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travels without fiona (the dog)

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Category Archives: Photography

The Last Dance #feetdontfailmenow

01 Saturday Apr 2017

Posted by ehaneystuart in Photography, travelogue

≈ 2 Comments

I heard something....
I heard something….
Home: My work is done.
Home: My work is done.
Home--grass--joy
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.

Keep on Driving #isthereanotheroption

28 Tuesday Mar 2017

Posted by ehaneystuart in Photography, travelogue, Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

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I never thought I would long for a night in a campground, even in our fancy fifth wheel, but a night spent in a sleazy freeway motel in Flagstaff changed that. We decided to stay in a motel so that we could get an early start and not have to deal with freezing temperatures. Our choices are limited because we need a place that will provide RV parking and tolerate the little dog. Yesterday we found one motel–let’s call it a Super 7.

It probably wasn’t a great idea to read the Trip Advisor reviews, but I’m a loyal reviewer and reader. In fact, if I write one more review I may move into the top 10% of reviewers…in Redding.  But I digress. The reviews were not encouraging; remarks like “you get what you pay for” and “I was afraid of the bedspreads” did not inspire confidence. For my part, I ripped those bedspreads right off the beds as soon as I walked into the room.

The three of us have “go bags”–just the necessities for a night out of the RV. My bag has enough clothes so that I have a choice the next day, toiletries, jewelry, extra shoes– not that much. Fiona’s bag has her blue blanket, food, bowls, a brush, toys, and a change of harness. Mike put underwear, socks and toiletries in my bag when I wasn’t looking. Leaving the high maintenance dog out of the equation, I think the difference between Mike’s and my go bags is telling.

Let’s start with this: Mike found the Super 7 perfectly acceptable. It had a tv, a bed for him and the little dog and another bed for me. And as a bonus, there was a Cracker Barrel next door. Once I’d removed the bedspreads, I was okay with the beds. And frankly, I enjoy the occasional nights when Mike is the sole recipient of Fiona’s quirks. (All I’m saying is never touch her tail while she’s sleeping.) Besides the scarred bathtub and interesting carpet, not to mention the scarily skinny guy at the front desk, I considered the presence of the Cracker Barrel to be a minus. However, we are mature and experienced married people.

Mike happily took himself off to CB for a comfort food dinner, which I’m sure involved mashed potatoes. Meanwhile I ate artisan cheeses from the Santa Fe farmers market with apple slices, crackers, and an unpretentious and refreshing Sauvignon Blanc. 😏 The best part is that Mike felt sorry for me.

Today we left our altitude headaches behind in Flagstaff and drove through the good, the bad, and the ugly of Arizona. I was hoping to see some desert bloom; mostly I saw a parched landscape and occasional bursts of cactus flower color. And of course there was the wind, the wind that has plagued us since Michigan. We started calling Barstow RV parks but all were full. Of course that raises the question, why the hell are all these people camping in Barstow? Around that time, the ever present wind picked up, 29 mph of head wind. We were tired and talked ourselves into another night in a hotel.

We drove by our motel, where we had been assured there was ample RV parking in the large lot. And we kept on driving. Maybe it was the 6 spaces at the front and no visible parking on the sides. Maybe it was the post bombing look of the concrete building or the tiny, dirty door to the lobby. For me it was that this motel looked worse than the Super 7 from last night.

We drove on and Mike pulled into a large empty lot that happened to be in front of a nice hotel. I didn’t think we had a chance but they let us park and bring our dog and go bags into the clean and pleasant room I am currently writing in. Yes we lost the fee for the other place. I made a half-hearted attempt to reach the service who had booked us into a hellhole. When I finally worked my way through the labyrinthine automated choices to an actual person, the call started cutting out. Suspicious since I wasn’t moving at the time. But I’m not complaining: I’m warm, I can’t hear the wind, and there’s not a Cracker Barrel in sight.

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A Nice Day #stopworryingabout us

26 Sunday Mar 2017

Posted by ehaneystuart in Photography, travelogue

≈ 1 Comment

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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.

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Neither wind nor snow…. #cautionary tales

25 Saturday Mar 2017

Posted by ehaneystuart in Photography, travelogue

≈ 3 Comments

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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.

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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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