A Room with a View

"How did you like your stay in Portugal?" the cab driver asked us as we headed for the airport. "What did you see here?"
We told him a few things.
"Aaaand what else?" he asked.
We told him some more.
"Aaaand what else?" he continued to ask.
We racked our brains.
"What did you eat?" he wen ont.
"We carefully thought of every "traditional dish" we had eaten,( neglecting to mention the hamburger we had one day.)
"Aaaand, what else did you eat?"
I was now getting a bit concerned that we had not had enough of the traditional food and seen enough traditional sights and traveled enough of the country, but then I remembered I had a glass of Port Wine. Port Wine is very big in Portugal. Very big. I told him I had a glass!
"Aaaand, how did you like it?"
Only by an Act of God did the airport appear on the horizon

Today was a travel day and that means packing. Tossing out. Adding to. Checking into closets and beside the dressers and telling the hotel desk clerk just exactly what we did or did not use in the mini bar in the room. Those mini bars have been in every room on the continent. Every room. I'm surprised the cab driver did not quiz us on what we drank from the mini bar in our room.

 "Aaaand, how did you like your bottled water?"

In the process of departure and arrival we find that we look at different things. I suppose these departures are a metaphor for life and I will spare you the sermon but it is always interesting that the "foreign" neighborhood into which we arrived a few days before, has now become "our" neighborhood. We find ourselves almost saying goodbye to landmarks that were a part of our daily lives.

One of the most difficult things to do is to enter a city at night. Yes, the nightlights give it a bit of a glow but the streets generally look a bit sad. I'll admit that the hotels in which we stay, while being in safe neighborhoods and good and clean are certainly not on the main streets of the city with penthouse views. So, we are usually in residential parts of the city and at night they are a bit more lonely. By day, the communters hurry out of their apartments to the subways and busses. There is plenty of life, just not night life.

In departure from Portugal to France, we find ourselves third in the language line. Every announcement in the airport lounge and in the plane is in Portuguese, then Frence then English. We're glad they even consider adding English, though the announcements are all the same...."Don't smoke on the plane."  "Fasten your seatbelts." "Please do not open the emergency exit door while the plane is in flight."

Portuguese airlines have a lot of rules.

In focusing on the grand picture of this trip, I never got around to considering just what Paris might look like. Yes, I think of Notre Dame Cathedral and the Arc de Triumph and the Eiffel Tower and Maurice Chevalier (doesn't everyone?) but beyond that...blank. I am ready to be amazed and delighted. I probably will be too.

But, first I was amazed that the Airport shuttle service had a guy at the gate with my name on a card and we hopped into the van for the hour long trip through evening Parisian rush hour traffic. And as we headed in from Orly Airport something seemed familiar and when I commented on it to Makaila in jest, we agreed. The freeway outskirts of Paris look like Interstate 270 around Obetz. Granted, Obetz does not have the Eiffel Tower way off in the distance and there is not an off ramp to the Champs Elysee but besides that....in the evening dusk....there were a lot of similarities. I will be seeing Obetz through different eyes whenever I drive around there from now on.

But our driver weaves in and out of dozens and dozens of neighborhoods, crosses the Seine, passes the Opera House and turns down a forlorn looking Parisian street. I figure this must be it. And then it hits me, "I am no longer in Obetz."

We sign in, get our room. We discover it is right across the street from the Eiffel Tower with a balcony view!

The last part was not true. NASA couldn't sight the Eiffel Tower from our hotel. We wander off down the street in search of dinner, not a difficult thing to do with so many people walking and so many restaurants crowding every corner. It is all quite delightful. And then we do what every American does the first few hours upon arriving in Paris.

We head for the nearest Indian Restaurant for a Kingfisher, curry and two orders of cheese nan.

The Sacre-Coeur just up the block from our hotel (and the Indian Restaurant)....really!

We have arrived.

Peace,  Bob

Where the Rain Gets In

“Aqui?”
“Aqui?”
“Aqui?”
“Aqui?”
“Aqui?”
“Aqui?”
(Two Angolan guys joking around as they try to find the automatic “trip” for the hand dryer at the sink.)

It was mentioned by Makaila that of all the days to visit a church with NO roof, we chose a rainy day. But perhaps it was meant to be; that way we could experience the full effect of a cathedral with no roof.

　

Time in Lisbon is marked by one date, or so it seems. 1755. There was an earthquake. It destroyed much of the city and it also marked the zenith and a long decline in their fortunes as a naval and world-stage power player.

The Church of Our Lady of the Carmo Hill was build between 1389 and 1423. The ancient Gothic church was the largest and most important in Lisbon. It was seriously damaged by a earthquake in 1755 and this was followed by a violent fire. The historical brochure says that the church would be reconstructed in the reign of another monarch but that “operational and budget difficulties did not allow the ending of the works.” Judging from what we have seen, I would say the “operational and budget difficulties” did not allow for the beginning of the reconstruction.

Nevertheless, it is fascinating. One end of the church is enclosed and a museum has artifacts from various sources in Portugal. There is a model of what the church actually looked like also.

To reach the area of Lisbon we took the funicular. Sort of a tiny ski tram up the side of the western hill. It only takes a few minutes, but the steep winding street in that area made us glad we had taken the ride. We walked along in the rain, found the church, walked inside where it was still raining.

But our day had just begun, so afterwards we wandered into a coffee shop to see if the rain would stop and by the time the cappuccino was compressed we had clouds and no rain. I wanted a picture of the sanctuary where we had been the other day. This was another Lisbon church which was nearly destroyed by the earthquake and to this day looks like artillery has strafed the interior, yet they worship. I could not get a picture the other day because they were holding mass. And today they were holding mass again!

What goes here? I am trying to get a tourist picture and they keep holding mass in this cathedral. Come on Catholics, get with the program.

I stood way in the back. Took a non flash photo. Rome didn’t burn because of what I did. I gave a donation to Our Lady of Fatima and went off in search of the trolley to see the hillsides of Lisbon.

We were on this trolley the other day but it was so packed with people that all I saw was the cardigan sweater of the guy pressed in front of me. Today there were few tourists and we sat and enjoyed the up and down trolley car ride through the hills of Lisbon. At least we enjoyed them until we got to the western hills and the driver stopped the trolley, said some thing in Portuguese and everyone got off. First the Catholic priest conducts mass and then the trolley drivers observe Union rules and I am trying to get a tourist day in old Lisbon, didn’t the mayor get my memo?

We got off and wandered. I wandered into two Churches. One had two people praying. One was holding mass. I resisted taking photos in each but noted that they were but a few blocks apart but each was quite beautiful and I got the feeling that they were active parishes in their neighborhoods and I liked that. But to be lost in Lisbon is a singular delight for anyone. Just walk. If you walk down the hill, you will find the main area. If you wander the hills, you will find something delightful to capture your imagination and eye around every corner and hill. We did so, and we never disappointed.

Some years ago, I was in the hills of Panjim in Goa, west India which was a part of the Portuguese Empire. We stumbled across a shop where they were painting on tiles. I bought a couple intricately painted ceramic boxes. Today we came across the same sort of ceramics in a shop in Lisbon. I bought a couple ceramic boxes. Painted tiles are everywhere in Lisbon. Old tiles are a staple of the flea markets and new tiles are THE thing in building.

Lisbon has been a surprise delight.

Years from now, if I am alive and apparently just disappear from the face of the earth, you might try and look in Lisbon.

Peace, Bob

　

They've Gone About as Far as They Can Go

We looked at the restaurant menu and it was all in Portuguese.
“May I help you?” asked the waiter.
“Yes, we’d like to eat. Do you have English menus?” (Many places have English menus or translations on their menus.)
“No, I am sorry we do not. But I will be glad to translate anything you have questions about,” replied the waiter.
So we sat down. He handed us the Portuguese menus. He quickly left.
He returned five minutes later and said, “So, what would you like to eat?”

 

I think I have blogged sufficiently about history, at least enough for you readers and for myself. I have also mentioned that there are days at a stretch where we seem suspended between the 12^th and 17^th Centuries. The only thing that reminds us of the 21^st Century is the breakfast buffet at our hotel. By the way, we have made an art out of getting one’s monies worth from our “breakfast included” buffets.

We really can’t complain about any…if there is yogurt, cereal, cheese and croissants, then we are set. Something I can’t quite get used to is lunch meat at breakfast. I have trouble with lunch meat before 11:30am. Europeans happily make lunch meat sandwiches at 8am, I have to avert my eyes. (I can’t take peanut butter or catsup before noon either. No problem in Europe, they appear oblivious to both. They do have a penchant for mayo on their French fries. And we saved them in WWII?)

I do love the cheeses they set out for breakfast. Lots of types and I find that cheese and tomatoes are a fine breakfast addition…along with everything else we eat. Coffee for me is lifeblood. I like its taste, not just for the caffeine, so I looked forward to the European presentation of coffee. I could have saved my anticipation. They use these machines in European hotels so that you can have the countless varieties of coffees. Coffee con leche. Coffee con chocolate, Coffee con carne. Really? You put your cup under the machine. Select the blend you want, t makes noise like a Hoover sweeper and without fail it is coffee with milk. No matter how it is described or whether milk is poured first or second…it is still coffee and milk. Save your energy Europe. Just put out some coffee in a pot. Put milk along the side. (I did ask for cream at one place, they gasped like I had requested the Queen’s Royal diamonds. What I meant was “cream” not cream.) Currently at this hotel, we have the complex “Coffee con….whatever” AND a rather nice cappuccino machine AND regular coffee and warm milk for it. Though I have a sneaking suspicion that coffee is later used to clear the shower stall calcium build-up.

In one of the more isolated towns we visited….which was rather down on its luck in the off-tourist season gave us a breakfast of lunch meat, three slices of apple (split three ways between Makaila, myself and the owners wife, I think). A slice of cheese. A slice of toast and coffee. But they redeemed the place by having killer wifi.

But I digress…so after clearing out the breakfast buffet each morning and leaving all lunch meat to our European fellow travelers…we venture over to the Aquarium here in Lisbon. It had the fancier name of “Oceanarium but it was an Aquarium and it was excellent and demonstrated the Portuguese historical dependence on the ocean for their trade. Makaila had chosen this and instead of viewing say, anther 13^th century cathedral which no doubt was the scene of some horrifying incident of religious intolerance in (pick your century) we opted for “modern” on this day.

First off we walked a couple blocks to Lisbons subway, the Metro. It is great. Big. Clean. Efficient. Nearly readable instructions in English and a reasonable price. If you can figure out a countries subway system, you feel like you have just negotiated world peace. A 15 minute journey to the far east side of town deposited us in this ultra modern development from 1997, now called The Park of Nations. It seems that Portugal hosted the Lisbon Expo of 1998 and thus totally redeveloped the waterfront on its East Side now called the Park of Nations.

Metro. Huge Vasco da Gama shopping mall. It was rather surreal to see his burial vault one day over on the west side of Lisbon in a medieval cathedral and to read of his naval exploits at the Maritime Museum next to that and then to see his namesake on a “modern cathedral” (shopping mall) over on Lisbon’s East side…all within 24 hours.

Walks along the River Tejo shore, which miles away empties into the Atlantic. Lots and lots of trees and different types of children’s parks and exhibits. A “lively restaurant district” as they called it and I am sure it is in the summer, just not on a Monday afternoon in early March. A wonderful sky ride in gondolas over the water and along the shore. Very modern condos which look like modernistic sails (very hard to describe). Lots of new offices and streets and to anchor it all…pun, perhaps intended. A 20+ story Vasco da Gama monument.

On Saturday we were in some of the most quaint “old town” neighborhoods that we have experienced in Europe and then on Monday in some of the most “American-modern type” developments that we have seen on the continent. I hasten to add that being “American-like” is neither bad nor good. It works for us but may not for Europe. But more than any other big city European nation that we have visited, Lisbon seems to have grasped the yin and yang of modern and ancient and appears to be comfortable with the differences.

And what else could be better than to have CSI Miami reruns on your hotel TV…in English!? (Portuguese subtitled) This country is self actualized when it comes to blending the old and new.

Peace, Bob

Super Bock

Transportation is the word of the day. We wanted to get to the SW section of Lisbon and to do so we either walk for an hour or take the Metro (subway) near our hotel down to the south edge of the city and then pick up the tramline to the west. Both are new adventures as one negotiates Portuguese instructions or hopes for English instructions for Metro tickets and tram tickets.

We’ll give the Portuguese high marks for providing English translations to most things. No one speaks a lot of English but everyone knows a few English words and as always, we point, say things in French or Spanish and English and we get where we are going. The biggest trick is to fish 2.5 Euros out of my pockets, while riding the stopping and starting tramline, while wedged in with a few hundred other Portuguese and then deposit the coins in the ticket box. But it gets done and I only look partially stupid as I try to read the instructions. I tell everyone that I am Canadian and they all nod knowingly.

Our destination is the Belem district and first stop is the Royal Carriage Museum.

Seems the Queen of Portugal around the turn of the 19^th century had the finest collection of Royal Coaches on the continent. She gave them to the government of Portugal (probably to save herself money) and they built a museum. Good for the public. These things were fine. The oldest was from the late 1500’s and was in pretty good condition and was a real bone rattler I imagine. One can trace the evolution of carriages for the next four hundred years.

But the long and the short of it is…they got fancier. Wealth and status were more and more displayed on the carriages via carvings, gold paint and fancy leatherwork. They got larger, with glass windows and the drivers had higher perches for better visibility and safety. Apparently the Berlin carriage style (designed in Berlin and hence retaining the name, Berlin Carriage. These Europeans are ingenious.) was the breakthrough safety feature. Prior to that, carriages had a tendency to overturn on the streets. The occupants, like Kings and Queens and famous architects were not amused. The Berlin carriage put the weight of the carriage on leather straps, not the wooden mainstay. Something like that.

Anyway, carriages were handed out among European Royalty like swag bags at the Oscars. Every time the cousin of the King married a future king, which was apparently every month, the King of this or that country would send a new carriage as a gift. (Later that Monarch would invade the country and reclaim the carriage, so you might as well send off the fanciest carriage possible because you’re army generals will be confiscating it in the next war in a few years and you don’t want to look cheap to your military.)

The Hieronymites Monastery was nearby and we entered the Cloister as the church had a worship service just then. This is probably the best looking cloister we have seen. I highly recommend to our buildings and grounds committee that we consider a cloister.

Later we returned to see the Sanctuary. It has both elements of Gothic and Renaissance in its structure and was a delight. But, as soon as you walk into the church, look to your left and there you will see the burial site of Vasco da Gama. He is the one who put Portugal on the map by sailing around the southern tip of Africa and going to India and returning. The people were thrilled and he was a rock star in Portugal. Still is.

He opened up trade with Africa and India and his followers subjugated the people of Angola and Mozambique and the western province of India called Goa. I suppose his name is not as revered in those conquered lands. Still back home he is THE man and so is buried in the cathedral. The only person with a larger burial crypt is…you guessed it, the architect of the church and monastery.( He had his own burial room. AND a timeline explaining his achievements. Portuguese architects have egos the size of their buildings. But, they are quite good.)

The waterfront. Sunday afternoon. The Maritime Museum. A flea market. Lunch at the Museum. A bus ride back to town and a subsequent Metro ride which emptied us out into the city’s shopping mall. I don’t mean, beside the Mall, I mean inside the mall.

I looked around to see if the Mall architect build a burial shrine for himself…and sure enough, there it was, near the Food Court.

Peace, Bob

Blinded by the Light

Up above us, as we stood on the hilly streets of Lisbon, was the castle which we wanted to reach. The twisting streets were a puzzle to be solved so we pulled out our map.

“Can I help you find your way?” said a local Portuguese man and his wife.
“Sure, we want to get up to the castle.” we replied, pointing upwards.

“You can walk and walk along this street and go up and up, or take the yellow trolley car from that intersection up to the top. It will cost 1.5 Euros. Where are you from?" He then asked.
“We’re from the States. Ohio.” I responded, detecking a bit of an American accent in his voice.

“I used to live in the New York area, let’s see, what was the name of that place?….Ah, Newark!”
“Did they speak a lot of Portuguese in New Jersey?" I enquired.

“No, not a whole lot." Said the helpful man. "Well, if you will excuse me, I must find a Portuguese restaurant and eat some sardines.
And he and his wife left. 

You are never lost if you have a map. Those are my words of wisdom. You may not know exactly where you are and exactly how to get to point B but if you can find a street corner and orient yourself, you can get there.

Paul Theroux said, “A tourist does not know where they have been and a traveler does not know where he is going.”

On some days, I know neither, but for Saturday we did not know where we were going. We just looked at where the city met the shore and headed that way. On our way downhill we came to one of the largest statues I have ever seen. I figured it was a great explorer (Vasco da Gama?) or a great Portuguese King. (Sorry, can’t conjure any of those.) From this massive, commanding statue (complete with a stately lion by his side) flows the main thoroughfare of Lisbon, modeled after the Champs Elyse in Paris. Turns out the statue was….of the architect who re-designed Lisbon after the devastating 1755 earthquake. I am assuming he designed the enormous statue of himself be-striding the world. Clearly it’s good to be an architect.

After a 20 minute walk we arrived where all things converge if you want to see the various parts of Lisbon. We found a Kiosk which sold travel guides, chose one that looked comprehensive and fit in my back pocket, located the name of the Cathedral across the plaza and went over and inside. It was mass, so we sat in the back.

I have never seen such a place. The Church of Santo Domingo, from the 13^th Century. This was badly damaged in the 1755 earthquake and some subsequent fires and devastations. It looked like a few WWII battles took place inside the cathedral (I am not joking on this one) and yet the damaged statues and very unfinished nature of the cathedral did not stop them from worshipping. We sat quietly as the priest blessed the elements and invited the faithful forward. Not wishing to go against Rome, I sat still. During a break I wandered over to the Chapel of Our Lady of Fatima, a particularly sacred event in Portuguese history. (If that isn’t enough, there is a huge statue of Our Lady of Fatima at Indian Lake near Lima, Ohio. I used to see it all the time as a kid. I imagine I was the only person in the Cathedral yesterday who had visited THAT shrine.)

Many sentences of death by the Holy Inquisition were signed in this church. In an unrelated event…across the street in the plaza in 1506 a riot took place. There were two factions; one claimed that the light shining on the altar cross was a miracle, the other claimed that it was the reflection of the sun. 2000 people died as they violently debated that point and killed one another. (Clearly these people had some "issues" to work on.)

Earthquakes, Inquisitions and deadly riots. We decided to move on, silently noting that religion holds a troubled place in the hearts and minds of us all.

So, we spot the castle. Heed the advice of our Portuguese-sardine eating friend and find the yellow trolley, squeeze on, paid 2.50 each not 1.50...clearly our friend had been away in Newark a bit longer than he thought. And up and up we went. I imagine the trolley ( a preserved relic of the 1920’s…but like the Cable Cars of San Francisco….much loved and preserved.) could hold about 50. We had that many and more kept getting on and off. We were packed, well, like sardines. I certainly never expected so many references to this small fish in one morning. After 15 minutes of winding and climbing in the trolley, we decided to hop off.

 And there we were.

We noticed a number of folks heading up further on one street and so we followed it to the castle. We passed on that but kept exploring the tiny streets in the upper reaches of Lisbon. And came across a place to have lunch. The owner spoke English. The music on the sound system was Smooth Jazz. I was set for the day.

My new All-Time Favorite Restaurant in Lisbon

Time to come down. Down and down and around we walked on the small streets.

Plenty of other tourists around. We turned a corner hill and were confronted with this.

Lisbon’s Cathedral. We had to go in.

The cloister’s were the best as they revealed an archeological exhibit. They had excavated the cloister gardens and found sites dating back to the third century before Christ. The Cathedral had been built on top of a demolished mosque when Portugal was re-captured from the Muslim Moors. This was a common in-your-face theme. Defeat a people and build your house of worship on the destruction of your enemies house of worship.

The accumulated weight of all this history is something that I am intrigued by. So much of Christian history is about remaining dedicated to praising and serving God. So much of it is about punishing one’s enemies….but in the name of God, mind you. How does one know?

Peace, Bob

Ride Their Fathers' Magic Carpet Made of Steel

“So, what are you going to see in Lisbon?” the cab driver asks us as we are leaving the airport.
“We hope to see the museums and cathedral and the old part of the city.” we tell him because that is  
      what we do in every city.
“Did you know this was Carnival weekend? They have a big parade on Saturday and one on Monday.” the cabbie says.
“Oh, Fat Tuesday is in a couple days and Ash Wednesday is the next. So Portugal celebrates like Brazil!”  I add enthusiastically.
“Well, not that big. The parade Saturday is fun and the Monday night celebration is when people dance naked in the streets.” he says.
“Well, I’ll be sure to jot that down.”

Last week we took the slow train from Barcelona to the south of Spain. I blogged about the beauty of the countryside. It took about 13 hours. We stopped countless times along the way. We had the time and enjoyed it all. Nice leisurely, slow train trip. Not so today. Leisurely? Yes. Slow? No.

We had hoped to take the train from southern Spain to Lisbon. As the crow flies it was not that much of a trip. But, the connections were long and ponderous and we opted for a train to Madrid and a plane to Lisbon. The cost was the same, the time spent was considerably less. There was an AVE train from Cordoba to Madrid. That is the bullet train and we were pumped to experience it. Indeed it was fast, but once you are in the train flying along at 290 kph (which I suppose is about 200-220 mph) you can barely feel the sensation.

The overhead TV was playing an American movie. Headsets. People wandered to the club car. This was hardly “The City of New Orleans” which Arlo Guthrie sings about. All you could feel was the “whoooosh” of the wheels barely touching the rails. About the only sensation was when our 290 kph train passed another 290 kph train and the two set up a wind storm which shook the trains. Great fun. We covered half the distance of last weeks train in 1/6^th of the time.

Arriving at the modern Madrid rail station we hopped off and I went to the Information desk. Maybe I should say, “Information” desk. If there has been one thing that has surprised me is the lack of information at “Information” desks. I’ll be fair and say that the info booth at the bus station in Grenada, Spain was superb. Our United States Congress could get good advice from that booth. They could advise NASA. But in many cases, the info we got was…”go over there and see for yourself.” Rick Steve’s travel guides point out the helpful info booths and that is good. But, lots of them seem to be for show.

These people should work for the CIA, they wouldn’t spill any secrets to anyone. Maybe they do work for the CIA. They are tight lipped. Steven Jobs reveals more about his Apple empire than information booth workers on this continent. The Cold War would still be on if these people in the Info Booths were in charge; nobody would have ever heard of freedom uprisings in the other Soviet Occupied countries of East Europe if it were up to Information Kiosk people. Too late though. Europe is re-united and the Information Booth people who were formerly KGB undercover ops are now withholding crucial information from the tourist industry, like….where to get a train to Athens or how to find a bus to the Madrid airport. Europe is safe from prying ne’er-do-well tourist types.

Not sure what it is about Europeans and dispensing information, even when it is their job. It’s hard to come by. Nice people. Just not chatty. Maybe it is because there are so many languages. If you hesitate to come to Europe because you don’t speak Italian or Turkish or Greek, relax. No body on this continent speaks the same language and everyone is just mumbling and being courteous and nodding and pointing at their menus and clerks write out the costs and show them to you. Everyone gets by rather well (save for a couple world wars here and there) but when it comes to being chatty. No.

Also, another curious and delightful and alien custom is paying the bill in Europe. Actually, the trick is to get the bill. In Europe they apparently eat at a more leisurely pace and a lot later in the evening. You couldn’t prove this by us since we are always back in the hotel asleep when Europeans come out of hiding and all of the tourists are asleep, then they come to the restaurants and eat. (Or so we are told.). But when you finish your meal, no one offers you the bill. They will clear the table, ask if you want coffee and dessert…and if you do not, they still don’t bring the bill. You could sit there and re-finance your mortgage, engage in Middle East Peace negotiations, deliver a baby or two, but still no bill will come. They’ll walk around you to serve other tables and give you space.

But, when you ask for the bill….THEN and only then it arrives. When you ask for it, it is like an “Aha!” moment. Like no one had ever asked for a bill before and they, the waiters had totally forgotten about giving you a bill. It’s like the complete theory of quantum physics has been finally discovered and that no one had ever thought of it before. The bill arrives and you pay and everyone is smiles.

But chatty, not at all. “Merci” they will say, like a professor who is tired of your questions in college and wants to move on. I am sure the reason is because Europeans like to have coffee and chat. Have wine and chat. Have a meal and converse. Have the dessert and coffee portion and linger an hour longer. European friends sit and talk to one another. Americans get in, get out, get going. We’re getting out to our cars and hitting the freeway. Places to go. People to see. Things to do. Europeans hop on the AVE trains and fly across the countryside, slowly conversing with one another in the club cars of the train.

A polite, courteous society. Chatty…not really. (This discussion does not refer to Turkey…that country is much more chatty when it comes to waiters and the business people. Loved it.)

But I digress. I ask the “Information Booth” woman at the Madrid Train Station about a bus to the airport. She replies. “Go up to the street and look for the bus.”

Hmmm. That had never occurred to me. Go to the street. Look for the bus. I was glad I asked. These Europeans have got a system for everything. Buses on the street!

So as I stood on the corner amidst a few thousand people in Madrid I kept a careful look out for “buses…on…the..street.” And sure enough there were buses on the street. The trick was to find one going to the airport.

But, as we continue to travel, I continue to hone my travel-skills to a fine edge. Nothing escapes my attention, I note everything around me like an undercover operative. And then I spotted THE bus we needed and we were on our way to the airport in Madrid.

The fact that this particular bus was painted fluorescent lime green and had letters three feet high written across the side which said, “24 hour AIRPORT EXPRESS BUS ONLY” had nothing to do with it. I would have found it anyway.

My all-time favorite Lisbon restaurant...The Bar Grand Elias

Peace, Bob

Just Me and the Aristocrats

Cordoba has some of the big historical and touristy draw items. I have detailed some of them in the past couple days, but I thought you might like to take a walk in the general neighborhood where we are staying. This city has about a half million in its environs and our hotel is on one edge of the “old city’ with its centuries old streets and I don’t know how old houses.

But, if you look at the picture of our hotel you can see that it is jammed in just off the street. This is the largest and busiest single street around. The local buses use it and it can be relatively busy. So, for this morning we are taking about a 10 minute walk to Palacio Viana to see this old house/museum.

The streets get narrower as we go and I am not even certain what we are looking for. On the map there is a plaza nearby with its local church. So many plazas are hundreds of years old with a church as its namesake. We reach a church plaza and though it is quaint and old…it is not what we are looking for. All of the houses and small businesses are jammed in on one another and we don’t see how there could possibly be a museum anywhere.

We consult the map. Retrace our steps a couple “blocks” (can you have “blocks” with twisting and turning city streets?), make a turn or two and suddenly the houses open up and we are confronted by this house, our destination.

It seems this was the property of an old aristocratic Cordoban family which owned the house for centuries. It was passed down from generation to generation and finally in 1980 it was sold to the city and made a museum and tourist draw. They could have located on a busier, easier to find thoroughfare, but I guess when the family took ownership back in the 14th century, that was not on their minds.

We toured the twelve (12!) gardens of the estate. Each was small and unique and it occurred to me that it would take a couple people alone just to maintain gardens. I’m sure they did and since they were aristocrats, it was a case of keeping up appearances. The garden tour was a case of just walking through each garden and reading your brochure. The tour of the home was with a guide and about two dozen people. All of whom spoke Spanish. There was a French family. And there was Makaila and Me. The guide said that the tour would be in Spanish (a fact which she confirmed for the next hour). She handed our French friends a short guide to each room in French. We got the “Ingles” edition and we were off.

No matter. Splendor is splendor in any language. “Old and faded” knows no language boundaries either. All the Spaniards clustered around the guide, the French and “Ingles” tourists brought up the rear and got to see what everyone else did. And frankly, we got as much out of it as anyone. What was clear was….this house was big and drafty. The décor was an amalgam of several eras of which some was formerly the property of the family and some was there for museum-show.

The house wound around and around. The kitchen was in two parts, the preparation and the clean-up rooms. Pretty smart. And just when you thought you had seen the main “family room” we were shown another amazing room which had another theme. Either this family liked its sitting rooms or they could not make up their minds as to what era they wanted to settle in. It made for an interesting tour.

As with the old cathedrals, I kept looking at the ceilings and noting water leaks and structural damage. This would take a couple more men to just do building maintenance which I’m sure they had. (How many South American plantations paid for its upkeep….sorry, I grew up blue collar.) But, how fascinating the life of the upper classes. I imagine it was based on trade with the colonies and probably had its financial roots in South and Central America.

Many of the men of the generations were in the military and artwork and gun displays confirmed this.

Alas, in 1980 the last of the family had to sell, after over 700 years of existence. We bid the Marquises and Marchioness of Viana “buena suerte” and “gracias” and went of down the street to rejoin the masses who were trying to avoid repression and fomenting revolution while the Viana family lived in splendor amidst a dozen orange tree filled gardens.

What is the surprise of such winding streets is that there are so many tiny businesses thriving; plumbers, bars, pharmacies, grocers and the like. The houses are packed together, there are no yards (The Viana family took up all the available space for their gardens) and you have to walk carefully to avoid 21 century autos on 14^th century sized streets.

A few blocks away we come across this.

It is a church built in the 12^th and 13^th century. Granted, it looks like it has seen better days but it is still a neighborhood church. I regret that it was locked up tight. It was around prior to the Viana family down the street and I had to wonder if they ever worshipped here or stayed within their estate (the brochure says that at one time there was a chapel at their estate.) I suppose they may have made a few holiday celebrations at the ancient church.

Across the street was this plaza.

We continued or walk, constantly checking to see if we were going somewhere or just going in circles. Finally we reached a destination. The Torre de la Malmuerte. Tower of the bad death. I did not note any sense of irony in that name on the part of the Spanish and figured maybe it was to commemorate the plague (of which we have seen memorials in various cities recently). This too, dates from the 13^th Century or so. And the name? It is tied to a legend. Some woman got into a scuffle with her husband and he done her wrong and tossed her off the tower. Hence the name.

Interesting neighborhood, one that goes back only about 800 years.

Let’s see, Dublin Community Church dates it’s Gladden Chapel back about 135 years. In 1877, this neighborhood, the Viana family and its aristocratic forbearers, were sitting down to a lovely breakfast which they had been doing for about 600 years.

 

Gives one perspective.

Peace, Bob