I heard something….

Home: My work is done.

Home–grass–joy

Day 407 (JK)

So after our luxury night in beautiful Barstow (hotel with walls thick enough to block wind sounds), we headed for a final night in an RV park in Manteca. The plan was to get in fairly early and do some of the cleaning and prep necessary before taking the fifth wheel to B&B repair. That was the plan.

Around 4:00 Mike announced that he wasn’t tired and why didn’t we drive all the way home? Okay. Somehow we missed most of the Sacramento traffic–all the fender benders were in the south- bound lanes and no wind or rain slowed us down. Yes, the gods of RV travel were with us.

Until two miles from home. When at a stoplight a young woman in the car next to us signaled that Mike should roll his window down. Then she told us that the spare tire had fallen off the fifth wheel during our last turn. We circled back and found the slightly banged up tire leaning against a tree where a good soul had rolled it off the road. It was a night for good Samaritans as just when Mike was contemplating the weight of the tire and the height of the truck bed, a man approached and asked him for 40 cents. I know, weird amount. Anyway, the man hoisted the tire into the truck bed and Mike gave him $5. Smiles all around.

In the morning light we could see how the bolt holding the tire clasp thingy (don’t want to get too technical here) had worked its way through the hole. It says something about this trip and its effect on us that we weren’t upset, just grateful the tire hadn’t escaped on a freeway and caused an accident. The rest of that day we unloaded, cleaned, put stuff away and readied the trailer for its cosmetic overhaul. Which will not happen until June because getting new skirting from the factory doesn’t happen fast. And let’s be honest, this is a 2017 fifth wheel and spare skirting isn’t exactly piling up at the factory.

But it’s all good. We made it home, we didn’t kill anyone with our tire, and the little dog was able to increase mastery over her people.

Note to be former students: I KNOW I am writing fragments and run-on sentences. That’s called literary license. You’re welcome.

Today was nice: no one was injured, not even the fifth wheel; the wind stopped and the sun shone, and we made it to Santa Fe an hour before the Farmer’s Market closed. Getting up and out of the RV and on the road is harder than it should be. There’s something about a cozy space that slows down movement and requires extra cups of coffee. Still, we drove the rental car up (literally) highway 25 and it was a relief to be in a Camry instead of a Laramie. Unlike yesterday when everything was difficult and time-consuming, today just flowed.

As I write this, I’m eating part of a delicious cardamom/cinnamon roll from the farmer’s market, drinking an adequate rosé (purchased in Nashville) and trying to ignore the game. The Ducks are beating the Jayhawks, which will wipe me off the face of the family March Madness list. Is it petty that I do not care that the Ducks haven’t won the NCAA championship in 80 years? Perhaps.

Today I was able to do all the shopping my little consumer heart could desire. I like to shop but I really don’t want any more stuff so I tend to buy gifts and then save them for birthdays, weddings, etc. Mike and I bought spices, jams, pastries, soaps, hand balms, bath salts, and a few pieces of handmade pottery. We tend to give people consumable gifts; seems like most of us have enough tchotchkes already. Mike often buys a mug when we travel and he bought a gorgeous one today. The little dog came along and was a catalyst for several chats with folks on the plaza. One of the vendors whipped out her phone and showed us pictures of her Yorkie, including one that showed her dog having a bad hair day, which looked a lot like Fiona. A young woman from a shop brought us a bag of dog treats. So it’s pretty clear Fiona was in her element and added a few points to the plus side of her scorecard.

Then we went to lunch at the Cowgirl Cafe, mainly because it has an outdoor patio that welcomes well-behaved dogs. We took Fiona anyway. Besides having some great food (an eclectic lunch of arugula/beet/ goat cheese salad, and a combination barbecue plate), we were entertained by a bluesy combo that was tearing it up on the crowded patio. So fun.

After lunch we headed back to Albuquerque stopping in Old Town to pick up souvenirs for the grands and a t-shirt for Max. I usually get my son a t-shirt when I travel and he has an extensive collection mainly because he never throws anything away. I wanted to get him a shirt from the Cowgirl but Mike thought he might not appreciate the girly logo on the back.

All day the weather was perfect–sunny, mild, calm. As we drove into the RV park, the wind picked up and it’s currently beating against the flimsy fifth wheel walls and I’m once again fantasizing about tornadoes. I hope you’ve noticed that my blog posts where all goes well aren’t nearly as amusing as the disaster laden episodes. Never fear, we still have 1200 miles to go before we reach home and hand over the fifth wheel to the folks at B&B RV Repair who already know not to laugh at us.

In order to explain the various incidents that have led to our current immobilized, hitched status, I need to first confess that we were warned….

Several of our RV experienced friends strongly recommended that we stay in MI after picking up the new fifth wheel–just to make sure everything works. Makes sense, doesn’t it? But a couple of things got in the way. First of all, it was cold. All the way across country we had enjoyed great weather and the arctic chill coming off Lake Michigan didn’t inspire us to stick around. Besides we added 20 days to our trip and I was in a hurry to get to Maryland to see my family.

I can see I have to interject another explanation about how Mike and I travel. We talk over our plans and I have a pretty clear idea of the route and time involved. In this case, I “knew” we would leave MI and head back home, the route depending on weather. But we would be back about the 13th of March. Mike, however, never limits himself to one set of plans and usually has several scenarios rolling around in his mind. When he suggested that we go see my Dad since we were already so close, that sounded good to me. It was warm in MD and the cherry blossoms were supposed to be spectacular the week we arrived. Besides I was sick of being cold and we figured the fifth wheel was fine. It had been checked at the factory in Indiana and the mechanic in Muskegon showed us how everything worked. We even spent a few hours on the lot loading up the supplies I had brought for 6 days in the fifth wheel. Six Days, not 20+ days.

Flash forward to Ohio on March 8, approximately 5 hours after we drove out of Muskegon. The trip was grueling because MI and Ohio were experiencing the worst winds since 1897. We had some exciting moments like when the semi passed us and then ran off the road. Or the time we were stopped for 20 minutes while ambulances and cop cars raced by. A semi was overturned on the median, knocked off the road by the wind. As soon as we could, we pulled off, planning to wait out the worst of the winds in a service plaza. It was a full service facility and even had an area for RVs that was marked off with bright yellow posts about 4 feet tall. Except that one post, the short one that leaped out and sidled up to the fifth wheel with a terrifying crunch. Mike and I looked at each other, I said it didn’t sound bad; Mike, looking in the side view mirror told me the truth, “It’s bad.” Not only was it bad, it was dangerous because the parts that were sticking out might’ve caught one of the 60 mph gusts and who knows what carnage would have resulted.

At this point MIke got out of the truck to see just how bad the damage was. Fiona and I huddled like cowards in the cab and besides it was really windy. When Mike returned his hair was standing straight up–wind-blown or stunned–I wasn’t sure. And here is a clear example of why I love my husband. It took him about 2 minutes to get over it and start figuring out solutions. Without beating himself up or indulging in a well-deserved freak out, Mike said, “Well, it’s a good thing we insured it this morning.” It was a little ironic that we chose the plan that would reduce our deductible by 25% every year we didn’t have a claim. A nice young guy with a mobile auto repair service came, ripped off the skirting, and bent down the trim. At that point we decided to stay in a nearby motel and wait for the next, less windy day to finish this leg of the trip. We didn’t even unhook.

When we arrived in MD, it was in the seventies and my brother, another Mike, and his wife Peggy came over with wine, snacks and daffodils for us to enjoy outside. After that the temperature dropped, the cherry blossoms froze, and four days later it snowed. It was 16 degrees the night before we left and about 30 when we hitched up and pulled out. It won’t surprise you to learn that RV-ing in the cold was a new experience for us. We had the right clothes and enough blankets but learned what happens when the water hose is left out at night (it freezes). I stocked up with groceries, which turned out to be more important then we could’ve imagined. That night we stayed in a motel in Blacksburg, VA, and the next day we drove to Nashville. We’ve been to Nashville before and we’re looking forward to country music, delicious southern cooking, and strolling down Broadway listening to the music from the honky tanks. So it was disconcerting when we unhitched at Jellystone RV Park and our capture plate fell off. The capture plate is on the kingpin (on the front of the fifth wheel) and is a necessary piece because it slides into the hitch and keeps the truck and fifth wheel traveling together.

Luckily we had a warranty covering everything mechanical and factory installed. Except the plate wasn’t installed at the factory, and the mobile RV repair man “wasn’t sure when he could come out to the park.” So the 3 days in Nashville were focused on making our RV towable and not going to the Grand Ol Opry that was literally across the street from the park. It was also about taking Fiona to a “You Wash Your Own Dog” place as she had rolled in something pungent and (blessedly) unidentifiable. Other than that we waited around and the guy finally came and welded on a new catch plate. Yay! We’re were good to go and go we went–to Little Rock, AK. Where we couldn’t get the trailer unhitched. And haven’t been able to unhitch it since.

Let’s review what this means. Since Little Rock we have not been able to shop or leave the campsite until we pull out the next day. And the RV parks have little in the way of fine or even okay food–previously frozen buffalo wings and previously cardboard pizza being the best options. I know, boo hoo. But actually exploring the areas we stay in and enjoying local cuisine is a big part of our travels. And we have not been able to find grocery stores on our way to the parks. This dilemma became critical in Amarillo. I had been making frozen pot pies, soup, and sandwiches from the groceries I had purchased in Maryland. There had also been a few cereal meals and eggs cooked every way possible. And I won’t mention the non-nutritious quality of truck stop food we ate for lunch daily. Okay, it was fried everything and old coffee.

On the way to the Oasis RV Park in Amarillo, we looked for a grocery store, finally stopping at a convenience store which yielded two bananas, a quart of milk, Ritz crackers, and American cheese slices. I asked where we could find a grocery store and a lady directed us to the Dollar General 4 miles back up the highway. This did not appeal so we made our way to the park where I made a delicious meal of microwaved baked potatoes with almost melted American cheese and canned chili. Our side salad consisted of the charmingly slices bananas sprinkled with dried blueberries. At this point Mike was more than willing to agree to a 3 day stay in Albuquerque with a car rental to allow us to restock and drive to Santa Fe for the day.

Except the wind was so bad that we spent several hours sitting out dust storms and arrived here too late last night to rent a car. The wind howled all night; I lay awake wondering if NM ever had tornadoes. (The park in OKC had a bunker that would hold up to 200 people in case of tornadoes–not that reassuring really.) This morning we got a car (they picked us up) and I battled the wind to do some laundry and walk the little dog. At last we were able to go out for some excellent Mexican food, to the Verizon store to replace Mike’s phone that flew out of his hand, and finally to the grocery store. Sine we won’t be unhitched get until we reach home and professional intervention, I bought enough food to get us through another week although we’re supposed to be home by Thursday. At this point I’m not counting on anything. Except Santa Fe–tomorrow–unless it snows.

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.

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

What Malaga did to me

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!