Crazy Horse - a work in progress

Mt. Rushmore

From Kadoka, we continued through Badlands, South Dakota. Badlands lives up to its name - a parched landscape of rolling rock formations that probably looked forbidding to the pioneers who were first trying to make their way across the country. If I had read the park guide in the morning, I would have realized that we were within 25 miles of the Wounded Knee Massacre historical site, which I would have loved to see... as it was I didn't know that until we were on the other side of the park. It would have been a 90 minute detour back through that windy, parched landscape instead of continuing toward the more inviting Black Hills.

It's a challenge to get all the motorcyle gear just right. The helmet has to fit snug so that it stays on if you are unfortunate enough to fall off (which I, so far, have not), but not so snug that it gives you a headache, which develops quickly if something isn't exactly right. Mine fits just right until I braid my hair up to keep it from blowing around into a big tangled mat. Add in the braid and I totally change the fit of the helmet. No good. No braid. The leather pants are comforting when you're being blown around the highway by vicious crosswinds, at least if you fall off you'll go a pretty good distance before the road starts biting into your flesh, but just thinking about gearing up in a jacket, gloves, helmet and leather pants when it's 98 degrees outside makes you sweat. As long as you're moving, you create your own breeze to cool you off; if you have to stop, you're counting the seconds til you can get moving again. We have to stop a lot for various road work projects funded by the Obama dollars.

Anyway, by the time we got to the Black Hills the heat was gone, my mask filled with the scent of green forest, and soon our biggest challenge was outrunning a thunderstorm developing from the West. We snagged a campsite just in time for the big drops to come pouring down on us while we set up the tent, then of course the storm just as suddenly disappeared pretty much as soon as we were done. Being so close to Mount Rushmore, we had to make the all-American pilgrimage. We also went to the Crazy Horse mountain sculpture nearby, though, which we thought was more interesting, even though it isn't nearly complete.

The Windy Prairie

Given what I do for a living, I am used to flying somewhere for no other reason than to turn around and come back again. Most students' cross country flights follow that pattern... fly to an unfamiliar airport, land, come home. Maybe get them lost in one direction or another. So it only seemed a little bit weird to land in Fargo Tuesday morning, have a quick bite to eat, then hop on the motorcycle and start heading for California.

For some reason, I always thought of prairie as dry and brown, but the Dakotas are lush and prosperous. Everywhere you go, fields of green wheat undulating in the wind, and fat, healthy looking free range cows. Forget being a vegetarian, we're in beef country and the steaks are fabulous. Towns are small and every one seems to be based around the central grain storage and grinding facility. Even now in the 21st century, the capacity of the grain silo seems to be what limits expansion. Rolling down the road, you see well-kept farm after well-kept farm... very few dilapidated structures, and no litter. None.

Ever since I decided to come on this trip, people have been telling me their scary motorcycle stories of impalement, decapitation and general road rash. But by the time I got to Fargo I really wasn't worried about that. The bike is comfortable, and since leaving California five weeks ago, Patrick has already ridden it some 9000 miles through wind, rain, snow, thunderstorms. Everything but tornados. Riding from Napoleon, North Dakota yesterday we had heat in the high 90s and, since there's nothing to stop it, like mountains or even trees, wind of 25 mph or more gusting straight across the road. Getting blown halfway across a runway by a gust of wind is one thing - at least you're nestled in an FAA approved metal cabin. Getting blown halfway across a lane on a motorcycle demands even more sustained attention than landing an airplane. Add to that several miles of unexpected road work going through the Indian Reservation and yesterday was a real endurance test, but we made it just fine and had a nice evening in Kadoka, South Dakota. Which is where we are now, packed and ready to go except for me typing away here so... more later. Picture is of the grain facility in Napoleon.

Fargo Bound

It's about time I post something new on my travel blog. The last entry was that picture of the piles of raw meat Caroline and I had for lunch a few days before I left Paris in January. Now that I'm a quasi-vegetarian, that just doesn't look appealing at all. Time to move it along to a less prominent spot.

Where next? Fargo, North Dakota.

When? Tonight!

What's there? A man and a motorcycle.

To be continued...

Pictures from Paris

Caroline demonstrates her Italian style boef tartare (I think there's a letter missing)... not that they eat raw hamburger in Italy. I had the traditional French style.

When I said I wanted to see an exhibit of Mesoamerican artifacts, I had no idea the gallery would be at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. What a nice surprise!

Fresco from "Teotihuacan: The City of the Gods" exhibit at musee du quai Branly.

Teotihuacan artist's paint palatte.

There were several other collections at the same museum.

Next day, I had lunch with my friend Eva, who I met in Vilnius last year, very happy that she happened to be in Paris at the same time as me.

Running of the Bulls... Madrid Style

We were told that Madrid was the place to be on New Year's Eve, and it was no lie. Every hotel in town was sold out. Ours was on Calle Huertas, in what had to be one of the most lively parts of town. Throngs of people donned silly wigs and hats - long, short, pink, purple, fros, fairies, you name it, you'll find it on some reveller's head. Entrepreneurs from other continents sold party horns, beer and bottles of champagne from makeshift stands on the sidewalk. An endless supply of sangria flowed through the cobblestone streets.

We arrived late on December 30 and immediately left to check out the town. Puerta del Sol. That's where we were supposed to go at midnight on New Year's Eve. We can barely make our way there through the crowds. Everyone is happy, laughing, having a good time... clutching their bottles of champagne and bags of grapes as if it were the 31st. The tradition is to eat one grape for every chime of the bell at midnight on the 31st. "I wonder why people have grapes with them tonight?" Trish says.

"I have no idea."

"Today's the 30th, right?"

"I think so." The bus tickets we used today said December 30. "It has to be" I add, unconvinced. "But you're right that they seem to be getting ready to celebrate."

"Maybe it's a dress rehearsal," Trish says, and we laugh.

"I wouldn't put it past them," I say. "Only in Madrid."

We stop to talk to a guy selling enormous plastic sunglasses for 3 euros a pair. "Why is everyone celebrating tonight?" we ask him.

"Como?" He doesn't understand our dialect.

A group of fashionable Spaniards stop to buy some glasses. "Why is everyone celebrating tonight?" we ask one of them.

"It's a practice," he says.

"Practice?"

"Yes."

"For tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"You mean like a dress rehearsal?"

"Yes, it's a rehearsal for tomorrow."

I look at Trish. "You were right!" And at that very moment, the entire crowd makes a move for the plaza. Some people check their watches as they start trotting. Within moments it's a full on stampede. We look up the street and it's as if all of humanity is galloping towards us. Towards the Puerta del Sol square, in fact, but we happen to be in the way.

"Oh my god," Trish says, "it's the running of the bulls!"

"Come on... it must be almost midnight!" We run with them and make it to the square just in time for the practice dropping of the ball, just in time for the practice music, for the practice cork-popping, grape-eating, happy-new-year-wishing love fest that is New Year's Eve in Madrid.

Only tomorrow it will be even bigger, louder and happier.

Yay! Having left Portugal, we can have swordfish instead of codfish.

...or monkfish.

Fabulous Christmas Day pastries in Porto... how did I neglect to post these earlier?

Trish in her warm new paperboy hat, on the pedestrian bridge in Porto.

ISO Clan Gouveia

We went to Gouveia to search for Trish's family. Her wife's family, to be more precise. It became a bit of a mystery because we didn't find any living soul there with the family name of Gouveia. Nobody seemed to think there ever had been Gouveias in Gouveia. So was the town named after the family, or did the family name itself after the town? It could have happened either way.

If the town was named after the family, then the family would have been from the landed aristocracy. Our friend the bus station manager directed us to the ancient cemetary, where we might find remains of old families. It was a splendid cemetary climbing up a terraced hillside, with mausoleums lining both sides of a central path.

I expected to find the Gouveia family entombed in one of these mausoleums, but the names did not match. Lots of Ferreiras, lots of Da Silvas, but no Gouveias.

I peeked my head into a few where the curtains were tattered or pulled to one side. Many had 6 or 8 berths (what do you call a mausoleum bed?), a few with vacancies remaining.

"Well, maybe they had their own tombs on their land," I suggested. But we kept looking.

"Or maybe... maybe the family wasn't named Gouveia at all when they lived here. Maybe they only changed it when they moved to America."

"Maybe" said Trish.

"As a way to keep alive the memory of the place they came from," I added.

We kept looking. We read every headstone in the place, and only found one Gouveia. A man, I think he was, born 1915, more or less the same year the family emigrated to the United States. Died 1987... not so long ago by small town standards, so why does no-one seem to remember him? The mystery deepened.

I was more excited to find him than Trish was. "Maybe this guy was so homesick for the old country that he came back to Gouveia to be buried."

"Uh-huh."

I was pretty much talking to myself at this point.

"That's why no-one remembers him."

"Right."

"Or maybe they really were the landed family of the town, and they had to flee the country because they were on the wrong side of somebody's politics."

"Maybe."

"You know, it could be your castle."

"What?" At least I got her attention.

"The abandoned castle sitting up there at the top of the hill... maybe it belongs to your family. Wouldn't you like to reclaim the Gouveia castle?"

"Yes, Patti, we should come take back the castle."

We never did find any other Gouveias, but we found some really unique and impractical souvenirs... ceramics, liqueur, a jar of pumpkin marmalade. By the time we left, not only was Trish in danger of tipping over from the weight of her backpack but she had spawned a frontpack as well. Walking to the bus station in the pre-dawn streets, she could easily have been mistaken for a pregnant woman.

Portuguese mountain rescue dog.

All the towns in this part of the mountains seemed to have a burnt out tree on display near the town square. A reminder, perhaps, of the danger of forest fires???

A wolf-puppy that followed us home from a long walk. Trish was tempted to try to take him home with her.

Best meal of the trip. O Flor's wild boar with white beans. (O Flor is the second fabulous restaurant we found in this tiny town.)

More codfish, but at least O Flor adds fresh veggies.