Staff of life

It’s with great sadness that I report the WSJ’s wine columnists, Dorothy J. Gaiter Brecher and John Brecher, are hanging up their little tasting cups.

They don’t say why, but they do go out on a high: their list of delicious finds in 2009.

They also leave us with some wine resolutions for 2010. I especially like #3, take a wine trip. After spending two weeks in France—with wine not the focus, yet still playing a great part—I heartily recommend spending at least a day in pursuit of a wine adventure.

On the above-mentioned trip, I had lunch at a café across from the Tour Saint Jacques, what’s left of the church that was the official starting point for medieval pilgrims bound for Santiago de Compostela. On my original trip 30 years ago, I’d stumbled onto the tower accidentally, then made sure to tag it on my way out to Santiago on my bicycle.

On two subsequent trips I found it again without intending to, & each time had a coffee in this café, so I wanted to reconnect this time.

It was a grey, rainy, cold Sunday afternoon, a good day to be inside watching the world. A good day for onion soup. An excellent day for Champagne.

So that's what I had for lunch.

That’s one of the things I love about France. It’s always time for Champagne.

(I did have the soup, too, in case anyone’s concerned.)

So my idea of heaven would be a week in Champagne, trying all types of Champagne; possibly with some food to accompany it, too.

It'll help me weather the loss of Dorothy and John.

Christmas 2009

I decided I didn’t want to spend Christmas in Seattle—for too many reasons to count up, actually. So I joined family and friends in the Palm Springs area.

I flew yesterday, Christmas Day. I’m assuming that the reason both legs of the journey were jammed was that all airlines have cut back on numbers of flights, and of course are flying those crappy smaller craft. (I once flew DC to LA on Christmas day on a DC10; you could have held World War III there & no one would have got hurt. It was wonderful.)

And Alaska Air has achieved what I had thought to be impossible: they’re worse than United when it comes to passenger experience.

For one thing, that “passengers may take aboard one bag to fit in the overhead bin and one other to fit under the seat in front” thing is obviously pro forma. People were hauling on board steamer trunks, practically, and the staff didn’t do anything. When they start announcing that if you’re seated in the last eight rows of the plane, all the overhead bins are already full, so you should just cram your stuff in any place you find open, you know that things are bad.

(Basically, they’re admitting that people are ignoring that “regulation” wholesale with great success, so you’re a chump if you actually adhere to it. And that “carry-on bags must fit into this space” contraption at the gates is a complete waste of space.)

There was more, but you get the drift.

Still, I made it and got home, had a great Christmas dinner of lamb, sautéed squash and watercress and mint salad, and a good old catch-up conversation.

Today we went hiking in a riverbed, in scenery much different from the PNW. (As illustrated by these two pix.)

Soaking in Seattle

Whitewater foliage

Following the hike (my best friend and I were so involved in catching up that we overshot the visitors' center and ended up practically in Cabo San Lucas before we realized) there was a lovely picnic.

Tomorrow we're off to an old-time spa, served by actual hot springs, where the mob used to come in the 30s and 40s. I have a much-needed shiatsu massage lined up for me, and a thorough soak in the thermal waters.

So—flights aside—I hope your holiday was as good as mine.

You knew the job was dangerous when you took it

This comes to me courtesy of a connection of a connection with a DOT MIL email address, so make of it what you will.

I only hope it doesn’t delay the Merry One on his appointed rounds tonight.

As it is, I don’t know how he’s going to mange to get my prezzies to me, since—while I do have a fireplace—it doesn’t have a, you know, chimney. But then, I’m not sure how I rate on the naughty-nice scale this year. So maybe I don’t care.

(But who’ll eat the double-chocolate brownies I’m putting out, with 1% milk?)

Moscow Cat Theatre

I came upon this video, which cracked me up, even though I’m not wild about trained animal acts.

But since I passed on the dogs-decorating-the-Christmas-tree video last week, I might as well give cats equal time.

Enjoy.

Mit brennender Sorge

Troubling news that reinforces the notion that the Holy See grows more clueless with every passing pope: Benedict XVI is fast-tracking canonization for John Paul II & Pius XII.

Coming in the same week as the theft of the Arbeit Macht Frei sign over the main entrance to Auschwitz, it’s a heavy blow to people of good will everywhere, who’d like to think this is a Season of at least the Semblance of Light for the People of the Book.

Frankly, I’m not that wild about the idea of Saint John Paul II, even though he’s got about the best press of any pope since the Apostle Peter. Despite his well-cultivated global outreach and all those trips, John Paul’s papacy was pretty much dedicated to maintaining the status quo of the Church, including the policies of repressing women and covering up for pedophile priests.

Might as well canonize Alexander V.

But it’s Pius XII, the pope who swapped the moral high ground for a continued lease on Vatican City during World War II, who makes a travesty of sainthood.

His apologists claim he was cultivating a delicate neutrality with the Nazis and fascists that enabled him to…well, I’m not sure. Mostly keep despotic hands off Church property and maintain its position of emitting a beacon of light in a black world. And they point to him sheltering Jews in religious properties in Rome after the Germans occupied Italy and started deportations.

Can you say: too little, too late?

I knew you could.

Like John Paul, Pius XII was more concerned with holding on to whatever power and prestige the Roman Catholic Church possessed than in showing real moral leadership. (Given that moral courage was never in greater need than during the Nazi era, the failure of Pius was all the more despicable.)

If they’re handing out sainthoods for that, can Newt Gingrich be far behind?

Bleak midwinter

Lest you think evil is dead, Polish police report that someone has stolen the iron sign over the main gate to Auschwitz. That would be the Arbeit Macht Frei (work makes you free) sign.

Sadly, it’s not difficult for me to imagine why someone might want to take it. In fact, the possibilities of creeps, anti-Semites, ignorant thrill-seekers, opportunists and others are really too abundant.

I just hope to God that the Polish authorities—who have their own challenges with their welcoming of the Holocaust when the Germans came—at least recognize the potential loss of tourist and investment zlotys if they don’t get this sign back and prosecute the thieves.

This is so much more than a property crime.

Friend me? I don't think so

Social networking media have a lot to answer for. They’re like entering a lunatic asylum & being engulfed by the inmates.

I created a Twitter profile about a year ago, solely so I could follow a colleague’s tweets. I’ve never posted so much as a syllable. (For one thing—imagine me being limited to 140 characters to express my thoughts. Not going to happen.) I’m not even sure I know how to log back in to my account.

So why is it that a couple of times a week I receive notifications announcing that Tami Someone or Peggy Whosis (always females) is now following me on Twitter?

Following what, exactly?

(I know, they’re hoping I’ll reciprocate & jack up their numbers. But that’s not going to happen, either.)

& then there’s Facebook…

It’s bad enough when people you worked with for a short time try to “friend” you. You can just hit the ignore button there & forget about it.

But the other day I received one of those chirpy messages from Facebook saying I had a message from [Guy I Used To Go Out With Just Out Of College]. Now, that relationship was pretty fractious, back & forth, forth & back; together tight & break up. Finally I put enough distance between us that I didn’t have to think about him any more.

At one point, about 15 years ago, he tracked me down in Virginia (through a brother-in-law who was way too free with handing out my contact number) & called. Evidently just to chat, because there didn’t seem to be any purpose in that conversation. He did, however, mention he’d been in Adult Children of Alcoholics (as well as a couple of “men’s groups”, which—because he was in them—were not in any way ridiculous).

After we hung up I pieced together the idea that he must be in some sort of 12-step program, & one of them is to make amends to the people you’ve hurt or treated badly. So I bunged off a card saying if that’s what he was doing, his behavior was no longer an issue for me.

Then didn’t hear from him until 2002, when I found his phone number in some old calendars. I called, just for ducks, & we reconnected, long-distance.

Well, that lasted a few months, until he took issue with a comment one of my other friends made to an email I’d mass-sent. There was some verbal flipping off between them (both suffering from testosterone poisoning), & then GIUTGOWJOOC turned on me, for somehow having a connection to “this clown”.

At that point I’d had enough. My last, emailed, words to him were, “Grow the hell up.” He replied but I never opened it; just filed it in the appropriate place.

So imagine my surprise to get that Facebook message from GIUTGOWJOOC, slugged “reestablish contact”: “Are you open to that? If not, I understand, and it’s okay.”

Well, where to begin?

First, I was shocked, because in 2003 he not only didn’t have cable TV, he was using a PC with DOS only, & certainly had no internet connection. (He had email via his employer.) He just used the computer for “writing” (& the less said about that, the better).

So, evidently he’s now moved onto the Information Superhighway in his 1957 Chevy—unless he’s still accessing via work.

Second, that whole “I understand & it’s okay” is typical of his arrogant, condescending belief that he’s somehow superior instead of stunted emotionally. This is his persona: he has much stronger relationships with animals than with humans. (Doesn’t much like men; keeps women at a distance. But animals? He holds true to them to death.)

So, no, he doesn’t understand & it’s completely immaterial to me whether he thinks it’s okay or not.

I looked at his profile, which he has open to the public (which says pretty much everything right there—he’s always had an unlisted phone number, but splashes himself all over Facebook?). Sunday he had 12 friends (one being his dog); today he has 13. So he’s basically just trying to build up his “friends”, even if they’re just electrons on a monitor.

& remember what I said about animals? He lists eight of them as living with him. In an 1100 sq ft two-bedroom/one-bath 1950s rancher, which hasn’t ever been updated.

Will I “reestablish contact”? Uh, no. Will I reply? I can’t think of anything that would completely convey my indifference to ever hearing from him.

I’m going to go wash my fingers, now. Because this has been a foray into the underside of social media & they feel slimy.

Dental health

I have a question, which I’m hoping someone out there can help me with.

Why is it that my employer’s health insurance will cover 100% of just about any medical expense that isn’t blatantly frivolous (including 100% of prescriptions), but only half of dental costs?

I’ve noticed this with pretty much all my health insurance—previous plans certainly didn’t go the 100%-no-co-pay route, but there was still this disconnect between how much they’d pay for doctors and how much for dentists.

What is up with this? Do these insurance wallahs think we go to the dentist for any reason other than because we absolutely have to? Do they think we’re getting fillings for fun? If the billing statement says anything other than “vanity procedure”, do they really think we’re trying to game the system?

I ask as I’ve just had to shell out nearly $700 for a crown, allegedly half the total cost. It’s not like I said to myself, “Hmm, feeling like spending 90 minutes up close and personal with the dentist and his staff, and paying several hundreds for the privilege.” And when the bill goes to the insurance company, it’ll say, “piece of tooth broke off”, so it’s clear I’m not getting veneers.

I’m not sure whether the various healthcare reform bills swirling around the Congressional bowl include dental care; but they ought to.

Neighborscapes

Perhaps you’ll recall that Higher Powers tried to keep me from returning to Seattle from Europe.

And rightly so.

Imagine my sense of pleasure upon pulling up to the house to find that my neighbor, Abbi, has decided to leave all her trash and recycling bins out in front of our shared fence, right between our two gates.

I’ve noticed that people in this particular neighborhood just leave their bins out on the curb all the time. Which means they have to schlep their trash, yard waste and recycling out there several times between collection, rather than keeping them at home and wheeling out the bins once a week (or every two, in the case of recycling).

This has all the charm of living in the projects, but with a higher mortgage payment.

But, since we don’t get pick-up from our house fronts (we have to wheel the containers about 75 yards out to an actual, you know, curb), it’s not clear to me what the advantage of leaving the bins out in public, instead of inside her property line, is. I mean, it’s not as though she’s actually landscaped her 20 square feet of land and consequently has aesthetic objections to keeping them there (as she’s done for the past six months).

It seems I unwittingly moved into a trailer park. Lucky me.

Canine Christmas

I interrupt this string of posts about France to bring you this video. Just think of it as a holiday gift.

I wouldn’t hold out hopes that your own four-footed friends will do the same for you, though.

Champs Elysées

On my last day in Paris I headed over toward the Arc de Triomphe—hadn’t been there since my first visit 30 years ago, when I’d been overwhelmed by what I termed the “belligerent patriotism” expressed all over that monument.

I got off the Métro at the Champs Elysées/Clemenceau station and ascended to…a marché de Noël.

That put paid to the idea of me walking all the way down to the Arc. I am a sucker for Christmas Markets. I’ve taken two separate trips to Germany just to see the Christkindlmärkte: Nürnberg, Köln, Augsburg, Dresden, München. It’s wonderful, being in the crisp cold air, sipping a nice hot Glühwein, occasionally indulging in a bratwurst and just walking up and down the rows of merchant huts.

These days much of the merchandise comes from China, and the EU has probably cracked down on hygiene standards for the food products sold so flavor has disappeared. But those markets are still wondrous.

They were setting up a marché in Bordeaux, but it didn’t open until the day I had to leave, so I missed out on it. And I hadn’t even considered Paris, much less le plus grand boulevard de la ville.

Well, I had to wander up one side, down the other and then back up again. I must have looked like Gomer Pyle, oohing and ahing over all the goods on offer. There’s a lot of the same stuff scattered about, but I did find things suitable for Christmas and Chanukah gifts. And of course I had a cup of Glühwein.

(In Germany they serve it in an actual cup; they charge you a deposit and then you get it back when you return it to one of the many Glühwein stands in a market. Here it was in a paper cup.)

In addition to the vendors, there were carrousels and other little rides for children. Didn’t have the cozy feel or a market crowded into one of the town squares, but it was still a find.

Never made it to the Arc de Triomphe; but it’ll be waiting for me the next time I go there.

Bump in the road

Back in Seattle. Deep joy.

It was a close-run thing. I had a 0640 flight from LHR to CDG, which was to arrive at 0900, plenty of time for me to make the 1030 flight to the States. I set two alarms for 0345 to ensure I got to Heathrow by 0500 to get myself & my bags checked in & be well ready for boarding at 0605.

Only for some unfathomable reason, they held up take-off for 40 minutes, for six people. An entire A321 full of passengers blown off for six.

Naturally the delay lost us our take-off slot, so more wait. & then, descending over Paris we lost power in one engine, so a complete circuit to come in upwind.

The upshot was that we docked about five minutes after boarding started for the Seattle flight.

I sprinted across two very long sections of Terminal 4E, flinging myself through yet another security screening, & barely got on the aircraft before they closed the doors.

My checked bags, of course, weren’t as fast as I, which is what I’d expected.

(I should be grateful, I suppose, that I made the connection—many of my fellow Paris passengers didn’t make theirs at all.)

Well, I’m putting it down to the concept that Forces there are that don’t want me in the Emerald City. With which I fully concur.

London & London

Greetings from London. Quite the change from 30 years ago—it’s amazing what an American Express card can do for a girl.

And regular showers.

It was a bit of a comedy getting out of Paris—for some reason my hotel reception gave me a wake-up call at 0430.

They got the wrong room.

Well, couldn’t get to sleep after that, so at 0630 I just got up and got ready to get to the airport. At 0700 it took only about 25 minutes, which is pretty fast for central Paris to Charles de Gaulle.

I have to say that the flight, while far superior to the boat train I took in 1979, was something of a damp squib. I’d been thinking of the trips I used to take on BA on the LHR-CDG run. In this respect the Brits had it all over Air France.

Of course, that could have changed, too—last time I took BA was in 2001.

Once here it was a bit of a struggle—although I had a first class ticket for the Heathrow Express, the first class coaches were locked and I couldn’t get in to them. Interesting marketing ploy.

Then, the cabbie didn’t appear interested in helping me get my three bags into the cab—what’s up with that?

I’m staying at the Park Lane Hilton—a far cry indeed from 30 years ago when I shared a room at a cheap flop (WC down the hall) with an American woman returning from Greece whom I met on the ferry. She and I took a ride on a double-decker bus as our entertainment that evening, and were both aghast at the fact that it cost 50p (about $1 then).

(I’m not actually paying Park Lane prices for this—I used some of my Amex points that I couldn’t use for the air fare for this. Not that I have to apologize, but it’s just such a contrast to that very first stay.)

Back then I was waiting for my bike to catch up with me, checking constantly at the Victoria Station baggage office. I was very worried about how long my money would hold out (no credit cards, remember). When it finally came in (minus a few tools out of the panniers), I went to a removals company to get a carton for it, and then to Woolworth’s to get a wrench (one of the tools that had disappeared) and went to work right there to get the bike into the carton.

Then out to Gatwick, where I spent the night right there, waiting for the next day’s Laker flight to LA. (Lying across some seats at the airport is cheaper than even the cheapest student share; probably not markedly more uncomfortable, either.) My splurge was a paperback copy of The Long Goodbye, which turned out to be my favorite Raymond Chandler book.

One final discovery on that trip.

I’m off now, to have a stomp through some of the places I liked when I lived here, and then dinner tonight with a friend. Another good way to end a trip.

(Posted at 0957 on Tuesday 2 December, London W1.)

Paris sera toujours Paris

I still have to officially get myself back to Paris/London from Santiago in 1979.

As you’ll recall, I bought a train ticket and trusted l’Escargot Rouge to the baggage car.

At first one of the porters situated me in a first-class car. Despite my attire I think he figured out I was an American and therefore would not be with the riff-raff. Then a conductor came along and rousted me—he was suspicious that I had ideas above my station and was trying to sneak a first class ride.

He conducted me to my appropriate compartment—where I did have a reserved seat, amongst three Portuguese guys going back to jobs in France and Spain from time off at home.

I’ll tell you what—no one needs entertainment devices when you’re in second- (or maybe it was third-) class compartment with three Portuguese workers. One spoke only Portuguese, one Portuguese and Spanish & the third Portuguese and French. The latter two were translating for the former and asking their own questions. I was in a blizzard of multi-lingualism.

Plus—they were going back to their jobs (I got the impression that the only way they could support their families was to go outside Portugal) completely laden with food and drink from home. They gave me pork sandwiches, and each seemed to have a different type of Portuguese wine; in plastic five-gallon (it seemed) jugs. And I had to try each one. (There was one that I think was vintage Sunday—I mean, several layers peeled right off the enamel of my teeth.)

It seems that Portuguese wine is much better than any plonk you can get in Spain, or France. We spit on your French or Spanish wine.

There were also Portuguese cookies and Portuguese cognac. I shudder to think of that combination now, but it didn’t seem to do me any harm at the time.

A fourth Portuguese guy joined us in the morning—he was working in Germany.

At Hendaye I said adios/au revoir to my new friends and changed to a Paris train. I took the time to buy some bread and cheese for the trip. I planned on staying in the train station in Paris to save money on a hotel, so I thought I might be able to have a hot meal at a restaurant when I got there.

On the journey I spent some time talking with a young Spaniard who confirmed my observations that the Spanish weren’t too concerned with history; they wanted to forget the past and were into novelty. As he put in: afuera, afuera.

At the Gare du Nord I put my sleeping bag and lunch in the consigné, then went looking for dinner.

I was at an Italian place, really minding my own business; I was. Two Swedish businessmen started a conversation with me. Well, one of them did, in English, the other may or may not have understood the language and he just didn’t speak. I thought of them as Paul Bunyan (this guy was enormous) and Babe the Blue Ox.

Well, Paul told me they’d been to Paris 12 times in the previous year (one week at a time), and hated it. Paul bought me a Grand Marnier and would have paid for my dinner if I’d let him. (I try to follow the dictum that if you can afford to buy your own beer you don’t have to rassle for it.)

Paul invited me to see Paris at night. I thought, what the hell, and schlepped my rucksack and handlebar bag (the panniers were still on the bike) and went. He drove like the insane—at one point cranking the little Renault up to 100kph on the Champs Elysées. We went to a cabaret, where they insulted the maître d’hôtel, resulting in us getting a table. The show was a mix of striptease and vaudeville. I noted that “the strip part wasn’t really interesting, except for the costumes and the fact that they were doing routines on a tiny stage. But the two vaudeville acts (one with puppets) were fun.”

We drove back to their hotel, across from the station; the ride was even wilder than the one before. Babe, who’d fallen asleep at the cabaret went straight to his room; I had an orange juice with Paul in the hotel bar.

Seems his company (he was president) was a subsidiary of some firm in Connecticut. He specialized in a metallurgical treatment to strengthen nuclear turbines. (I’m not making this up; I’m just reporting it.)

He invited me to spend the night in the extra bed in his room—no funny business, etc. Just a bed.

Then he said, “There’s a bath tub.”

Okay, it’s good to know what one’s price is, and sometimes a girl’s just gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. So I accepted.

I must have spent half an hour in that tub; I don’t even want to think what dirt was left on the fixture. When I got out, Paul was already asleep, so I crawled into the extra bed and did likewise.

In the morning he insisted on me having breakfast at the hotel. I felt a little awkward, dragging in my gypsy bags and looking like a ragamuffin, but Paul and Babe were oblivious. In the end I decided I’d never see any of these people again, so who cares?

The waitress took a very dim view of me there getting breakfast amongst all those businessmen, however. When Paul gave her his room number, she went away to check, and then returned to say, “Monsieur has a single room!” and Paul said he’d pay for my meal; to which she sniffed, obviously thinking me no better than I should be. And it cost 12F50, which was a huge sum to me at the time. And it fortified me for the trip to London.

And it was a very nice way for me to end the Continental part of my journey. I mean, really: a bath, a bed and breakfast. What better is there in life?

I’m headed to London myself in the morning. No boat train for me this time; Air France. Business class. (Here’s how whacked air fares are: I looked into business class prices SEA-CDG and took a deep breath. Then I checked out RT on the EuroStar, Paris-London; and that was more than $700. So I took a look at what flying RT, to get back to CDG to return to Seattle, would cost. And can you feature: the total fare for SEA-CDG-LHR-CDG-SEA went down by 25%?)

The hotel breakfast here is pretty good; but I’m guessing the one I had with Paul and Babe was just spectacular, by comparison.

I did indulge at the hotel’s chocolates bar this afternoon, after walking 19K steps. Had chamomile tea and three exquisite dark chocolates (one with raspberry filling, one with vanilla and one with coffee). Mon Dieu—magnifique! And tonight I’m going to a place nearby for bouillabaisse.

No vaudeville, though.

(Posted at 1800 Monday 30 November, 7ème arrondisement, Paris)

Arrival in Paris

It’s Black Friday in the US, and I’m writing this in my hotel room in Paris. I’m so glad I’m missing all that michegoss, although the Net does keep you apprised whether you will or not of all the bargains to be had and how you can actually save more by not going into stores but ordering online.

I took the TGV, Bordeaux-Paris/Montparnasse in a skosh over three hours (stops in Angoulême and Poitiers). It took me four days to drive from Paris to Bordeaux this past week, and 12 to do it n vélo 30 years ago.

There’s nothing like riding in a train at high speed, countryside whizzing past you too fast to really take in to make you contemplative. I’d had a whole list of things to see/do in Paris, but decided that maybe I should just slow down and be here, just as I was on the train.

I’m here for four nights, I don’t have to do anything.

Insight number four: even in Paris I don’t have to rush about at Mach 2.

(Posted at 1632 Friday 27 November, 7ème arrondissement)

Pilgrims' pass

Wednesday I left Bordeaux and headed out for Roncevalles (French: Roncevaux), the port to Spain for pilgrims coming from various places in France.

It was a long drive—I of course made it in a few hours. Thirty years ago it took five days. I knew both times I was headed into le Pays Basque—the town names started getting outlandish. These days the signs are in both French/Spanish and Euskara.

I stopped off for a bite at Saint Jean Pied-de-Port. In ’79 I was again caught out without a place to stay. I was directed to a house where I was told they took in guests. As it turns out, I’m not sure that was actually the case, but they took me in, and I had an evening of conversation and a magnificent bed to sleep in. Best of the entire trip.

Saint Jean Pied-de-Port

Just beyond there, I recall stopping in a bar/resto for café au lait (I swear I lived for that stuff on that trip). There was a Pentecostalist there and we talked about faith, society and Christ. My French was pretty comprehensive back then. He was interested in the pilgrimage and gave me a pocket version of St. John’s gospel. I have it with me now.

And it’s odd, as le Pays Basque is a tough country—not in a barren sort of way, like Estremadura, but in the sense that the living you pull from the land is hard-won. Fields are farmed or grazed almost on the vertical. And you’d think the people would have been less open to taking in raggedy strangers.

(Actually, I remember telling la patronne that I’d named my bike l’Escargot Rouge, because it goes slow and carries my home on its back. And in the morning, when I was getting ready to leave, she remarked, “Il faut préparer l’escargot”—time to prepare (cook) the snail.)

It’s a lovely town; and again you know you’re in Basque country because the accents are more explosive.

(Back in ’79 I stayed a couple of nights in rooms above bars as I wended my way through Navarra. I was sure there were brawls going on from the sounds of the voices and that in the morning I’d have to wade my way through blood and debris on my way out. But no such thing. Evidently they’d been discussing the weather or something; that’s just the way the language sounds.)

I was already in the higher foothills, because my ears had popped a couple of times; but the real climb began after leaving St Jean P-d-P. Le pauvre Lapin Gris was having a bit of a strain, it being diesel and all.

Jill told me the speed limit was 90 km, but that’s got to be a pipe dream. Unless you’re driving a Ferrari and you can cut those curves really tightly, there’s no way you’re going to hit 90. If I went 70 it was only for about 30-40 meters at a stretch. Most of the time I was in 3rd or 4th gear; sometimes 1st and 2nd.

Those switchbacks were amazing. I mean, beyond hairpin. As I was climbing, all I could think was, I did this on a BIKE? It was 30 years ago, and all—but I did this on a BIKE? I know I finally got off the thing and pushed, but I still don’t know how I did it.

That apparently is sheep country. I saw a few just on the other side of the guard rail at one point and was musing about whether they ever got out on the road, when I turned a corner and there was a flock coming right down for me. They stopped, as though figuring out what to do about this situation. Then they trotted forward and passed me on the left, while I stayed put. Their keeper and his dog followed along.

Basque sheep

(This being Spain, he didn’t acknowledge me at all.)

You climb and climb and suddenly you emerge at Roncevalles I have to say that I found it as inhospitable as 30 years ago—there are a couple of restaurants, church of Saint James and the old abbey, which is now turned over for lodging pilgrims. It was chained off.

The patronne who ran the little place where I’d conversed with the Pentecostalist had told me that I could get a list of places to stay in Spain for pilgrims at this abbey. When I appeared there the man I spoke with denied all knowledge of such places and sent me on my way.

(Pilgrimages weren’t the big business then that they are now, but still.)

I did, as instructed by my friend, pause to listen for Roland's horn, and to check my baggage train. (On both trips, actually.)

Battle of Roncevaux, at Roncevalles

At pretty much every stage of my journey back then, I’d tell myself, well—you got through this okay, but the hard part starts now. And every time I managed to get through it; and then told myself that the really hard part starts now.

I will say this: Spain was definitely a hard part. For one thing, the terrain was all up and down and I was riding against the prevailing winds; at times I thought I was pedaling as fast as I could just to avoid going backwards. (BTW: a haircut with bangs is not a good choice if you’re traveling by bicycle; they stand straight up most of the time. You're welcome.)

For another, this was just a few years after Franco’s death; no one was amused by anything; the hard times were definitely not passed and gone. And there were no youth hostels (I think maybe youth weren’t meant to waste their time in traveling; they were supposed to get out there and work.) and it was November, which isn’t the gayest month of the year in the Northern Hemisphere.

Moreover there was a lot of honking at me. I’m not talking what I encountered in France—a little beep to let you know someone was coming up around you. These guys (including truckers and tractor drivers) would wait until they were just a couple of meters away and then lay on the horn. Apparently the Spaniards were amused by such things.

I was traveling in Navarra, Basque territory (although thankfully going down slope) and then Estremadura. That is one grim place. The conquistadors mostly came from Estremadura, And it occurred to me as I passed through that they must have felt right at home in northern Mexico and southwest US. I saw farmers ploughing their fields with oxen—never saw that in France.

Poco a poco se va lejos

As you came into a town there’d be a sign indicating the name and some point of interest, such as twelfth century church. But when you got into the town, the church wouldn’t be marked and when you finally found it, it would be locked up tight. Even the cathedral at Logroño was closed. I didn’t get it—Spain’s about the most Catholic country around; how could their churches not be open?

(They probably are now—pilgrimage is a money spinner.)

I did run into some kind people who were interested in my trip and wished me well. And there were some spectacular star shows at night.

However, my journal is full of daily (or near-daily) notations, “this is a real low point.” I was tired, dirty, alone, struggling to understand the customs (and, while I did speak Spanish, it’s New World Spanish, so the locals thought I talked funny and my mama dressed me badly).

In one village an old woman gathering mushrooms stopped me to ask what I was all about. She was quite interested in the trip. And she was illiterate—she could not read my map to give me directions.

The weather kept getting colder. I was actually wearing my parka and gloves, and wasn’t working up a sweat. When it got to the point—just before León—that I was wearing two pairs of socks and my toes were still getting numb, I thought I should work out something else.

It felt like cheating, but I bought a train ticket from León to Santiago. However, having the bike turned it into a whole big meal. I could take the 1400 train, but l’Escargot Rouge would have to go on a different train. I didn’t understand why that should be and the guy at the baggage place just kept saying the same things, only louder. I was so frustrated I started to cry.

That got everyone’s attention. It seemed that there was an 0200 train to Santiago; I could take it and l’Escargot Rouge could go with me. There would be a change, but that was better than wondering where my transportation was.

I walked around the town for part of that time. Guy at the bank where I changed some money was quite impressed that I’d come that far on the bike, and was sympathetic that I’d had to change my plans. A woman in the station waiting room assured me that Northern Spain isn’t the country at its best. I should go somewhere like Sevilla, where people are “más alegre”.

As it happens that train trip was ghastly. The 0211 train didn’t arrive until after 0300; and then I missed my connection for Santiago. They sent me on via bus, but the bike didn’t go with me. In all, it was more than 11 hours and I arrived without my wheels.

When I got to the cathedral I was crying again—really, a whole range of emotions. I actually put my arms around the statue of Santiago and held on to his metal robes for a few minutes, tears just streaming down.

It was so strange to think that I was finally there.

I spent some time in the cathedral over a couple of days, both contemplating and watching the other pilgrims.

Well, there was another massive kerfuffle about getting me and the bike on a train to return to London. At first the baggage guy sent me to a bike shop for a box, which they gave me; but then he realized that I was going all the way to London, and therefore the only way I could take it with me for free would be for it to be unboxed. Well, by that time I had it in pieces, mostly in the box

The shipping clerk confirmed that crating it would mean an extra 1000 pesetas. Which, I assure you, I did not have. And you'll recall, I also did not have credit cards.

And at that point I lost it. Way worse than at León, and with much the same response. The jefe de equipajes told me I shouldn’t cry in Spain. I was speaking in English and he told me to speak Spanish. All the while he was helping me pull the pieces of l’Escargot Rouge out of the carton and put it back together.

Two of his colleagues came in, and he explained the situation to them, and went on to tell me not to cry, I shouldn’t think no one wants to help me, but rules are rules. It was a constant stream of talk, and all the time I was sobbing and trying to get the damned bike back in one piece.

This man was a prince. Really.

He told me to buy my ticket in the morning; even came running after me after I was out of the station to give me the address of the central office (you couldn’t buy a ticket to London at the local office, and I needed the ticket for the full trip so he could check the bike through to Victoria). When I had it, he instructed me, I should take it to him so he could get the bike checked in, and I could spend the rest of the day relaxing.

I did as he directed and thanked him sincerely. He repeated that I shouldn’t leave Spain feeling bad about it.

And I went off to Mass at the Cathedral of Santiago.

L'Escargot Rouge on the Road to Santiago

(Posted 1745 Saturday 28 November, 7ème arrondissement, Paris)

Bordeaux, mon amour

Thirty years ago I was in love with Bordeaux—I thought it the most charming city I’d ever seen.

Looking back on it, I think that was because of the people I came across there. They were sympathique.

The Auberge de Jeunesse there was one of the larger ones. There were a lot of folks there taking bike trips through Europe, going in all directions. Some were looking for work; some were looking for life, I guess. They were all traveling a lot faster than I was—often going more than 150 km per day. (I think on my best day I did about 100 km. But I wasn’t in a race.)

My first night there I was writing in my journal in the dining hall but got distracted because a British guy named Jerry was playing his guitar and singing. I went over and joined the music. That went on for nearly three hours, and it was one of the better evenings I’ve spent (before or since).

Funny, aside from him loving Arlo Guthrie’s “City of New Orleans”, the only thing I remember about Jerry is that he had one of those commando sweaters, with the patch on the shoulder for resting your rifle against. Well, and he was quite good on the guitar.

There was an American couple, Joe and Amy; they were spending a year biking around Europe. They’d intended to take the night train to Milan, but didn’t make it, so they were back in the AJ my second night. Amy and I pooled a couple of francs each and bought a Coke from a vending machine; we split it, trying not to let anyone see us sucking down that exemplar of American cultural and economic hegemony. (McDonald’s was indeed in evidence, although not like it is today; I don’t think I saw one outside of Paris.)

The Dutch guy I met while singing the first night headed off, hitchhiking to Toulouse.

I was cycling around the city when I ran across the German fellow, also cycling. He didn’t have the money for the hostel, so he was mostly spending nights outdoors. I wrote about our visit to the Grand Synagogue last November.

And I went to the musée de la résistance/Jean Moulin. I found that fascinating—it was a kind of amateur presentation, in a small space. But it had an utterly amazing collection of propaganda posters, both German & French, from the occupation. I told myself I’d come back some day when I had more time to really go through them.

Well, it’s now Centre Jean Moulin (Moulin was a key figure of the résistance, a charismatic leader who managed to get all the fractious and disparate groups (most of whom had agendas that went way beyond getting rid of the Germans, usually involving getting rid of the other groups) working together reasonably well. He escaped the Nazis a couple of times, but in the end was betrayed, tortured and died of injuries). And it’s more sophisticated, in a prime location on three flours catty-corner from the cathedral.

But there are no posters, at least none on display. That was a letdown. I don’t think I’ve exaggerated their power over the years because I wrote about it right at the time. But a real bummer.

And I went to the Grand Synagogue; but it’s now fenced off, with gates locked shut. No even getting to the door, much less being buzzed in without escort.



I guess back in ’79 we were in the golden window between the Nazi anti-Semites and the Islamist and Front National anti-Semites.

(BTW--rather than mess with maps for walking around the city, I dismantled Jill from her fixture for the car and carried her around with me on foot. Thank God she didn't do her usual shouting; I think I was moving too slowly for her to get it together. But I did get street-by-street instructions, which worked pretty well. It's times like these, though, that you wish you had an iPhone and worldwide 3G access.)

Leaving Bordeaux 30 years ago, I knew there were no AJs, so I’d be spending nights in the open. My first night out there was this rest stop by the highway. There was a caretaker’s residence (with the ubiquitous dog), so I was careful not to show any light and to stay behind trees so as not to attract attention. There was also a WC on a covered cement slab, but that was too exposed to the caretaker’s line of sight.

During the night I woke up because it sounded like it was starting to rain. I moved my stuff to the covered area before I realized it wasn’t raining at all.

However, moments later it started chucking it down in earnest.

Saved by a confusion/delusion.

The next night I stayed in a dilapidated abandoned house about 10 km south of Dax—about the only one I saw in France. (A lot more in Spain.) It was a gorgeous day—clear and sunny and crisp. Great for cycling.

Here’s something I remarked upon, which I’ve found constant: travel is not a clean thing. Even now, with a car and hotels, by the end of every day I’m ready for a bath, a hot, mineral bath to wash away the dirt and tension. Then in the morning I shower to start off the day thoroughly clean. Rinse and repeat every day.

So imagine what I must have been like, traveling by bike, staying in places that only had hot water on a hit-or-miss basis; no baths, just showers if you were lucky (And I took cold ones when necessary, just to try to scrape off some of the grime).

In one AJ up in the Pays Basque, where I was by myself, I turned on all the burners on the stove, heated water in every pan I could find, and took a spit bath right there in the kitchen. (But it’s not the same as a real one—you just never feel like you got yourself clean.)

And my clothes—please! Those suckers needed to be burnt when I got home. (I think I threw them out.)

My comment at the time was, “I really don’t think I’d want to do this in anyone’s company; it’s bad enough when I have to appear in civilization like this.”

Actually, I tried to not go anywhere in civilization that had bright lights. Just stayed in the shadows trying to look invisible.

(One of my roommates in the student foyer where I stayed in Paris was an Australian who was back-packing around the world with her boyfriend. They were just coming to the end of their year’s trip. I asked her how the two of them were surviving the travel. She commented that when it’s cold and rainy, and you’re dirty, and you’ve just missed the last train for the night—it’s tough. However, they were still getting along.)

Insight number three: it’s a lot easier to focus on your intention when you can get clean. And sleep in a warm place.

(Posted at Bordeaux, 2100 Thursday, 26 November)