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.

2009-2010: Permission to Enter

I love traveling. Just when you think you've begun to understand how things work you end up someplace where everything is different.

We pull into Gouveia at exactly 8:20. Right on time. The information desk is closed, so I walk over to the bar and use my broken Portuspanglish to ask the bartender if he knows where we might obtain a map of the town.

"At the hotel," he says in slow, careful Portuguese, "in the center."

Ah, but if I knew how to get to the center I wouldn't need the map. The easiest thing to do in this situation is just pick a random direction, point, and allow the person to correct you. "Alli?" I ask, pointing out the door and to the left.

"Si," he says and motions for me to follow him.

"Where ya goin, Patti?" Trish calls out from across the waiting room. Hobbled by her pack, she can't jump into action quickly enough to follow.

"Not sure," I call back to her.

"Alright." She stays put.

The bartender walks me outside to make sure I see the correct fork in the road. He snakes his hand through the air as he talks. That way, past the light, over a hill, bear right, then bear left.

More or less. It's close enough. We won't end up in the forest, at least.

"How many minutes?" I ask.

"Ten minutes."

"OK, that way, pass the light, over a hill, bear right, then bear left, ten minutes. Thank you very much... I'll go tell my friend."

"Let's take a taxi," Trish says.

The taxi had just pulled out. I saw it leave. Our bartender friend has a brief discussion with one of his buddies hanging out at the bar with him. "They have an address," he assures the guy, then turns to us. "He will take you."

"Really? Thank you... how much shall we give him for that?"

"No, no," he says with a horizontal wave of his hand. And it was true. The man did not accept even a few euros from us for the ride. How that works in the local economy of the Gouveia bus station I don't know. Maybe the people of Gouveia are just really nice, but in any case we decided to buy the guy a drink on our way out.

Gouveia is a small town. We're able to scope out the entire center during a 20 minute walk after settling into the Monteneve Residencial. Having done that, we sit down in a cozy looking bar\cafe on the central square. A glass of red wine on a blustery night in the mountains sounds great.

"No," the bartender says.

"No?"

"No."

"No what?" Trish asks. No red wine?

"I think that's what he means, but it doesn't seem possible."

"No, it can't be," she says. "People drink wine on a daily basis here... with lunch, with dinner... how can they not have red wine?"

I must have asked him wrong, or understood him wrong. The bar is lined with bottles - gin, vodka, whiskey, beer, all kinds of stuff. It just doesn't make sense. I try again, but get the same results. We stand there for a moment not knowing what to do.

"Well," Trish says, "I'll have a whiskey."

"I guess I'll have a beer," I add. But it's just not the same. Cold beer on a blustery night in the mountains.

Later, we pass by a restaurant with the most amazing looking tarts or creme caramels in dishes on a marble counter top. We peer down and try to walk past, but the temptation is too much. We change course and try to find the door.

Where is the door?

We look at every door of the building. None is open. One has a marquis on top and a small sign, mostly in Portuguese, that has hours on it. At the bottom, in English, it says, "Ring the bell."

We look at it for a moment. We can see the dining area through the window. It is close enough that this could be the door to the restaurant, but ringing a bell to get in? We're not sure. But the tarts really did look scrumptious. We decide to go for it. I push the bell.

"RING!!!"

A stout lady answers and looks us up and down, head to toe, then back again, appraising. Are we worthy to eat here? She doesn't seem so sure.

"Are we late?" I ask in Portuspanglish, not knowing what else to say. The silence was uncomfortable.

"Eh?"

"Uh, we just want a tart," I add. "Dulce." Pause. "Dessert?"

"Do you speak English?" she says.

"Oh yes, we do. You speak English... that's great. We just wanted to try those delicious looking tarts we saw through the window."

Silence.

"... if it's not too late."

"Only dessert?" she finally asks.

"Yes, only dessert.... And maybe some red wine."

"OK."

Yay! We are worthy!

We order a creme caramel and a corn pudding that looks just like rice pudding. Both are wonderful. The wine is served in a terracotta pot that could pass for a Mayan artifact like you would see in a museum. We are in food heaven. When we see the last table of diners getting ready to pay, Trish and I decide it's time to get out. No way we want to be the last ones here... that would break our contract. Before leaving, though, we make a reservation for dinner for the following night. Now that we have passed inspection, we want to milk it for all we can.

One of the many, many... many ways the Portuguese prepare cod. From our Night 2 meal at O Julio.

Night 2 dessert... a slab of local sheep cheese and pumpkin marmalade. Delicious!

2009-2010: Christmas in Portugal

Porto was still buzzing when we arrived at lunchtime Christmas Eve. By evening a quiet had descended upon the city. The few people out were running last minute errands, picking up a wreath-shaped fruitcake from the pasteira, cleaning house, or getting started on the Christmas dinner.

We wandered the hilly streets of Porto for a little while. Assuming that we would find nothing open, we had already stocked up on bread, cheese, olives and fruit. We were set, but we wouldn’t pass up the chance to have a glass of wine somewhere if the opportunity arose.

The other half of “we,” by the way, is Trish. Trish was one of my flight students, now a friend and travel buddy. We met up in Lisbon a week ago and have been wending our way north since then.

Lisbon was one of the most interesting cities I’ve been to. Growing up in California, the influence of Central and South America is pervasive. Every region has its immigrant communities from south of the border, and if you grow up in California, you grow up with the artifacts of these communities – the pastry shops, juice stands, emphasis on fresh vegetables and fruits, meat markets – I must be hungry because all I can think of at the moment is food. But it’s hard to grow up in California and not learn at least a little bit of Spanish.

Well of course, Spain and Portugal are the homeland for people from Central and South America. It’s the Old Country. Like Anglos in the United States travel to Britain, people from south of the border travel to Iberia. Nowhere is that more true than in Portugal. I have met almost as many Brazilians here in Portugal as I have Portuguese. And they’ve brought their New World culture with them to influence Portugal in a way that you don’t see Americans influencing Britain… I think. It may be that I’m too much in the middle of it to even notice.

However it is, being in Lisbon felt a lot like being in California to me. They import as many South American fruits and vegetables in Lisbon as we do in the Mission District of San Francisco. The New World is somehow very present. Unless the reality is in reverse, that the Old World of Portugal and Spain is much more present in the Mission District than I ever recognized. I suppose that is more likely, but I haven’t been able to wrap my brain around that yet. That’s what I love about traveling – I always learn as much about my home and myself as I do about the people and places I visit.

In any case, Trish met me in Lisbon and we hung out there for a few days before heading north. She wanted to see Fatima, which is a pilgrimage site for the Portuguese, so we stopped there for a short visit on our way to Coimbra (cu-WEEM-bra), a small university town. Then it was Coimbra to Porto on Christmas Eve.

There are a lot of Catholics in Portugal, but they seem to take their Santa Claus as seriously as they do their Navidad. Santa is all over this place, climbing into chimneys and windows, inflated to massive proportions in public squares. By nightfall Christmas Eve, though, the town was quiet and the santas were still. We happened by a wine bar with the door opened and cautiously poked our heads inside. The sign said the place was open, and there were two people sitting at the bar… we took a chance and went in. Of course, it ended up being some wine bar owner getting a head start on boiling the Christmas codfish. The other two guys were regulars who just popped by for a quick drink and a Bom Natal. He’d just forgotten to turn the sign around, but we didn’t discover this until he’d already poured us a glass.

We downed our wine and continued our walk. The streets were empty, the lights were beautiful, and the river that feeds out into the Atlantic took my breath away when I first saw it.

After Christmas, Trish wanted to buy some port wine for her wife so we hit the port wine caves on the other side of the river and partied with some of the other travelers we met there. Trish’s backpack was already almost as big as herself. Now that she’s added two heavy bottles of port wine to it, my job is to make sure she doesn’t tip over.

Next stop: Gouveia, a small town in the mountains from where we hope to make our way to Madrid. We’re piecing together, however, that crossing the Portuguese Sierras from Gouveia to Madrid is sort of like crossing the Sierras in California… in December. It may look reasonable on the map to use Tioga Pass if you don’t know what you’re doing, but once you get there… another story altogether. So, we’ve got tickets from Porto to Gouveia, and from Guarda to Madrid. Guarda is the Portuguese equivalent of Mono Lake… i.e. of having crossed to the other side of the mountains. Now all we need is that one little piece in between, Gouveia to Guarda… stand by.

Random pictures, the order of which I apparently can't change...

Trish, getting rid of her pack of handi-wipes in hopes of lessening the load, now that she's got 2 extra bottles of port to haul around. Futile.

Port wine tasting with our fellow Americans.

Traditional day-after-Christmas stilt race along the river.

Cool graffiti in Porto.

The Hall of Toilet Seats... we never figured out why this one corridor of our otherwise very tasteful and well-appointed hotel is decorated with wooden toilet seat covers.

Pastries in Porto.

Halfway up the hill to the university in Coimbra.

Pastries in Coimbra.

The only photo I took in Lisbon... looking down the trolley tracks toward the river.

2009-2010: Skin (Cordoba)

Caroline taught me well. She sure did. So well that I almost didn’t bring my bathing suit with me at all on this trip. Why bother?, I thought. I had carried that thing around with me for 4-1/2 months last time and never used it. Not once. Well, I might have used half of it once.

That wasn’t always entirely comfortable for me. The spa in Slovakia was co-ed, and some of those Russian guys were pretty big. Not that kind of big… big as in fat. Chunky. Walls of blubber so vast that I wouldn’t have been able to tell whether they were that kind of big or not, even if I had wanted to. Veritable citadels of flesh obscuring anything that might lurk beneath. They came and went in the mist, and occasionally one climbed gracelessly into the hot tub with me. When in Rome…

My first ever experience with the concept of a nude, co-ed spa was when I was about 20. It was 1984, before the Wall came down and any country with even a remote connection to the Soviet Union was cloaked in mystery. I had overnighted in Vienna en route to an Italian convent that had been converted into a hostel. This was supposed to be a cheap travel summer.

Walking down the Kartnerstrasse, killing time until my sleeper to Tuscany pulled into the train station, I saw a sign that enticed me to change my plans completely. “Come to Budapest,” it said. Budapest? Well, why not? That sounded a lot more interesting than Italy. I’d already been to Italy.

Nobody spoke English in Budapest in 1984. Really. Even in my 4-star hotel, any time I needed to communicate they had to search out the one guy on staff who spoke even a few words. Forget about sentences… articles, prepositions… all luxuries in those days. I had to satisfy myself with more simple, generally monosyllabic constructions, like “room” and “key,” all with the appropriate items indicated on a map or with a pointed finger.

It was no wonder, then, that there was some confusion about the spa. I know I said this was supposed to be a cheap travel summer, but Eastern Europe was known for its spas… massages, saunas, therapeutic hot springs… while I was there I had to try them, right? Anyway, overall it was much cheaper to travel in Hungary than anywhere in Western Europe. So I rationalized.

Anyway, I made my way down to the spa just fine following signs with pictures. When I got there, the attendant motioned for me to take off my clothes, wrap up in a towel and warm up in the steam room before my massage. She pointed to a door. OK, I thought, that must be the women’s steam room.

I laid out on the hot stone slab and relaxed into the aromatic steam. Deep breaths of pine and eucalyptus. Relaxing, thinking how wonderful it was to be in Budapest. I was 20 remember, maybe 21. A naïve girl from California. This may have been the first time in my life I’d had any kind of a spa treatment at all… I had little or nothing to compare it to.

The door opened and through the mist in walked a Japanese man. I will never forget him. He looked to me like he could have been a sumo wrestler. He plopped himself down directly across from me, buck naked, spread his feet out wide and comfortable, leaned back against the hot wall and stared at me. A nice, friendly smile.

What was I supposed to do? I was from the United States, land of the prudes. I had heard of nude beaches. Nude saunas, yes, those too… but only in San Francisco. I wasn’t even old enough to drink and here they’d thrown a naked sumo wrestler into the steam room with me. Was I really in the right place?

I had no idea. And he was still staring at me.

Fortunately, it was almost time for my massage. I didn’t want to be rude, after all. I excused myself and waited the rest of the time outside, traumatized.

In retrospect, of course, this was perfectly normal. Nobody wears bathing suits at spas in Eastern Europe, or in Germany or France or Austria… They don’t have a problem with nudity. In fact, if you do appear in your bathing suit, they laugh at you. If you want to get attention, wear a bathing suit and everyone will stare at you and wonder what prudish, uptight land you come from.

So I almost didn’t even bother bringing my bathing suit with me on this trip to Spain and Portugal. In an Islamic country, things might be different, but the Arab baths in Cordoba aren’t really Arab anymore… now they’re just the sight of a wonderful spa that caters to Spanish and foreign tourists. It’s like going to Calistoga, except that the hot pools are made of solid marble and granite, openings in the ceiling – small circles and 8-pointed stars – allow light to shine in, candles glimmer in the mist, and the massage tables are arranged around the main pool, all out in the open. If you’re thirsty, you hop out and have a cup of sweet peppermint tea, then go back to alternating through the pools – hot, warm and cold.

I felt stupid bringing my bathing suit to this place. I’ll leave it in the locker, I thought, but I’ll have it with me… just in case. I wrap up in my big spa towel and walk into the dark, misty main pool room. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust but… what’s that I see… no large mounds of Russian flesh. No sumo wrestlers languishing on the sidelines. No… here I see fit people, slim people, and every single one of them is clothed. Except for me.

Damn!

Back into the locker room I go, grateful that I’d had the puritanical presence of mind to pack a bathing suit after all. And after a total of 5 months of traveling in 2009, I finally, actually got a chance to use it.

Arab baths at the Alhambra in Granada.

Sangria with free tapas, Granada.

The mosque cathedral, Cordoba.

A little bit of romance in Sevilla.