All Vaxxed Up and Nowhere to Go

May 31, 2021

Feeling adventurous, Teresa and I headed north to Chicago, fully vaccinated and hoping that the worst was over for our pandemic. On the way, we stopped in Louisville, home of the slugger, horses and hot Kentucky Browns. And by stopping in Louisville, I mean actually Indiana, with an amazingly great view of the city. Time to find some horse races!

June 1, 2021

The next day we continued north to Chicago, the Windy City. The Second City. Chitown (careful with that pronunciation). Arriving late afternoon, we wandered around aimlessly looking like locals or hobos as the numerous locals appeared to be. But as the song goes, “if you can make it here you’ll make it anywhere”. Start spreading the news.

June 2, 2021

Our first morning in Chicago was spent touring the downtown area around “the loop” and visiting architecturally significant sites. After several hours and many miles, we stopped at a little Puerto Rican Korean restaurant for some lunch. They are still very strict in their adherence to COVID safety measures.

Such a difference compared to the Atlanta “Covid? What Covid?” attitude. It’s hard to know what’s more sensible at this point given the wide availability of effective vaccines. But the strong measures still being taken in Chicago probably explains the ghost town like atmosphere in “The Loop”.

Later in the afternoon, we took the much-recommended river cruise and saw it all. The city is proud of its architectural heritage unlike so many other cities that ignore it (New York City) or are adverse to it (Atlanta). And the food here’s not bad either.

June 3, 2021

Today was Frank Lloyd Wright Day. Heading into the western suburb of Oak Park we took a tour of Frank’s first design, a home he designed in 1889 at the tender age of 20 for his newlywed wife after getting his first job with the big Chicago architecture firm of Louis Sullivan. A rather oddball of a house that was added on to numerous times, it was a test lab of sorts for many of his design ideas. Fast forward 20 years and we find Frank newly divorced but on his way to fame, fortune and scandal. He put his now ex wife, five children along with his elderly mother into this house and converted it into an apartment of 8 rental units that JOINTLY shared only one indoor bathroom. Oh, Frank!

We then headed to Chicago’s Southside (gulp) and the site of his famous “prairie style” designed, Robie House constructed from brick, granite and steel beams. Along the way we toured the Oak Park neighborhood, home to more than a dozen of his designs evoking a long lost past when architects were commonly used in the process of home building. Sigh.

Later that evening we had dinner at a rooftop restaurant. On the way back we walked thru Chicago’s financial district. It was dead. Nobody. Here’s a picture I took from the middle of the street, no traffic in sight, in front of the equivalent of Wall Street.

From there we headed back to the hotel on Grant Park and stopped at a bar where, finally, they asked for proof of vaccination before allowing us to enter. Upon showing our vaccination cards, we were allowed in. It was a vibrant and raucous crowd. Finally, I thought, some rational, scientific and common sense. Viva la vaccinacion!

June 4, 2021

It’s our last day in Chicago and it’s art day. We started off by visiting the Art Institute of Chicago. Like the Met in New York or the Louvre, the place is just too big to see in a day so we focused on the current major exhibit – The Claude Monet Exhibit. Chicago is rightfully proud of its connection to Claude Monet and the institute purchased several of his works for their collection while he was still living.

One thing I didn’t know about Monet is that he started off as a street caricaturist in Paris before turning to the Impressionistic paintings for which he is known.

Miles later we left the museum and headed to Chicago’s now most famous landmark, rivaling the Eiffel Tower or Statue of Liberty, the BEAN. We gawked in amazement for a couple of seconds and headed on ending our tour in front of Picasso’s famous and controversial statue.

Dinner and cocktails at the end of Navy Pier. An Uber ride of 2 miles during the day is $12. But now? At 6 o’clock on a Friday night? It’s $48. Everything has been turned into a battle of supply verses demand.

Traveling in the Time of COVID

October 3, 2020

Teresa and I have decided to take the leap, or risk in this case, and travel. After moon-suiting up this morning and hailing an Uber to the airport, we have finally arrived at our destination in northern Arizona … Sedona. Now, at 5 in the evening, at an elevation of 5,000 feet, it’s a chilly 105 degrees after the earlier refreshing 109 degrees in Phoenix. Nice and mild for October. Fall is in the air. The leaves are changing color from soft greens to nuclear fireballs.

Earlier, our journey through the Atlanta Airport presented several surprises. Almost everyone wore a mask. The amount of traffic is about a quarter of normal so it’s not as stressful at the security checkpoints. Delta has rediscovered common sense and now boards from the rear of the plane forward. Every middle seat (in steerage) is empty. They don’t serve coffee for breakfast (which is a bag of Cheetos) but they do serve beer and wine. Passengers are still allowed to travel with emotional support animals which I discovered can be a gigantic Rottweiler who decides to place his head in your lap because you have an aisle seat and because the surprise, as you are looking out the window, will make you scream out loud. Gosh how we’ve missed the thrills of travel. 

October 4, 2020

In the early morning cool air (it actually dropped 50 degrees after sunset), Teresa and I donned our containment suits and headed away from Sedona. Fearing that tourists would overwhelm the area, we set our sights on Arcosanti, an architectural experiment from the late 60s and bell foundry an hour and a half drive south. As a college student studying architecture in the early 70s, Arcosanti was frequently a topic of conversation. Its mission was the development of a new urban environment that blended architecture with ecology, hence “arcology”. Today it still struggles, mostly unnoticed, in creating its vision. Inhabited by less than a 100 architects it survives mostly on tours and bell sales.

After an enjoyable hour tour we headed onward to our next destination, a ghost town Teresa found on the maps called Jerome. Upon arriving we could see Jerome wasn’t yet a ghost town but was still actively turning into one. Built on the steep side of a mountain, the town was swamped with tourists and bikers, ass to elbow and most without masks. A Sturgis of idiocy but I repeat myself. We took off as quickly as we could (partly because we couldn’t find a place to park) and made our way back to Sedona, the streets likewise filled with tourists and the traffic bumper to bumper.

We made a quick stop at a Safeway for supplies which was crowded but at least most shoppers were masked. Making it back to our condo we unloaded our groceries (ok, technically liquor), lathered on hand sanitizer from head to toe and made plans for the next day’s dangerous sojourn.

October 5, 2020

Enjoyed a quieter and less tourist crushed day hiking in and around Sedona. Mask on. Mask off. The city of Sedona is more car friendly than pedestrian friendly. I was surprised to find out that the city itself is barely more than 100 years old thus explaining its lack of a city center and its inherent feel of being a tourist trap built on the shoulders of a busy highway. A tourist trap in an incredibly beautiful landscape but a tourist trap nonetheless in heart and soul. I mean, how many stores do you really need selling “aura photos”? But, hop in your car and a few minutes later you are in unexplored high desert wilderness. Barely a sign of civilization in sight.

We found a trail by a small flowing river and on approaching its banks, the air temperature dropped noticeably. The area is a hikers dreamscape with miles and miles of well marked trails winding through the mesas and buttes. And when you are done, head back to town to get your aura photographed. What’s not to like?

October 6, 2020

Today we got our kicks on route 66. Heading north from Sedona we set out on a road at the bottom of a canyon that followed a small creek. The deep canyon was still shaded in the early morning light but after a few miles a series of hairpin turns brought us to the top of the surrounding tablelands in the full sunlight. We found a vista point and as luck would have it, a jewelry festival was in full swing. After a brief but requisite visit and purchase of silver and turquoise bangles we continued on towards our first destination, Meteor Crater, an apparition seemingly appropriate for the year 2020.

As we scorched eastward along route 66 in our amazingly underpowered Nissan SUV rental, Teresa spotted a destination on the map that we would have to stop at on our return trip. The charmingly named “Apache Death Cave”. I assured her that we would stop there as I was certain the gift shop alone would make the stop well worthwhile. But first, a giant hole in the ground was our goal. Driving thru the now flat Marscape we arrived and paid our $20 (each) entrance fee, our hearts beating excitedly at the prospect of staring into an abyss. We climbed up the stairs (actually we took an elevator … DING second floor) to the rim of the crater and there it was. A hole in the ground!

Ten seconds later we were back in the SUV gliding eastward to Winslow, Arizona. And a flatbed Ford. And fortunately lunch. We found a spot across the street from our pilgrimage’s destination, the iconic Eagles “Standin’ on the Corner” corner, with outdoor seating and masked clientele. I ordered the Take It Greasy burger.

Following lunch and a few quick photos, we were on our way back, first stop – Apache Death Cave. In keeping with the spirit of 2020, Apache Death Cave was closed due to COVID-19. I mean, really? With broken hearts and in stunned silence we returned to our casita in Sedona. Pulling into the parking lot, we both looked at each other and suddenly realized, we forgot Winona!

October 7, 2020

Day 5 of Covidcation 2020 and we headed north to the Grand Canyon, or as they say in Spanish, El Grand Canyon. A two and a half hour drive north of Sedona that takes you thru Flagstaff and into forests of Ponderosa Pines, the theme song from Bonanza playing softly in the background. Not much traffic on the roads as we left early so that we could beat the crowds that would arrive by train at noon.

As we approached the entrance gates we could see a sign that said the daily car fee was $35. A young masked park ranger stood curbside collecting fees and handing out maps. We pulled up to the ranger and I lowered (does any “roll down” anymore) the window, masked, with credit card in hand. The ranger began to explain our options and then stopped and asked, “Are either of you senior citizens?” I blinked at her thru my dark sunglasses and said, “Excuse me you young whippersnapper but these old ears can’t hear you through that mask. Can you speak louder?” She waived us through, no charge. I took off and leaned over to Teresa and said, “I told you I would come in handy one of these days.”

October 8, 2020

On our last day in Sedona we decided to enjoy the local activities and sights. In the morning we headed out to hike in a state park nearby, Red Rock State Park. On the way, we stopped to view the architecturally notable Chapel of the Holy Cross. Built into the rocks of a mesa overlooking Sedona, it’s a great spot for panoramic views of the area. And not bad for 64. It was built in 1956. Doing better than me.

We continued on to the state park where I tried my “Grand Canyon Senior Citizen” routine but to no avail. The park ranger, an old masked codger, saw through the ruse. $14 later we parked and headed out on a hike. The “Rattlesnake Trail”. Three and a half miles long and climbing up and down a 600′ tall desert mesa. We both wondered about the significance of the trail’s name. We crossed a cool creek and saw two dark deer. We passed fields of cactus, some flowering, some dead. With a few detours we made it back down having failed in our hunt for rattlers.

It was now midday and time for lunch. We found a cafe offering all you can eat tacos. A couple of hours later we rolled back to the Nissan. Heading back to the casita for a siesta, I spotted a sign for free “chokra screenings”. Wow, I thought, now there’s something valuable. None of that “aura photography” BS. I whipsawwed the Nissan across two lanes, cutting off a swarm of Harley Davidson bikers, into the local “Swamis R’ Us” store and got my screening. Looking at the results now makes me think I shouldn’t have eaten the whole thing.

October 9, 2020

Left Sedona in the morning on Friday and headed north to the land of the Utes or is it Utahns? Heading out of Flagstaff, we entered Navajo Nation. The two lane blacktop, freshly oiled, followed mile after mile along the base of a red mesa, part of the landscape that eventually descends into the Grand Canyon. Along the way we turned on the radio and found a Navajo language talk show. Sounding so much like Japanese, the only words we could decipher were “COVID” and “virus” used frequently and in close succession.

After a couple of hours we saw our first sign of civilization where the highway crossed the Colorado River just south of Glen Canyon, a relief as we needed gas plus. After filling up, I headed to the restroom to take care of the “plus”. Just my luck, the only restroom for hundreds of miles and it was “closed for cleaning”. Fortunately there was a laundromat next door where a solution was found.

October 10, 2020

We arrived late Friday to my sister’s desert house in southern Utah. The house, a modern adobe style design camouflaged to blend in, looks out over a canyon and red rock mountains in the near distance. A beautiful setting with quail and roadrunners scurrying around. The coyote curiously missing.

Saturday morning, Joanne and Gary drove Teresa and me to nearby Zion National Park for a day of hiking and exploring. Another all too common scene of incredible beauty for this part of the world. The park was unusually crowded as we drove through valleys that led to a mile long tunnel carved into the mountain. The tunnel’s side wall had portals carved out giving glimpses of the views outside. A Mormon cricket (great name for a sports team in Salt Lake, I thought) greeted us as we looked over flowering cactus. But, truth be known, the Mormon cricket is in fact not a cricket but a katydid. Another deception.

October 11, 2020

As if Las Vegas wasn’t strange enough, welcome to Pandemic Vegas. A barren and gaudy landscape filled with wandering zombies. Then again, maybe it’s really not that different after all. We left St. George this morning and headed down I-15. The freeway quickly descended back and forth through steep rocky canyons emptying into an apocalyptic flat plain filled with large electric pylons. Appearing like a cheesy colorless 50s science fiction film, the only thing missing, a 60 foot tarantula attacking RVs and cop cars. Once safely parked and checked in at our destination, we set out to explore the strange new world.

Everyone everywhere wore masks or what appeared to be plexiglass welding hoods. The casinos seemed crowded one moment and empty around the next turn. Blackjack tables were filled but plexiglass dividers separated all participants. Slot machines were empty yet loudly beckoned for your attention. Sitting down for lunch, with tables now spaced twice as far as usual, the waiter explained we would have to download an app to place our order since paper menus were verboten. Placemats were provided for our face masks when removed but were only to be used when eating or drinking. Wandering around the property, sections were closed, pathways barricaded.

Out on Las Vegas Boulevard, the sidewalks were lightly populated and traffic, while noisy, not what would be normally expected. Piped in music underscored the empty oddness. Stores were closed everywhere. A strange new mutation for Las Vegas as it continues to struggle to survive and suck all your money, and soul, out of your pockets. What’s caught in Vegas doesn’t stay in Vegas.

A real wow of a dinner fountain-side at the Bellagio. The fountain water show was something I’ve heard of but have never seen. Or heard! To shoot the geysers 200 feet or more in the air takes explosive charges of some kind. Likely compressed air charges. It was very surprising and loud. And the engineering horsepower and computer programming for the choreography is incredible. For the jaded traveler it is a real treat. And considering that I worked for three years as an engineer at a decorative fountain company while going to Georgia Tech made it even more impressive as I understood first hand some of the design challenges that were overcome. Also, too, the drive-by shooting across the street and subsequent police and helicopter chase just added to an evening of special effects. Viva Pandemic Vegas!

October 12, 2020

Our final day of SouthWestern CovidCation 2020 was spent seeing the sights of Sin City. We started at the top and worked our way down with a visit to the Stratosphere Tower which is normally packed with hundreds of sightseers. At a thousand feet tall, with exterior stomach churning rides (now closed), we were two of a dozen people we saw. The place was empty and many stores and attractions boarded up. The views still worked so we enjoyed that.

A quick Uber ride back to the Strip was provided by a young Iraqi driver who pointed out all the big name properties now closed like The Palms Casino, home of the Penn and Teller show. Now on foot we worked our way back through the shops and casinos stopping along the way to hail a now masked Caesar. “Et tu?”, I wondered aloud muffled by my own mask.

A Cruise to Anywhere but Cuba

November 7, 2019

On board ship, the Royal Caribbean’s Empress Of The Seas, in Miami on our cruise to Anywhere But Cuba. Originally booked earlier this year, this ship was scheduled to sail to Havana. But then, 2016 happened and suddenly Americans were, once again, no longer free to travel. Build up that wall, Mr. Gorbachev! So we set sail in search of exotic unknown destinations and occasional passing sailboats to board and pirate. Yeeearrgh, me maties. Lost at sea, again.

November 8, 2019

Adrift in the Gulf of Mexico a dozen miles off the northwest coast of Cuba, the ship half full of reverse Cuban refugees. “Cuba libre”, we intone as we gaze wistfully to our south towards the still amazingly large and forbidden mountains of Vinales. In seconds, a smartly dressed waiter, named Kenneth, hailing from the Phillipines arrives, libation in hand. I ask him for the frequency. Courage!

November 9, 2019

Sailing through the night, we washed ashore on the rocks in George Town, Not Cuba, at sunrise. Here be trinkets. And jewelry. And cigars (Not Cuban). On shore was a den of pirate dogs and scurvy plagued privateers (AKA jewelers).

November 11, 2019

Spent the day at the incredible Lamanai Archaeological Reserve in northern Belize on the New River. We climbed to the top of the tallest Mayan temple and listened to the howler monkeys in the surrounding jungle canopy. Magical. The only thing missing was a sacrificial offering or three. Being back in Belize brings back fond memories of Jungle Jeannie and Tiger Tom and the time spent at their eco-jungle lodge in the southern mountains near Dangriga in the late 80s where Contras heading to Nicaragua would visit. And what a melting pot! All the different cultures. Mexican, Mayan, Mestizo, Chinese, Caribbe, Garifuna.

November 12, 2019

Spending the day boating and swimming in the “Listerine” colored waters of Laguna Bacalar. The lake, fresh water with a white sand bottom, is famed for the various blue hues that spring from the lake’s limestone bottom. They have a centuries old fort with cannons to protect against pirates on the western shore. Since this lake is 60 miles inland and fresh water, methinks this story is “muy loco”. But, hey, if it keeps the tourists coming, what’s the harm, right?

November 14, 2019

Sailed into Key West on our way back to Miami. Teresa and I, being the thrill seekers that we are, rented jet skis and jetted around the island of Key West, and like a ride in a one horse open sleigh, we were laughing all the way if you replace laughing with screaming. In terror. A 30 mile route took us from the calm waters of the Gulf of Mexico to the rough seas of the Atlantic, passing under Highway 1. Reaching a top speed of 45 miles per hour, the jet skis launched into the air, much to our undelighted surprise, as they rocketed up the 4 foot waves of the Atlantic. Slamming back down (it probably looked great to the tourists watching from the Southernmost Point of the Continental US), I realized that this sort of thing is where the phrase “ridden hard and put up wet” was derived. After surviving the “adventure”, we headed back to the ship for a much needed nap, ummm, I mean drink.

November 15, 2019

Friday morning rush hour. In South Beach. Not a bad drive if you can get it. Back in the US.

Running with the Bulls from France to Spain and Back Again

“Where would you like to go for our 20th anniversary?”, Teresa said. “Someplace nice”, I said. So here we are on the way to Nice. France. On the rue again.

July 6, 2019

After sleeping for 20 minutes on the flights to Nice and spending an hour doing a walk around to document all the scratches and dents in our Super Sized SUV rental, Teresa and I headed to the north and bleary eyed up into the mountains. A couple of hundred round-abouts later, we decided to take a stop in a little village where absolutely nobody speaks English to have lunch. I think I just ordered pigs feet soup. Anticipation has perked me up.

We continued heading north into the mountains for a drive thru of what is referred to as the “French Grand Canyon”. Gorges du Verdon. The road winds along the edge of the canyon with steep rock walls, sometimes overhanging the road, and a sheer drop off without a guard rail on the other side. And narrow enough sometimes for only one vehicle. Apparently France must have a shortage of lawyers. The road finally climbs up out of the canyon into farm fields. Filled with tourists. Gawking at fields of lavender. I must say it is beautiful though. At least the lavender part is.

July 7, 2019

Spent the day visiting Provence. Visiting little villages built on hillsides and driving thru fields of sunflowers, lavender and wheat. Like being in a Van Gogh painting. And by “driving thru” I mean it. Literally. Since this is the 21st century, we use Google Maps to navigate. And by thru, I mean thru. Somehow Google prefers to direct you thru every 3 foot wide goat path and farm field to get you to your destination. Even when there is a major highway nearby. At least it makes for an interesting journey. And Google must get a kick out of this as well. But of course.

Lunch in Les Baux-de-Provence. Two shrimp, $40. Life in the good lane ain’t cheap.

July 8, 2019

So we finally made it to Millau, a center of manufacturing of leather goods in operation for 1,000 years. Located at the bottom of a large canyon/valley it is also home to one of the recent engineering wonders of the world, the Millau Viaduct completed in 2004. The surrounding terrain reminds me of central Texas … semi arid with scrub brush and cattle. Lots of cows and sheep. The home of French cowboys or in the lingua franca, “cou rouge”.

The city is filled with tourists seeking adventures like dirt bike riding, four wheeling, hang gliding, goofy golf, and, my favorite, zip lining on skate boards. I am not making that one up. Where Provence is all wine and cheese, Millau is beer and bread. At least it’s not Doritos. The only thing missing is gun shooting ranges and maybe we just haven’t stumbled across that yet.

After settling into our trailer (yes, we are in a trailer park) Teresa said we had to go to her favorite glove factory, Causse Gantier. After a little wallet lightening, we headed to the city center for libations at a sidewalk cafe. The oddballs that we are we ordered red wine. Everyone else, and I mean everyone, was drinking beer. We stood out like Provential Snobs. In the background could be heard the sounds of revving dirt bikes and squealing tires. I am on a mission now to learn how to say in French, “Hey y’all. Watch this!”

July 9, 2019

We left Millau and headed southwest towards our next destination, Andorra, the original chosen location for our European wedding vows one score of years ago. But, due to a number of un-annulleable Catholic crimes between us (both Teresa and I grew up Catholic), it turned out to be less than possible thus making Gibraltar, our number 3 pick, the lucky site of our blissful oaths.

The route took us out and over the viaduct and into verdant farm country filled with rolling fields of green and gold and camouflaged sheep pastures. This was clearly authentic French country and an area not frequented by tourists. Especially Catholic outlaw ones. After a couple of hours and an adventurous toilet break we made it to a freeway that would quickly take us the remaining distance. Wanting to avoid the customary two plus hour lunch ritual and in hopes of finding something other than duck and all of its associated parts to consume, we decided to give our familiar American chef, McDonald’s, a try after spotting a tiny army green sign with golden arches whiz by. We pulled over and parked with ease. They had a parking lot. A rare treat. Ordering was made easy by engaging with a wall sized touch sensitive flat screen menu filled with delicious looking pictographs. A quick swipe of a credit card and our order was placed. Printed instructions informed us we were number 34 and, after some mandatory confusion, figured out we were being instructed to sit at a booth where our order would be delivered. In a short amount of time (anything less than 2 hours in this country is considered brief) our familiar pictograph matching food arrived. The parent corporation would be happy to know that the food was consistent with our expectations and that the Big Mac (not actual French product name) did not taste like duck. However, the Coca-Cola did not at all taste like American Coke. It was way less sweet and almost bitter. Good for the French. Maybe they have rules limiting the amount of sugar that can be added. Nonetheless, the food was delicious, and let’s be honest, anytime your food is delivered with a French accent it’s just going to taste better anyways.

Back out on the freeway and up the mountains we continued our journey southward. We finally reached the border and were stopped, given a glance and waved on. One can never be too careful when Mexican illegal immigrants prowl our planet. We followed the heavy line of car and truck traffic further up the mountains of Andorra until, at a fork in the roundabout, Google commanded that we take the first exit. A road that no one else was on and that led to a brand new tunnel. We paid a toll, which must be steep since no one else was anywhere in sight, and entered the passage under the mountain. After several miles we emerged into a different landscape. Switzerland. Or at least what looked like it. A huge green valley with little chalets clutching the mountain sides. A surprising and stunning change of scenery. Now, to find the local Catholic constabulary and taunt them.

July 10, 2019

With only one night in Andorra, we headed out early towards Spain and our next destination, Pamplona, where the St. Fermin Festival and running of the bulls is taking place all week. The drive, at six hours, is our longest on this voyage.

At the Spanish border crossing Google commanded us to take the left lane. A little too late I realized we took the red lighted “frisk us” left lane and not the green lighted “just go” left lane. Google chuckled. The surly Spanish guard signaled us to roll down the window and step out of our vehicle with our hands up. From what I could tell he was telling me to open the trunk. “Where are you going?”, he asked. “Pamplona!”, I said while wildly gesticulating and making a running motion with the fingers of my right hand while forming bull horns with my left, crashing the two together and then making screaming sounds to add realism. Generally, I would characterize his reaction as “un-bemused”. “How much money are you carrying?”, he asked. Thinking he’s probably looking for a “donation” I said, “very little”. A few more questions about liquor and cigarettes and a quick grope thru our suitcases and he sent us on our way after muttering “stupido” which didn’t quite sound like “thank you”.

Down the mountains we wove into the dry and dusty plains north of Zaragoza. In a couple of hours we arrived at our freeway entrance and floored it, heading west thru landscapes that looked like American western movies with occasional rocky out croppings and ancient fortresses or churches atop.

By mid afternoon we arrived in Pamplona. It was easy driving. The streets were empty. Until two blocks from our hotel at the edge of the old city. Roadblocks. The roads were filled with people dressed in white with red sashes and neckerchiefs. They paid no attention to me and my giant Super Sized SUV. They may have escaped being gored by bulls but they would never fare as well with me. The only thing missing was a pair of bull horns strapped to the hood. Ole! After some creative maneuvering and cutting off two “filled to the brim with cops” police vans we made it to a security checkpoint. A quick review of our credentials and we were sent on our way sans the customary salutation of “stupido”. Tomorrow morning, at sunrise, we run.

July 11, 2019

The Saint Fermin Festival goes on all week in Pamplona. It’s the type of festival where drinking doesn’t start in the morning because drinking never stops. There is no beginning and there is no end. A combination of Mardi Gras and Carnivale that only the Spanish can perfect in all its chaos and fervor. The morning starts with the daily running of the bulls.

Followed by chaos and occasional light bouts of chaos. And of course drinking. Groups or clubs form spontaneously for all sorts of reasons and parade around the narrow streets. Singing groups. Tuba groups. Hopping trombone groups. Flag waving groups. Name it. I’m glad I don’t understand the language. To my ears it sounds like a bunch of sparrows chirping at the top of their lungs (do sparrows have lungs?) and being drunk on fermented berries. This goes on pretty much all day and night reaching its zenith near midnight. There seems to be no or little food available. Certainly no restaurants with table service. Tapas only. And very limited. Of course the Spaniards are notoriously rigid about their eating rituals and always seem to not be eating when I would like or expect to be eating. Same for sleeping which I am beginning to suspect is not done at all. They all seem to know the rules and for me it is endlessly baffling.

The afternoon activities, aka parading about like a bunch of drunk canaries, is highlighted by a bull fight to which Teresa managed to get tickets. I hear the toreador today is supposed to be one of their super stars. I am hoping for a Britney Spears on horseback.

July 12, 2019

We left the craziness of Pamplona this morning, or tried to, for Bilboa, home to the Guggenheim museum by architect Frank Gehry. A toll was required to enter the freeway. After paying the toll, everyone was required to pull over for a DUI check. Located just outside Spain’s largest drinking party it was easy pickings for our boys in green. Like bears in a salmon filled river. After several attempts (apparently I wasn’t blowing hard enough) we were sent on our way and given the DUI Blow Nipple as a lasting souvenir of our Pamplona partying.

As we got closer to Bilboa the scenery changed from the rolling yellow dry plains (where in Spain rain obviously DOESN’T fall mainly) to blue green fir tree covered mountains looking like somewhere west of Seattle. The freeway exited a few blocks from our hotel located on a large roundabout in the city center. And, true to form, Bilboa presented unique challenges for the foreign driver. In this case traffic lighted intersections. It turns out each intersection has two traffic lighted signals. One for entering the intersection and one for exiting the intersection. And these lights are timed only for mayhem. And as an inspiration for vigorous horn honking. Oh, and to make certain only the quick and nimble pedestrians survive. After several close calls of every kind, we arrived to the hotel only to find that there was no where to pull over for parking (even though reservations for parking were made and paid for in advance).

As we passed the hotel I spotted a no parking zone and converted it to one. I got out of the car, leaving Teresa on guard, and ran to the hotel entrance. “Wow. What a nice hotel lobby”, I said to myself. Quiet and mature. Classical wood paneling from floor to ceiling. Like a Ritz-Carlton without the Ritz. Smelling of magnolias and camellias. I caught the attention of one of the uniformed staff members and explained my situation. He seemed to indicate that I would have to circle around the block and drive up over a curb nearby, drive down the sidewalk (pedestrian filled of course) and squeeze the giant SUV between two columns at the lobby entrance slowly while preferably not yelling “Allahu Ackbar” whilst doing so. Upon the successful following of the directions and wedging the car into the hotel entrance blocking all passage, we checked in.

July 13, 2019

In the early morning we left Bilbao and headed out to the Basque coast straddled by the border of Spain and France. It is a short drive to San Sébastian, passing Guernica along the way. Guernica, the subject of one of Picasso’s most famous paintings, was the location of an aerial attack on civilians by the Fascists in 1937 during the Spanish Civil War. The painting served as inspiration for American liberals who volunteered to fight before the start of the world war.

The freeway wove down the mountains to the coast. When it wasn’t weaving it was turning. The speed limit changed every kilometer. One moment it was 120. The next 80. And signs everywhere indicated radar was used for enforcement. That seemed to have no effect on a subset of drivers who all passed me going easily 200. And mostly VWs and not the bug kind. Some sort of sleek and obnoxiously fast kind. Bugs with monster wheels.

We pulled off at the San Sébastian exit and headed to the city center where traffic at that hour of the morning was light. A sign for parking was spotted and we headed underground to find a spot. The giant SUV struggled to squeeze between the decks, easily only 6 feet tall, scraping it’s antenna along the way. We shoe-horned into the first parking space we found, accomplishing it with a graceful 20 point turn.

Popping up street side we headed out to find the local Le Waffle House. After a couple of donuts and coffee I was feeling like an American again. Chocolate covered and not a duck in sight. San Sébastian is supposed to be a hoity toity place but I found it to be a few shades short of chic. In need of a good street sweeping in the least. The city is built around an azure bay with hills on both sides of the harbor entrance looking like padded shoulders. A skulling race was underway. We stood on the seawall and watched.

In a while we decided to head on to our next seaside village, St. Jean de Luz, France’s answer to Panama City Beach. After