it without much concern about getting lost. Small stores are open, people are selling vegetables, construction projects are underway; many appear to be new high-quality hotels. Boys are playing soccer in a small elevated square. As we pass by, the ball drops off the edge and down about five feet to where we're walking. My foot catches it in midair after the first bounce, and I kick it back high onto the square. They give the grey-haired stranger a brief glance and go on playing. I'm not sure what they thought, but I sure impressed myself. Somewhere along the way we pass the Ferreteria Barça. This is truly a soccer-obsessed nation, and the Barcelona team is a perennial favorite.

We find our way to the main square in front of the old Alcazaba. The square is filled with vendors and colorful merchandise, and we have no way to carry any of it with us. But the picturesque old Alcazaba is well worth the 20 dirhams (US$1.60) admission for its displays of historically traditional regional costumes, and a display case filled with elegant old muskets. And there's a surprising exhibition of political cartoons critiquing the frustrations of internal Arab politics, as well as the never-ending conflict with Israel. We can't read the Arabic writing, but the artists are clearly as tough on their own culture as they are on the Israelis. One cartoon showing a terribly overstuffed grand taxi resonates with us.

 
After strolling the verdant gardens of the Alcazaba and imagining the sweet life of a pasha, there's nothing more quintessentially Moroccan than a rooftop teahouse with a sweeping view over the square below and the countryside beyond. We forget to ask that sugar be brought separately, and end up with the usual ultra-sweet mint tea. But it's still delicious, and a great way to savor the afternoon. A couple of young women at a nearby table say "Hello," and smile as they practice a bit of their broken English. The frustration of minimal communication lingers.

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The breakfast area at the Dar el Baraka has a large flat-screen TV. Most mornings it's tuned to the English version of Al Jazeera news, and we watch reports of the convulsions still sweeping the Middle East. I've never watched Al Jazeera before and I'm impressed with the depth of reporting on issues from an Arab perspective. Instead of the usual American-style quickie on-site report, they spend the time they need to tell the story. And there's lots to tell during this extraordinary 'Arab Spring.' 

These reports are being followed closely by Arab viewers from one end of the Mediterranean to the other. It's also being followed by the ruling classes, as TV makes the average person more aware of the world, and they demand a better life. Throughout history new technologies have brought wrenching change to fixed ideas – castle walls were doomed by gunpowder; aircraft brought the end of battleships; TV killed off Frozen Radio Dinners (a notoriously bad investment). The new open world wide information network will likely change the last lingering feudalistic systems of much of the developing world. 

Every few days I buy a Moroccan newspaper like Le Matin or L'Opinion, and sort through the French as best I can. There's a front page report on the impact of the recent European E coli outbreak on Moroccan food crop exports. The other half of the front page shows "Sa Majeste le Roi (His Majesty the King) Mohammed VI" opening a new center for human and social research in Oujda, and visiting scientific research facilities at the University there. On another day, the King announces significant funding for a rural water project or road, sidewalk, and related landscaping projects in central Morocco. And inside, there's coverage of Joe Cocker wowing the crowds at a recent concert at the Mawazine festival in Rabat. Joe's not looking all that bad in the photos, considering it's been 40 years since he wowed the crowds at Woodstock.

I scan an article on "Son Altesse Royale la Princesse (Her Royal Highness the Princess) Lalla Hasnaa" presiding over a benefit dinner in Rabat for women's health and education. A Wikipedia article reports the literacy rate for Morocco as only 52% (65% for men and just under 40% for women). The greatest concentration is in rural areas, where schools and teachers are few and education is less highly valued. 

 

One morning at breakfast, I ask one of our British hosts about all the investment we've seen. He says that in Morocco the King has real power. "He's not just a figurehead like our Royal Family," he continues." Here, when the King says 'do something,' it gets done." 

The Moroccan Royal Family is known for being politically astute and is listening to the drumbeats of the 'Arab Spring.' Although Morocco is considered less oppressive than other Arab countries, there were pro-democracy protests in Fez and other places in February. The Royal Family remains under pressure to better people's lives.

The World Bank report on "Doing Business in the Arab World 2011" lists Morocco as #12 among 20 Arab nations for "Ease of Doing Business." But on a worldwide scale, the country stands at only #114 out of 183 countries. (Singapore is #1; the US is #5; Chad is dead last.) Morocco is one of six Arab nations to institute a one-stop-shop for business registrations to encourage new businesses. But for ease of buying, registering, and selling property Morocco ranks at only #120 in the world. 

Morocco had 9.6% unemployment in 2008. Europe's current economic problems have likely had an negative effect on Morocco. New infrastructure programs should help reduce unemployment and make the country more attractive for the important tourism market, their third-largest industry after agriculture and phosphates. 

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It's been a pleasure to spend time in the small city (pop: 75,000) of Chefchaouen, and we enjoyed being largely ignored by local people, and even capturing an occasional smile. One day I glance into a courtyard, and a man at the gate tries to explain it is a "college" for girls, but that doesn't seem like the right word. He searches for the word he actually wants, and another man says, "school." He nods and repeats the word, "school." 

I ask, "A medersa?" That's the Moroccan word for a madrassa, or traditional school. 

They both crack up laughing that I would know the right term while they're fishing around in broken English. 

"Yes, it is medersa." they say.

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But time is running short as we head back toward the Med.  We'll make one more stop along the way – in the old Spanish Protectorate capital of Tetouan. Then we'll exit through the odd outpost of Ceuta, one of Spain's last colonial leftovers.