• A Response #notpretendingtoknowmore#thanyou#or anyone else
  • News

travels without fiona (the dog)

~ A topnotch WordPress.com site

travels without fiona (the dog)

Category Archives: travelogue

Evidence we may not be campers

19 Saturday Sep 2015

Posted by ehaneystuart in Photography, Reflection, travelogue

≈ 4 Comments

Fiona and St. Francis

Fiona and St. Francis

Typical mess

Typical mess

Fancy coffee maker we love (not appropriate for camping

Fancy coffee maker we love (not appropriate for camping)

6 months of jam, note Red Vines in background

6 months of jam, note Red Vines in background

No poisoned apples

Not poisoned apples

P1012627

Lunch at the Wet Dog

Beautiful Columbia River

Beautiful Columbia River

Picture of Fiona not barking

Picture of Fiona not barking

She Who Must Be Obeyd

She Who Must Be Obeyed

My family never camped. Family vacations involved long car rides to see other family. There was an element of camping because we slept on the floors of our cousins’ rooms sometimes. At my Aunt Alma’s farm we didn’t camp but my sister and I slept with one or another girl cousin upstairs in the dormitory style room at the farmhouse. It was sort of like camping. Aunt Alma and Uncle Larry had 11 children—7 girls and 4 boys; the house had 2 bedrooms as well as the long dorm room and one bathroom. My brothers remember when there was an outhouse instead of a bathroom and I have vague memories of using that outhouse when the bathroom was occupado. We loved the farm—because of the cousins, the freedom…and the vehicles. There was always something to drive—years before legal driving age arrived: my cousin Danny’s motorized go-cart, a tractor, snowmobiles, even bicycles down long country roads. Years later I realized that going to the farm gave my parents a break from us (they didn’t’ stay there) and an opportunity to see other family and friends. My parents grew up near Detroit, briefly attended the same school, went to Guardian Angel Catholic Church, and knew each other for most of their lives. Since Dad was in the air force, my family lived all over the world and I wonder if the 20 moves during the first 10 years of their marriage is why camping had little appeal.

If I don’t count an unfortunate day camping episode that involved dropping all the hot dogs in the dirt and burning my fingers on a primitive stove that involved hot wax and a can , which led to an end of my brief career as a girl scout, I never camped until I was in college. At that time a friend of a friend had access to family land on the Mason-Dixon Line so we often headed north to “Beth’s land” to camp in loose groups of fairly clueless college chums. Luckily there was usually someone along with experience to guide us and keep us alive. Mainly I remember utilitarian tents, (very) basic food prep, and inebriated fun as we hiked and waded in the stream that flowed through the property. One time I went camping with some forgotten people somewhere in Virginia and we went canoeing. That time in my life is a genuine blur. I worked selling shoes and periodically waitressing, carried a heavy load of college classes, lived in a sub-standard (scary) apartment, and plotted my escape from East to West Coast.
Flash forward to life in California: I’m in my twenties with my first teaching job (thought I was rich when my first contract for nearly $10,000 was signed). Camping was the way I vacationed then and there is plenty of beautiful camping in NorCal. We (and who “we” was changed periodically) tent camped in state and national parks mainly, occasionally forced into a commercial camping area. In those days, people mostly camped in tents; the fancy ones had those extra pop up shades to put over the park-supplied tables. The really fancy ones had Coleman stoves and lamps and didn’t have to climb into their sleeping bags at dark. Somewhere in my late twenties I started seeing more trailers at campgrounds. How I loathed getting behind someone pulling a trailer up winding mountain roads. Even more I hated the loud generators that roared all night keeping wimpy would-be campers comfortable. Why I wondered didn’t these people, who needed all these electrically driven comforts, stay home? I still wonder but now I wonder it about myself.
Camping stated losing its appeal when I had a baby. Camping (or as I called it: doing housework and childcare in the dirt) was less relaxing with a toddler to chase over uneven ground, keep from the fire, and bathe in “3 minutes for 50 cents” showers. Still I persevered for a while and hope those pictures of my son fishing, playing with friends, listening to ranger talks, and eating s’mores provide Max with nice memories. I notice he doesn’t camp and has consistently ignored my efforts to foist a sleeping bag, pad and equipment on him.
So now, retired and in possession of a fifth wheel and the time to camp, I wonder what I have gotten myself into. We’ve had our truck and trailer for almost five years and have managed to use it for about 30 days total. Initially I was working and unenthused about spending my limited free time cooking and doing housework on wheels (sound familiar?). Also, people lie to you about how effortless camping with an RV is. It’s true. They rhapsodize about the ease and mobility, post gorgeous scenes on FB, and suddenly acquire a whole new group of camping friends. A case in point is my brother Mike. I have never known him to be an excessively social person but now, a mere year and half after acquiring a fifth wheel and truck, he has embraced camping with evangelical fervor. He and Peggy, his genuinely social wife, spent 100 days in their rig last year; this year they will again achieve that goal. They travel to rallies with other RV owners they’ve befriended and apparently have the times of their lives hiking and socializing. They camped last March, in Virginia, on purpose. It’s cold then and I know my brother well enough to know that he doesn’t run the heater all night. So Mike and Peggy woke and could see their breaths when they said “good morning.” However, and I want to be clear about this, I envy them. Mike and Peggy seemed to have rolled into RV life effortlessly: staying in beautiful places, making new friends, reconnecting with old friends and, and basically doing it right. My Mike and I, on the other hand, can’t seem to get our crap together.

Currently we are camping in Oregon on the coast, which I have to characterize as our “safe place.” We’ve had fun camping in Oregon. Last summer we camped on the coast with our children and grandchildren—a different kind of fun but well worth it. We also camped on the coast and in the wine country with our good friends Randy and Sue. They are experienced campers and a lot of fun, which is great for us novice RV-ers. We were supposed to go on a month long, 7000 mile, camping trip to Canada and Alaska with Randy and Sue in July but I ended up back East instead. Mike and I were really looking forward to this trip but if our current camping experience is any indication, we weren’t ready for it. When I told people about the proposed trip to Alaska they reacted in one of two ways, both extreme. They either glowed and said it was their dream to go on a trip through western Canada and into Alaska or recoiled in horror and suggested we fly into Anchorage and rent a car. I think the second group may know us a little better.
Today is Day 10 of a two-week trip and we are in a campground/ golf course in Astoria, OR. This clean and lovely park provides golf carts, a pet area the size of a football field, water/sewer/Wi-Fi, and an activity room for us to meet with our imaginary RV friends. With an Airstream on either side of us and motor coaches dotting the sites along the golf course, we are clearly the poor relations here. It hasn’t been particularly warm (but that was the point, wasn’t it) so we haven’t fired up the grill. Perhaps that’s how campers meet each other. Our favorite camping food seems to be Red Vines. I’m not bothered by the sounds of the other campers running their heaters, watching television etc. because I can’t hear them over our own noise. Right now I’m using a laptop, the space heater is running, Mike is using hot water generated by the propane tank to shower, and the little dog is wearing a sweater and huddled in her special bed. Not exactly roughing it. The list of things we should’ve brought lengthens daily and features both the obvious (matches, playing cards) and the ridiculous (heated, therapeutic socks). The list of things we were going to do and didn’t, expands: write for 3 hours a day (me), work on genealogy (Mike), and walk at least 5 miles a day (both). So on Day 10 we are finally kicking in. Mike is walking the dog and I’m finally writing. What I have done is listen to 3 books on tape, read the new Jack Reacher novel, crocheted most of a scarf, think about writing, watch the little dog’s antics, serve several “snack” dinners, and figure out how to stream “Monarch of the Glen” through Netflix on Mike’s computer.

I’m including some pictures in this blog of our messy camper, the jams Mike buys in every town (apparently he harbors a morbid fear of a post-apocalyptic jam blight), and a few shots of the titular focus of this blog. For now this is “Travels — with Fiona.”  Traveling with Fiona is like traveling with a canine Scarlet O’Hara. She is self-centered but adorable, vociferous about getting her needs met while laying on the charm whenever necessary. We were concerned that she would bark constantly and disturb the other campers but Fiona barely barked the first 8 days of the trip. Now she apparently can’t stop barking. I don’t know if it’s the openness of these RV sites or if she is expressing her contempt. She seems to favor campgrounds with more trees and privacy and doesn’t care about amenities. In Newport she suffered to have her picture taken with a statue of St. Francis and took a nap in the car while we looked at pottery. In Astoria I’m pretty sure Fiona barked the entire time we were in the Columbia River Maritime Museum. Strolling along the River Walk she confined her remarks to a few short woofs at other dogs and sat smugly in the patio of the Wet Dog enjoying occasional bites of pretzel and cheese. After that, the party was over and it was an outraged dog who returned to the campground. Last night, for the first time, Fiona woke us with hysterical barking and a dash to the window. She did this 3 or 4 times (I lost count). Each time I stumbled after her, shushed her, and brought her back to bed where Mike told her she was a good girl. She isn’t. Today she has watched at the same window, alternately growling and whining. And I wonder what is going on over there in that Airstream. We kind of met the couple and their yellow lab Riley yesterday when we walking around the place. They weren’t particularly friendly and the woman pounded on Riley’s back when he jumped at me and called him stupid. Maybe there’s some dog torture going on over there that Fiona senses? Or maybe the dog torture is going on here and we’re the victims…. Just a few minutes ago Mike left in the truck to seek supplies. I muttered softly that it would be nice if he would take the dog and he hissed, equally quietly, that he didn’t want to. I pulled the trump card that I can’t write if I have to tend to the barking madam. He acquiesced and I know that he will return with tales of Fiona barking incessantly from behind him on the back seat. She goes there to avoid him pointing at her and telling her to stop. She hates that.

I have several hypotheses about why I’m not a natural at camping. It could be that I missed out on important formative camping skills in my youth. My Valko cousins (all 10 of them) and their parents camped all the time—in a station wagon with tents and children sitting on laps (this was pre-seat belts). I think the Krupitzer cousins must have camped too because at least 4 of them have bought some kind of camping vehicle in the last two years. My mother had an aversion to camping—probably realized it would be an opportunity to cook, clean and take care of children in the dirt—that I may have inherited. Or maybe it was the bizarre camping I did in college. I brought my cat along, which should tell you a lot about the group I camped with. Talk about an “anything goes” attitude. Sometimes we left with such short notice that people forgot sleeping bags and had to share (or maybe that was the point). One time the elegant grocery bag containing all of my clothing for a long beach weekend was left behind and I was forced to wear my bikini and borrowed t-shirts from the guys until one of the girls bought me a set of ugly sweats. Sweet. The best camping I ever did was pre-child and in places of breath-taking beauty (Big Sur, Morro Bay, the redwoods) with people who went off hiking and fishing and left me alone to “guard” the site and read away the day. When they returned I would listen to their fish tales and imply that my time had been spent bird watching or re-reading Walden. Lately, with a fifth wheel and friends along, camping has been fun. But it takes a few days to regain the rhythm as I fight the feeling that I should be doing something productive. Conversely I don’t want to be pushed into planned activities so I resist the hearty souls who want me to bike (“it’s only”) 50 miles or agree to tour the local antique firearms museum. No thanks.

Still. There are many things I like about camping especially the space that it creates for other things to happen. Lots of times the cell service is weak so no one can call me—same with emails and texts. I get to wear my favorite old, demoted clothes. These are the shirts that are worn into the comfort of a second skin and the jeans that fit perfectly (and by that I mean loosely) but have that bleached spot or rip that isn’t fashionable just grungy. Also no one cares what you look like and you can always put on your sunglasses if someone comes at you with a camera. Someone left us apples on the table at this site and I didn’t really think about poison or razor blades or asking around about the character of the people who left them (except as a possible detail in a mystery). I can produce a dinner of salmon spread on crackers with red vines for dessert without guilt or adverse response. When the temperature drops, the little dog gets cold and becomes affectionate and cuddly and sweet. Also it takes only half an hour to clean up everything and hit the road. And after a week or so I actually relax. Here’s the best part. Mike and Fiona just got back. Fiona barked incessantly as predicted but Mike found what he needed and brought back breakfast sandwiches and ice tea (my favorite). I think I’ll finish breakfast with an apple.

At 15 camels, it’s a bargain

16 Wednesday Jul 2014

Posted by ehaneystuart in Photography, travelogue

≈ Leave a comment

9/23/2010
As I mentioned in the last email, now I have the distance and perspective (not to mention the loss of our luggage for 2 days between Casablanca and Madrid) to write about Morocco. Despite the fascinating history and sites, the funny camels, our nice tour guide/cab driver, I’m done with Morocco. I think it was the constant reminders that I’m a big, “rich” American infidel, not to mention a woman who clearly doesn’t know her place. Here’s one example: despite the fact that I felt the Souks (bazaar) was a scary place at night with cars and motorcycles driving through huge, compacted crowds and almost psychotically aggressive vendors (in a place of extreme poverty and wretchedness), I agreed to go back the next day in search of bargains. If we hadn’t gotten lost in the winding streets and then been led out (the long way, I’m sure) by a teenager who kept shaking us down for more money, it would’ve been an overall, pleasant experience. We went during the day–less crazy and fewer people running into me (these people were, by the way, all men and all managed to knock into my breasts before leering at me and apologizing–charmingly–in French). Back to the actual example…

After bargaining (not very well, I’m sure) I purchased a couple of supposedly handmade pashminas from a semi-sleazy vendor, probably in his 30’s. He offered to give Mike the pashminas in exchange for me. Pretty sure he was thinking, “I’ll make her my 6th wife, the one exclusively for beating.” I could be extrapolating here…. Later he offered Mike 15 camels for his daughter Kelly so maybe he just wanted to have a full American experience.

On the day we left, we talked to a couple from England who were traveling with a tour group. When they heard we were traveling alone, the man said, “Oh, brave.” Maybe that’s British for stupid. The only other person we spoke to was from Mass.; she’s Moroccan by birth but has lived in the U.S. for 14 years. She was very nice, had 2 little girls who were darling and spoke perfect English (French and Moroccan also). Other than that, everyone was French and apparently still pissed off that Americans rebuilt their country after WW II. The good thing was that my high school French proved useful and more and more of it came back to me as we talked to people. I can now ask how much in French and Moroccan; the resulting “rip off” doesn’t change, though. We fully expect to be overcharged on the way to the airport tomorrow and I could write an article on being overcharged by cabbies in Porto, Sevilla, Granada, Marrakesh, and (no doubt) Madrid.

This is likely the last you’ll hear from me until we meet in person although I may send a few more pictures. Hopefully by then I will have dropped the speech pattern that is the result of attempting to speak simply in 3 languages other than English. Or as I like to say (in Portuguese, Spanish, and French): I will later have wine today.

Tourists shopping in the Souks
Spice store in the Souks
Modern Marrakesh

Old Marrakesh
This was so much fun (I got the big camel)

I left my knees in Old Malaga

16 Wednesday Jul 2014

Posted by ehaneystuart in Photography, travelogue

≈ Leave a comment

9/19/2010 (Marrakesh, Morocco)
Preview of coming “attractions”: Today we visited a tannery, rode camels, bought a carpet, and got full (and I mean full) body massages… But that’s for the Marrakesh installment. I will set the scene, however. We are staying at the Royal Mirage (a Sheraton hotel in an earlier incarnation) and it is a study in contrasts. The lobbies, pool/patio, 6 restaurants, and stores are spectacular! The carpets are old and stained and the bedspreads are suspicious….it’s clear that vacuuming and sweeping are more symbolic than actual. I’ve discovered that Americans are overly focused on hygiene.

Back to Malaga, at least mentally. The road to Malaga took us through the Sierra Nevadas of the Andalucia region–impressive peaks of green and gray leading to a coastline dotted with villages of white washed, red-roofed houses. Since most businesses and restaurants in Spain shut down at 2:00, it’s impossible to get anything to eat before 6:00. Mike and I have established a couple of traditions since we arrived. We like to make sure that we’re walking around outside during the hottest part of the day and we try to schedule being hungry when no food is available. True to form, we arrived in Malaga at our ultra-modern hotel about 4:00. It was difficult to take pictures that really convey the sense that Jane Jetson designed the furniture in the lobby but I’ll send one or two the next time we upload photos. The Hotel Barcelo’s location (in a train station) with unlovely surrounding neighborhoods persuaded us to eat Italian food in the mall–good actually. (I have to admit that I’m ready to eat something other than Spanish food although Moroccan food may not be it…).

The next day we found the beautiful old town of Malaga and enjoyed sitting out a rainstorm in the Dos Gatos bocadillo before going to the Picasso museum. (One of us was really excited about this and the other was a good sport.) A 16th century building houses 200+ paintings, drawings, and sculptures, all of which were donated by Picasso’s daughter and her son. Unfortunately, we weren’t allowed to take pictures. In each of the salons there was a quote by or about Picasso that revealed the character of the artist and the reality of the times in which he lived. His work, his subjects, and his words were powerful forces in the development of modern art. I loved it all.

After our museum visit Mike and I strolled through a lovely city park and went and looked at a Spanish galleon (a reproduction of the type that went across the Atlantic but built about 200 years ago). The marina wasn’t lovely and, in fact, the beaches on the Costa del Sol are gray pebbles, not the beautiful white sand beaches of the Costa Brava further east (near Barcelona). Malaga and surrounding towns are pretty densely populated and many British people have retired here or bought vacation homes/apartments here. We met a couple from Northern Ireland who has a house near Malaga and mentioned that they come here several times a year. Still, Malaga has the airport we flew from so it was worth seeing for a day or two.

One thing I will always hold against Malaga is the fall I took on the way back to the Hotel Barcelo. There is literally no street in Spain that isn’t uneven and dangerous. So I’ve been very careful, watching my steps and wearing the sensible (old lady) walking sandals I brought instead of the cute, chic shoes I got in Porto. So landing on my knees and hands on a side street pissed me off almost as much as it hurt. No injuries that won’t fade eventually–I’m sure I’ll still be bruised when I see you. I did decide to get a massage when possible because my back was so jarred.

Before I close–a few words about our flights here. We did the usual stand in lines until we got to our alleged gate in the (huge) Malaga airport. There was no indication (anywhere) that our plane would depart from the gate. When I asked someone, he told me that we were at the right gate–probably. Later Mike talked to a woman who said that if we were told the plane to Casablanca would leave from this gate, then it would–usually. So Spanish–it cracked me up. The layover in Casablanca was long and we had planned to leave the airport for a few hours or at least take care of money exchange, find a restaurant, shop, etc. It’s different in an Arabic country… After going through customs we were shunted off to the waiting area for the next flight (we were not allowed to leave). So…we spent 4 hours in a smallish departure area with supercilious, chain-smoking French people, unable to exchange money and told to “attende” (listen) if we wanted to know when our plane left.

French is the language everyone speaks here–French and “hello, I will be happy to overcharge you…” We leave for Madrid tomorrow and by then I will have the distance and perspective needed to write about Morocco…

Au revoir

Lobby of the Hotel Barceló, Malaga.
Bedroom in Hotel Bacelo
Spanish Galleon (200 year old reproduction of original)



What Malaga did to me

What Malaga did to me

Granada–love it and leave it (if you can)

02 Wednesday Jul 2014

Posted by ehaneystuart in Photography, travelogue

≈ 1 Comment

9/17/2010 (Malaga, Spain)

After a couple of days in Granada without Wi-Fi, it’s nice to be in this ultra-modern Hotel Barcello in Malaga. The halls of the hotel are so sterile, they feel like a prison in outer space. When you walk down the narrow corridors, the lights above the doors of the room come on as you walk past. Our “key” is a card that you pass in front of the door–like a barcode but with a strong “open sesame” feel. It turns out that this very quiet hotel was built in a multi-block, one building structure that includes a large shopping mall (complete with McDonalds–they’re everywhere), a food court and all of the chain stores of Spain (Zara, Cortefeil, Negra/Blanca to name a few), and (believe it or not) a high speed train station. So when we found the car rental return at the train station (we were exhausted from our trip from Granada) I looked up to see that the hotel unbeknown to Mike, was in the same building. He really has done a great job with our accommodations.

These travelogues are turning into a 3 layered presentation. The pictures are from Sevilla and Granada; the narrative will be about Granada, except layer 3 which tells you where we are as I write this.

Ah, Granada–it had the best tapas, the fanciest hotel, the most incredible view, and the snottiest people (at the front desk). On our last night there I left my (absolute favorite light-weight) sweatshirt on the terrace. A simple task to get it back, no? No! I spent most of our last morning there getting the brush off to all inquiries. Both Mike and I felt that no effort was made to locate it–none, nada, nothing. To a person, everyone at the front desk had perfected an air of, first, disbelief that you would ask such a stupid question (may I have a wake-up call for example); second they would answer you in rapid fire, impatient Spanish complete with eye rolling and gritted teeth at los stupidos, and, finally, reluctantly deign to pull out a map or speak a little English when they realized you weren’t going away.

We had tickets for the Alhambra (supposedly the most beautiful example of Islamic art and architecture in the world). We got tickets for 7PM so we could see what the guide book promised to be one of the most spectacular sunsets on the planet. I’m sure it was thoroughly enjoyed by the people who were walking up the long hill to the Alhambra after we (and all of the other 7:00 people) were kicked out of the place at 8:00. Walking down the long hill we were fortunate to come upon and wander through the Arabic section and get an idea of what we might be able to buy in Morocco (for a lot less hopefully). After that we had sangria on a nearby plaza and then took a cab back to the Hotel Carmen. We ate on the terrace again–excellent–unable to completely finish a bottle of excellent Penedes vino tinto.

A few words about prices in Spain. A McDonald’s hambuger is about $5.40 (and no, we haven’t eaten there), coffee con leche (I take it with milk because it’s so strong–basically espresso) is usually 1.5 Euros (about $1.95), still water runs about 1.20 Euros, and a decent class of house wine is 2-2.5 Euros, the same price as sparkling water. Pastellerias (selling pastries and sandwiches) and Heladerias (ice cream) are everywhere. At Boccarillas you can get sandwiches, tapas, wine, and coffee as well as desserts and ice cream (in case you haven’t had anything sweet for a block or two).

We finished our Granada tour by taking an unplanned, hour and 45 minute driving tour in and around the city and through all of the construction and traffic jams. I felt like Granada, not content with stealing my sudadera (sweatshirt) was hanging onto us and wouldn’t let go. On the other hand, my Spanish improved of necessity and I now know how to say (quite fluently), “There is no one on the terrace and I lost my sudadera on the terrace last night.” I can also say, “where is the road (any road) that will get me to Malaga?” and “My God, please help get me out of Granada.” (Dios mios, ayudame caminar de Granad, por favor.”

We leave tomorrow for Marrakesh where friendly sales people follow you down streets aggressively hawking their wares. As long as they don’t roll their eyes and sigh with exasperation, I’m good with it. Next installment: the Picasso museum, the Malaga marina and a Spanish galleon, and falling on my knees and hands on a (bumpy) side street in Malaga. Who says I don’t know how to have a good time?

Adios!

Italian dinner in Sevilla
Alhambra
Alhambra Interior

Visitor at the Alhambra
Battlements at the Alhambra
Trying to get out of Granada

Good food in Granada

02 Wednesday Jul 2014

Posted by ehaneystuart in Photography, travelogue

≈ Leave a comment

9/15/2010 (Granada, Spain)

Today is September 15th, the Feast of the Virgin, and all day vendors have been selling flowers for pilgrims to take to the Basilica–perhaps the one church we haven´t seen in Granada. Tonight we see the Alhambra–reputedly the most beautiful example of Moorish art in the world. We will be there at sunset, which may be even more spectacular than the view of Granada from the terrace rooftop of our hotel. In addition to many churches, cathedrals, remains of Moorish castles and fortresses, Granada has the best tapas in the world. That’s what they claim and I believe it. Last night we enjoyed 2 outstanding tapas: little sirloins in a whiskey cream sauce and something called ¨Spain-3 ways. These included tomatoes and jamon (similar to Serrano ham or prosciutto) marinated in olive oil and spices, fried olives, and spicy potato wedges in some kind of mustard sauce. Unbelievable. You´re supposed to be able to travel through the neighborhoods tasting specialty tapas in each neighborhood. That would be great if I were a skinny little Spanish woman (hardly anyone is overweight here and I suspect the ones that are came from another country): Of course, the diet is pretty much out the window. I can only hope that walking 5-6 miles a day can help me maintain.

Just in case you thought I was finished talking about food, I need to describe the breakfast included in the price of the hotel. This hotel is very nice, with a swimming pool and terrace restaurant (where we ate last night) as well as a pub (live music–we may go there tonight), a bar and a restaurant with a bigger menu. Back to breakfast–clearly an effort to appeal to the tastes of foreigners from across Europe and America. Besides every kind of bread, including the palest bagels I´ve ever seen, they had a wide variety of meats, cheeses, and fruits (some of which I could not identify). There were also eggs and ¨bacon, desserts, cereal, something that looked like chunks of tofu and several pastes (or patés). Before you hit the buffet line you are given a pot of coffee and a pot of steamed milk as well as glass of fresh orange juice.

Because we´re slow learners we found ourselves trekking around in the heat again while the stores closed around us. I think it´s because we wake up late (9:00) and don´t get outside until 10ish. Tomorrow I´m getting an early wake-up call so I can walk around a little before we get into our rental car (an Audi wagon) and head to Malaga, via the coast. Looking forward to seeing the Mediterranean.

We´re in the heart of the shopping district where everything is expensive and designed to entice tourists. So far I haven´t bought anything–not even shoes!

I’m typing this in the back of a convenience store and I can´t check my spelling on this message because according to the Spanish program, every word is misspelled. Also, I promise to be funny in the next email (as if).

Adios!

Dinner on the rooftop terrace at Hotel Carmen, Granada
Proof that Granada has the best tapas

Probably not seeing a flamenco show…

02 Wednesday Jul 2014

Posted by ehaneystuart in Photography, travelogue

≈ Leave a comment

9/13/2010
Last night in Sevilla, the waiter asked me if I wanted a menu in Francais or Ingles. I think the combination of chic sandals and limp American hair (it’s very humid here) confused him….All of my smugness about adjusting to the tempo of Spanish life disappeared when we couldn’t sleep last night. I think it was after 4:00 when we finally crashed, and of course we overslept, waking up at 11:00.

Before I forget–a quick recap of Porto. It really is a pretty city although not very clean and (unfortunately) has a lot of gang tags on the ancient stone and buildings. We didn’t see any gangs but we did see skateboarders (they’re here in Sevilla also)–a scourge, imported from America probably. We got quite a bit of exercise walking down to the river Douro and back to the hotel. On our last night we ate at Avo Maria, a restaurant along the river. We had a table in a little alcove by a balcony, where we could look at the river and the diners below us. Our dinner of mixed grilled fish and a local blended red wine was wonderful. I wish I had taken a picture of the fish on the platter as it was so colorful and appealing–which is why we ate first and thought later.

I don’t know if we’re going to see Flamenco dancing–Mike is down the street hopefully finding out if you can see Flamenco dancing without taking out a second mortgage. It’s about $70 a person to see it–that’s with dinner. If you don’t eat dinner, you still have to buy drinks… I guess every place has something like this–in Ireland it was $75 to watch jousting and eat meat with your hands–we didn’t do that either.

Adios!

At the Avo Maria restaurant

At the Avo Maria restaurant

The Douro River

The Douro River

Passing for European

01 Tuesday Jul 2014

Posted by ehaneystuart in Photography, travelogue

≈ Leave a comment

9/12/2010 (Sevilla, Spain)

Not sure who wants to get these updates, so send me a “please stop” and I’ll take you off the list. Second disclaimer: Mike’s laptop (which I’m now glad we took) has a stiff keyboard–especially the space bar. So some of myemils may lok lik this… depending on how late it is and how many vino blancos or tintos I’ve had. I can now ask for wine in Portuguese, Spanish, German (we flew Air Berlin to Majorca and then Sevilla), French, and English. I think they understand French in Morocco or I will have to learn whatever language they speak.

Sevilla is amazing–a very European city with tremendous history, gorgeous architecture, and lots of tourists. We’re staying in an apartemento in the heart of all the action. It’s a cute place with a bathroom so tiny, I’m sure I could fit it into a broom closet. The style is very modern and clean; we’re on the 3rd floor overlooking an ancient stone street lined with apartments and shops with garage door fronts that close up between 2 and 6 when everyone goes home to take a nap–a civilized custom that we should immediately adopt. At 6 everything opens up again and around 9:30 people start thinking about dinner. I have to admit that this is an easy tempo to fall into.

We crazy Americans didn’t get going until later in the morning so we managed to be looking for an open market during siesta time–we have the Spanish equivalent of 7/11 down the street so we were able to pick up wine (vino, vine, vinho…etc.) there and a ham and cheese sandwich (jamon y queso) which is just that: Serrano ham and cheese on bread–nothing crazy like a condiment or tomato. Were’ resting before going out to shop a little (maybe)–we’re looking for a cord that will allow us to upload some pictures onto the computer. We’re also planning on having some dinner (much later–it’s only 8:00) and watching flamenco dancing. The nightclubs and bars seem to be open all night.

Flashback: last night after two flights (both fine) we took a cab (and were ripped off but that’s another story) and arrived at our apartment after 10:00 and found out we were in trouble with the receptionist who had emailed us that she wouldn’t be available after 10. Unfortunately, she emailed us while we were on the way… Luckily she left us a note on the door of the lobby/reception/place that directed us to our place and a pissed off 20-something. We dragged our way too heavy luggage up 3 flights (Nora offered to help one landing before our door (no gracias). After looking around we rallied and strolled down the street to an intersection where no fewer than 6 restaurants (all in a row) had their tables, chairs and misters out on the street. It’s kind of hard to tell here what’s street and what’s sidewalk. The rule seems to be if you can drive on it, it’s a road… We ordered olives, bread, shrimp, and tortilla des patatas (that’s a potato omelet). The waiter complimented me on my Spanish accent and I’ve been insufferable ever since. Never mind that he couldn’t understand me when I asked for olives–clearly his problem… On the way back we found that there’s an ice cream (helados) place a half black from our place. Another sign, don’t you think? Mike had something caramel and I re-lived Barcelona in 2008 with the banana split helado. I don’t even like bananas that much and I hate banana flavored stuff, but there’s something about this helado.

Today we toured the Alcazar–Peter the Cruel’s 14th century Mudejar palace. It’s a magnificent combination of Moorish and Spanish art and architecture–exquisite tile work, gorgeous Renaissance paintings, lush gardens, and huge tapestries (some of maps that showed the 4 continents and their general lack of knowledge). After a Sangria (not as good as my sister’s recipe) and cerveza break, we visited the Sevilla cathedral and Giralda tower–the cathedral is the largest Gothic church in the world and the architects wanted people to think they (the architects/designers) were mad (crazy) to design and build it. The tower was built by the Moors in the 1100s and made even higher by Catholic royalty in 1568 (those folks were small so this tower might have involved a little compensation if you know what I mean…). After that we wandered around the shopping district affirming (store by store) that everything was, in fact, closed, found the little market and came back here to relax, get out of the heat, and get ready for a late night. We are here until Tuesday when we pick up a car and drive around Andalucia on our way to Granada and the Alhambra–supposed to be the most beautiful example of Islamic art in the world–so beautiful that the Catholics couldn’t bear to burn it down when they conquered the Moors and kicked them out of Granada.

I know you’re all wondering (will this ever end?) about Porto but Mike and I need to get going so that may have to wait (forever). Suffice it to say, I bought a pair of black and white flats (on sale–saved 30 Euros) and a pair of black sandals with ankle straps and zippers up the heels) that will help me pass for French or Italian (until I speak).

News flash from Mike: if you get a ticket in Spain you have to pay the cop on the spot (hopefully they take credit cards). Mike is reading about Spain as I write this and has occasional tidbits of information to share. He’s supposed to be figuring out how to get to the Flamenco place.

Adios!

street café in Sevilla

street café in Sevilla

Sevilla Cathedral

Sevilla Cathedral

Alcazar interior

Alcazar interior

Alcazar interior

Alcazar interior


shoe chic

shoe chic

Miracles and Signs

01 Tuesday Jul 2014

Posted by ehaneystuart in Photography, travelogue

≈ Leave a comment

9/10/2010 (Fatima and Oporto, Portugal)

 Made it to Portugal–no delays although 6.5 hours over the Atlantic (after a 6 hour layover in Philly) was intense. On the first flight, our plane was only about 1/3 full-can´t remember the last time that happened.  Another minor miracle is that we noticed the exit leading to Fatima and spent an hour or so there.  We loved it–not having been to Rome or Israel, it was exciting for Mike and I to be near the site of real miracles.  It´s a bizarre mix of spirituality and commercialism.  We went into the church and looked at the burial places of the two children who died so young (with the 3rd one still alive at nearly 90) and then bought rosaries at a tourist shop. So we basically had the complete experience.

 Porto is beautiful– architecture reminiscent of the Monterrey area and the locals are very nice. The deep blue sky. so much like home, is the backdrop for every photo op. Our room is spacious, on the 14th floor with a balcony and a huge view of the city.  The streets all lead downhill to the Doura River and into the bay.  Last night we ate at the hotel (after wandering around the port and not being able to decide on a restaurant).  It was great and reasonable.  This morning we had a breakfast buffet like the one in Madrid.  You can kind of tell where people are from by what they eat.  The Spanish and Portuguese have the meats, fruits, and cheeses.  The Americans are eating eggs and cereal, and the French have a roll, a croissant, another roll, a muffin, and a roll.  There´s a bakery on every street here with a shoe store on either side.  I have to say the food is great–better than Spain, so far.  I´ve been looking at everyone’s feet and Continue reading →

The “I learned a lot” Afghan

09 Sunday Mar 2014

Posted by ehaneystuart in Photography, Reflection

≈ 3 Comments

No one could ever accuse me of being mechanical or having a good sense of direction or of being able to sew.  My mother was a great seamstress and her mother could have been a professional tailor (she could sew men’s suits), so Mom had some expectations with regard to my sewing ability. Since my mother never seemed to actually enjoy sewing as I understand some people do, I never had the desire to learn.  To say I was unmotivated is an understatement. I also had no ability.

I first became aware of my mother’s plans for me in 9th grade when she made me take Home Economics instead of Art.  Since I already knew how to cook (thanks, Mom), learning how to cook bacon and make orange juice from (gasp) concentrate was a big yawn.  I cruised through the class until we got to sewing.  Our first project was an apron that consisted of a seam at the top for a plastic hoop that would go through it and a hem at the bottom.  Basically we had to sew two straight lines with a sewing machine.  I got a “C.”  The next project was a flip skirt made with a stretchy knit and consisting of 5 identical flared panels sewed together.  They were supposed to be sewed on the wrong side and then turned right side out and “voila”–a skirt!  Since I can’t even explain it now, you won’t be surprised to know that it didn’t work.  But Mom wasn’t done with me yet.

The following summer I was involuntarily enrolled in a Singer Sewing class and I made a (hideous) gold and navy checked dress with an empire waist.  My mother ended up making it after several aborted attempts and some hysterical crying on my part.  At the end of the classes there was a “fashion show” and we modeled our creations.  There were only 3 people in my age group category and 4 awards for each group.  One girl received first and second and the other girl received third and an Honorable Mention.  Given that they only had one item each, that was an interesting distribution.  My guess is that the judges (our hapless teachers) were so appalled with my dress that they wanted to send a clear message to me: “Step away from the sewing machine.”  After that Mom gave up and gave in and no one asked me to sew anything ever again.

My inability to read and understand a pattern should’ve also indicated that knitting and crocheting were out of my reach but I have tried both.  In college I knitted a gray scarf for my boyfriend.  It was approximately 7 feet long and in varying widths.  I was done with knitting after that.

Before I retired I was a little worried about keeping busy and so I asked my friend Laura, who sews and crochets and decorates, to teach me how to crochet.  Laura brought me a huge hook and some yellow yarn and taught me a basic stitch–a single crochet, I think.  That went pretty well so after a few inches I went out and spent $70 on yarn for an afghan for my husband Mike. (It is not my style to start with something small, like a potholder.)  I didn’t get a pattern or figure out in any scientific way how much yarn I would need.  I just threw several skeins of yarn in my basket working on the “that looks like enough” principal.  Then I crocheted a 70 inch row and began.  After I’d completed a couple of inches I could tell that none of the rows were the same length so I ripped it out and started over.  I did this several times and since I was working with two skeins at the same time, ripping out stitches was a challenge and sometimes I had 4 balls of yarn becoming tangled.  The worst time, Mike had to cut me out of the mess.  He found it all very funny.  I found it reminiscent of the time he tried to put up those Christmas lights that hang down in 3 foot lengths and I later found a ball of lights in the trash.

So I put the yarn away and didn’t take it out until February when we drove to Texas.  I knew the terrain in west Texas was not pretty so I decided this would be a good time to try crocheting again.  I approached the project with slightly more intelligence than previously, “slightly” being the significant descriptor here.  If you’ve read my Walmart rant (“All roads lead to Walmart”) you know I bought a smaller needle and actually worked from a pattern.  I also watched video demonstrations of stitches and I found this very helpful.  Then I proceeded to make every possible mistake:

  •  I used 4 different colors, 3 solid and one variegated.  The variegated skeins were not the same weight as the solid colors.
  • I paid no attention to the gage, just crocheted 16 rows in each color and figured each block would be the same size.  Uh, no.
  • I didn’t label the 5 strips that would be put together to form the afghan and so I put them together wrong.  Twice.  The second time I refused to rip out the strips so there is no discernible pattern as you will see below.
  • None of the color blocks matched up.  None of the strips were the same length. The afghan is more trapezoid than rectangle.
  • I forced the strips to begin and end together by “bunching” as I slip stitched them together.  I know “bunching” is neither a crochet term nor an approved technique.
  • I added a border which let me see up close how inconsistent my stitches were.

But!  I learned a lot and Mike loves it.  And I’m making another one with a different design and yarn that is the same weight.  In fact it’s a lot of the same yarn because it turns out I bought enough for several afghans….

the ugly truth

the ugly truth

Happy Mike

Happy Mike

Trying to look like a real afghan with judicious folding.

Trying to look like a real afghan with judicious folding.

The Puppy Dog Parade

03 Monday Mar 2014

Posted by ehaneystuart in Photography, travelogue

≈ 1 Comment

They have the right idea in Lake Charles, LA.  Their small, annual parade is about kids and dogs and maybe about Mardi Gras.  Lots of dogs.  The costumed dog spectators may have outnumbered the official, costumed parade dogs.  When I asked one woman if everyone brings their dogs to see the parade, she said, “Of course!”  Everyone was having a wonderful time hanging out along the banks of Lake Charles and waiting for the show to start.    A jeep heralded the approach of the parade but there had been a lot of doggy action near us before it even started—dogs visiting and owners admiring.  No one seem worried about children petting dogs, which was a good thing because most of the time the parade route was blocked with children showering affection upon the proud canines.  Clearly these dogs knew they were in a parade, and, except for one tiny Yorkie who shook so much his owner picked him up and carried him, they exhibited behavior one would wish to see in every parade participant.  Heads were held high, costumes and jewelry worn with effortless grace.  There was virtually no barking and the occasional forays into the crowd for additional petting bothered no one.  Drooling was overlooked in the heat and humidity.  I can’t remember being at a parade where people were so happy—oohing, ahhing, chuckling, and being very mellow about the antics of children and dogs.  After the 20 minute parade was over, everyone hung out and continued to enjoy the doggy atmosphere. A good time was clearly had by all.

???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ???????? ????????

← Older posts
Newer posts →

Subscribe

  • Entries (RSS)
  • Comments (RSS)

Archives

  • February 2022
  • October 2021
  • September 2021
  • December 2020
  • July 2020
  • May 2020
  • May 2019
  • February 2019
  • October 2018
  • June 2018
  • March 2018
  • December 2017
  • July 2017
  • May 2017
  • April 2017
  • March 2017
  • October 2016
  • December 2015
  • November 2015
  • September 2015
  • November 2014
  • August 2014
  • July 2014
  • June 2014
  • March 2014
  • February 2014
  • October 2013
  • September 2013
  • August 2013
  • July 2013
  • June 2013

Categories

  • Reflection
    • Baby Boomer Blues
  • travelogue
    • Photography
  • Uncategorized

Meta

  • Register
  • Log in

Blog at WordPress.com.

  • Follow Following
    • travels without fiona (the dog)
    • Join 34 other followers
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • travels without fiona (the dog)
    • Customize
    • Follow Following
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar
 

Loading Comments...