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| Belem - Lisbon - Columbus Memorial |
We spent today in quiet relaxation recovering from M and preparing ourselves for the next step. Bea is exhausted, having tramped around all week with M shopping.
12 January Sunday Villeparisis
The same as yesterday and we are champing and frothing at the bit once again anxious to hit the road. How amazing it is that our juices for exploration still flow; that we can "look forward" with eager anticipation, even though our energies often flag.
13 January Monday Villeparisis to Paris to Villeparisis
A business day.
To the Champs Elysees, a spiral walk up the Arc de Triomphe, great view on a windy, mild day.
To the French Tourist Office for information on a route to Spain.
Then to Spanish Tourist Office and Pan Am— we are over our mileage, but there will be no sweat when we fly home— they say!.
Then back in the Metro to Opera— the Academie Nationale de Musique and AmEx— the rude bastards.
The Portugal Tourist Office and back in the Metro to the Champs after sandwiches at Le Drugstore (26F).
We went to see a movie, "Juggernaut" a diversion about bombs on an ocean liner. I liked it; Bea didn’t. An ice cream at Le Drugstore, Champs Elysees branch. And home.
Bea was a bitch all day. She had called Hélène just back from Switzerland. H was peeved at us for standing up Gerard back on Christmas Eve. Bea couldn’t let her cousine have it for their treatment of us, thought of all the right things to say later and seethed about it all day and turned on me.
14 January Tuesday Villeparisis
Bea went into Paris to meet H and shop for a coat which she has talked herself into needing since the Afghani coat smells and keeps ripping under the armpits. I sent a letter off to Esther about money which will become critical when we return from Spain in a month from tomorrow or the next day.
15 January Wednesday Villeparisis to Bordeaux
We began our trip to Spain and Portugal, expected to last a month. We hope for some sum and mild weather. The first leg began through now familiar land, south to Tours, the chateau country. This time the sun peeked through a high sky, warming the car and tempting us to divert to see the chateaus again, or rather for the first time at a distance as we couldn’t when the fog was heavy.
But the South called and we continued around Poitiers and Anguleme to Bordeaux. The land flattened after Tours, green, lush valleys and farmland, more interesting than south of Paris. I never thought of France as so lush, picturesque, so green. The climate, so damp and "mild" (this has been a comparatively mild winter, the locals insist). But mostly the rivers: the Seine, Loire, Rhone, Indre, Cher, Garonne, create a lovely fertile food rich country, varied scenery and proud, satisfied People. As we reached Bordeaux it began to drizzle. We found a clean, cheap but noisy hotel and a cheap but good restaurant (both out of Frommer)--- oysters and sausage / 1/4 roast chicken and frite, salad, dessert of glace, frommage, pudding or fruit (14.50F incl. Service), ½ bottle of Bordeaux. We have found food no worse than average and often much better for price than in the States.
16 January Thursday Bordeaux to St Jean De Luz
Two of the major frustrations of our trip crystallized into this one day: lack of wherewithall and traveling off season.
We slept late, cashed another $20 (the rate dropping steadily 30F per $100 since we came to France), paid our hotel bill, got the car out of the garage 5 blocks away after coffee and croissants at a nearby café (cheaper than at the hotel). We packed and drove to the flea market setting up near the local Eglise (St.Michel) and walked around the square, frustrated at the high prices at the brocantes, settling for ham, salad and baguette for the road.
We then hit the road, stopping only for gas, to change drivers twice (I got back behind the wheel in Bayonne when shifting through traffic made Bea uptight). The weather was cloudy, sunny, rainy.
Biarritz, like Deauville, was half closed up, not dead but hibernating for the winter. It was too depressing: we continued to Bidart with lovely views of the Atlantic, houses on a verdant hill and the mountains of Spain beyond. But only rundown, unappealing hotels were open.
Indecisive, we drove on to St. Jean de Luz, a town full of summer Palm Springs type hotels, apartments, shops, with a beach, casino and fishing village. Must be great in summer, now it is half ghostly. We cashed $10, got another cold room with sagging bed and no shower, went to a restaurant for a really good meal.
Tomorrow we cross the border into Spain and really begin this leg of the trip. We are a little apprehensive after reading in the Michelin Guide about the bad weather; also I am depressed because this is my 31½ birthday.
17 January Friday St Jean De Luz to Fuenterrabia to San Sebastian to Fuenterrabia
This part of Spain is Basque, still quite French feeling, with Spanish language which I am somewhat relieved to say I can still speak a little after 5 years of study. But B’s and C’s don’t leave me fluent and certainly not confident, though we drove across the border this morning and checked into a parador, which certainly is comfortable.
It is a 12th century castle turned by Franco into a tourist hotel. The room with shower, modern fixtures, is the best we have stayed in for a long time: a pleasure to take a shower standing up for a change and to complain about too much heat.
We went on and walked through San Sebastian’s old town in the rain, ate lunch at a little local restaurant a returned to our room for rest, explored the common areas of the castle, enjoying its romantic medieval ambiance. A dinner of four courses and a bottle of white wine set us straight and relaxed us and made us look forward to the rest of Spain. Having worried over the lack of civilization, especially after France, the parador is a good beginning into this country: clean good rooms, hot tasty fish soup, paella with shrimp and clams in garlic sauce. Highways no worse than in France and prices perhaps a bit lower, possibly a lot lower.
Now, if only the weather ....
[Written on the onionskin stationery of the Parador Nacional El Emperador, Fuenterrabia (Guipuszcoa)]
17 January 1975 Fuenterrabia, Spain
Dear Ron, Laura and other creatures,
We are on the road again as promised. After some planning and delays we bid a fond and temporary au revoir to Paris and our house and contemplated the string of hotels that await us. The first day we drove to Bordeaux, a toddling town in the heart of the wine country (Cognac is a few km’s up the road). The next day we drove through Biarritz which was like any summer resort off season and rainy. Ron, you may remember the time you and I drove up to the Catskills in similar weather and unseasonability. So we continued down the coast a way to St. Jean de Luz where we stayed in one of the few hotels — of the dozens there — which was open. We walked along the beach and ate a very good dinner, fish soup, pork and chips. Bea had squid cooked in its own ink — no joke.
This morning we continued along the coast into Spain. The place we are staying in is a Parador, a 12th Century castle which the government has modernized and restored for travelers. The exterior, halls and public rooms maintain the medieval touches but the rooms are warm, stucco and Spanish style furniture and our own bathroom with shower, something unheard of in a French hotel of similar cost. The cost is about $9 per night and includes breakfast.
After getting the room we drove to and explored San Sebastian, a city on the Bay of Biscay. Spain is poorer than France but this part at least is as green and beautiful. It is in Basque country whose people keep an identity apart from nationality.
Surprisingly, I have been able to make myself understood in Spanish, to desk clerks, bank tellers, waitresses and a man on the street for directions. Not in the same league as Bea’s French of course, but almost adequate. Shows you what 5 years of high school and college language classes can do for you!
The route we have planned will take us through most of Spain and a good deal of Portugal, concentrating on the warmer, summer places. Our reading has not prepared us well. It is a bit confusing. Some descriptions say temperatures in January and February are around 68 , others a large part of the country is cold and bitter in winter. So quien sabe? We may spend most of our time on the Algarve in Portugal and the Costa del Sol in Spain. But there is of course money, plus a lot of the things we want to see are in bad weather places, like Madrid.
We expect to take a month on the trip and then return to Villeparisis for a while before heading to Italy. When we get back to France in February half the year will have passed and Ron can collect his bet from Marco.
Although we will be out of touch for a while, keep writing to VP and we will get the letters on our return. We will send you cards from sunny Spain. I hope you are now feeling well again now that the warm weather is back (Bea’s parents called and said it was 86 there.) Did Marilyn give you the tapes and stack of pictures we sent with her? ....Love and regards, Mort and Bea. Hasta la vista.
[Bea wrote her own letter the same day, which I will excerpt]:
Dear Ron and Laura,
I felt the need to add my own two cents to Mort’s letter. Last night while the waves kept pounding the shore and waking me up I had a most curious dream. I dreamt that Fred had turned orange and Ginger had grown tentacles (it must have been the squid I ate although I thought it was delicious going down). I also dreamt that I was growing baby giraffes which looked strangely like baby lizards with spots. It must be all the mushy beds we have been sleeping in lately. I’m looking forward to Spain although I kept telling Mort that I’ve seen enough pictures of Christ for one lifetime but I’m sure we will go to the Prado anyway.
[She asks Laura about her Weight Watcher experiment, exercise program and yoga practice] ...
M’s disgusting thinness made me realize that I need to fight the same battle. Also — New Year’s Eve we went to the Radomer Ball — it was filled with fat, bulging Jewish women which gave me worse nightmares than the one I had last night. But as usual, it’s impossible to diet in a country where paella (tons of rice, mostly) is the first course and where the pastries are supposed to be as good if not better than the French ones. And besides, they don’t eat dinner until 10:30 p.m. and you both know how patient I am when I’m hungry! Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll get another case of the runs — I’m going to drink lots of tap water just in case the guide books are wrong about how safe it is.
Having M with us for three weeks was quite a bore — she is so wrapped up in her problems that she just couldn’t have a good time. (Please don’t tell her I said so if she ever gets around to calling you). Her presence also made both of us realize how much fun we could have had with you.
I did enjoy the couple of frenetic days she and I went shopping. It was interesting to price things but depressing to find out that they are more expensive than at home — a simple wool skirt sells for $60 to $80. Besides, styles in Paris are somewhat different — skirts, dresses and coats are worn midcalf with boots. All of the shoes, including the boots have pointy toes which are getting pointier as the months wear on. The three pairs of pants I have and the few turtle neck sweaters have turned into my uniforms. I don’t think about what to wear anymore, I just put on the same thing or whatever’s clean. It simplifies things trememdously. For the last couple of months it’s been so cold that we wore coats outside all the time.
My coat is a story in itself. We bought it in Afghanistan for $25 which should tell you something about how well made it is. It’s one of those suede coats with embroidery — lined with lamb fur. The first time I wore it, it rained. The coat hasn’t recovered from the smell yet and dogs welcome me everywhere I go with open nostrils. When I get home (it it survives that long) I’m going to make pillows out of it or perhaps I’ll just burn it. .... Love, Bea.
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| Plaza de Toro, Madrid |
It was an interesting night. Our room, so cozy and warm, became a bit stuffy so I opened the window and shutters and discovered a full-fledged gale. Blowing wind howled and rain ripped against the castle’s stone walls. I slept well despite occasionally being awakened by the wind.
In the morning we had our breakfast which included churros and contemplated staying one more day rather than driving through the storm. But the rain had eased, if not the wind, and we bought bread and ham and gas and were on our way. We left the huge, fluffy, bath towel Bea fell in love with out of nostalgia for such luxuries, though it broke her heart to leave it.
We drove south through the Cantabrian hills, behind trucks and traffic on two lane highways until the sun shined away the rain but not the cold on the high plateau. Less verdant farmland spread from the highway and we entered Old Castille, Burgos Province.
We found a hotel room, cheaper than the parador, but heatless until later—they promise— our continuing dilemma: cold rooms or stifling hot ones—no in-between. We visited the massive Burgos Cathedral, drove around the plaza, saw the statue of El Cid, the medieval knight of Spanish legend who lived in these parts, and did some of his finest butchering here while driving the Moors from Spain. Then we settled in for a long siesta.
19 January Sunday Burgos to Madrid
Last night we were on the verge of packing it in a going home—I mean HOME. The cold unrelenting rain, the hassles, the strangeness and colorlessness of Burgos and Spain travel in general began to overwhelm us.
But today, no rain, and the car which had seemed to be protesting the cold and high altitude, had calmed down and the road offered incredible change: wide arid plains and plateaus, hills and even ghostly snow topped mountains; until finally Madrid’s wide avenues, modern plazas but with a flavor of the old world, well dressed people strolling.
We found a suitable hostel, with less than the usual hassle of indecisiveness and communication concerns— more because we wanted none than for the excellence of the place, and took a long walk through the Old Town, which made us feel better. The exercise was needed, and walking is best to understand a city, but more because it gave us back that feeling of confidence in independent exploration that we had achieved in the early days of our trip.
After an afternoon siesta, we went for dinner at La Quinta del Sordo—the mansion of the deaf one, said to have been Goya’s home. I had great roast lamb and Bea ate suckling pig, which is what we both felt like after stuffing ourselves. A guitar trio serenaded the diners.
When we returned to the hostel we found the doors were locked and we discovered the custom of clapping hands for a guard to come and unlock the outer door for a tip. Since we ate at the typical Spanish hour of 10:30 p.m. and came back after midnight, it was no wonder all was buttoned up, but how do you sleep after that meal?
20 January Monday Madrid
Today we went to the Prado which makes the 18th museum we have explored around the world, not counting temples, chateaus, tombs, churches and other old structures that contain relics and chatchkas of art or the past.
The Prado is different from the Louvre, another "landmark of the city" type museum, because it is limited mostly to Spanish painters who painted in and of Spain. There are others: Flemish and Italians who were involved in the age of Spanish power. Goya, Velasquez, El Greco, Bosch, and Rafael were the most impressive to me and it wasn’t too much of a good thing so that I did not feel that I had been over-exposed.
We then went to the Madrid zoo, driving across the city. The zoo was a pleasant surprise since it is modern with open animal areas. We realized that this is only the second zoo we have visited— the first was Calcutta (where we were more of an attraction than the white tigers—or rather Bea was). The zoo was not depressing like some where the animals are all caged and act like prisoners in the LA county jail. ... Now it turns out our room is not only cold, but contains no radiator so it will NEVER be warm.
21 January Tuesday Madrid
My mood changes with every positive or negative change of my environment. The discomfort of the room made me grumbly when I awoke. But the sun was shining and that warmed up the streets and me with them.
We went shopping for a leather coat for Bea on Avenida Jose Antonio, a wide modern "5th Avenue" until we found a place called "Boutique Shalom" where she finally found the right one. Then lunch at the self-service and we were all in.
I bought a "Trib’" and two books and we spent the late afternoon reading and trying to ignore the growing cold and hammering in the room next door. The hostel is recommended by Frommer and contains his requirements: noise and lack of heat.
I realize now that his book, as most tourist guide books, base its recommendations on high season, meaning summer travel. The books assume that the room is only a place of sleep in between explorations and meals, which is true. It is only a place to crash, and its luxuries are wasteful of tight budgets better spent on buying souvenirs, etc. But traveling in winter the room comforts are more critical; especially because we have been traveling for such a long time. Frommer writes for short trips when comforts of home are not to be far away.
This hostel also has sheets which are annoyingly short and an elevator that doesn’t work too well; all for the same price we paid for the parador, without all these minuses. I am becoming tired of the irritating guessing game and drabness of hotel living—it is the worst part of traveling and may well make us leave for home sooner.
For dinner we stuffed ourselves at a nearby German restaurant, I on sauerbratten and cheesecake with cream; Bea on veal and noodles.
I am reading "Luisitania"—it documents the alleged criminality of English and American leaders who consciously used it as bait to draw the US into WWI. It especially indicts Churchill and Wilson; two more statues crash down.
22 January Wednesday Madrid to Toledo to Oropesa
In a certain and very real sense our trip has developed into a quest for the perfect hotel, the perfect meal, the perfectly spent day, like a surfer’s search for The Perfect Wave.
As a result, like all perfection seekers we are perpetually doomed to disappointment and to "settle" for less than our goal. Often while striving for the perfect we fall so far short that we ridicule our goal. In searching for the hotel room with the perfect balance of budget price, comfort, convenience. Today we passed up a too-expensive parador and a too uncomfortable hostel and had to leave Toledo without a room, drive 100+ km’s to a parador which turned out to cost more than the one we had declined earlier in the day.
But the search continues though we sometimes weary of it. Now we will seek it in Portugal—since our idea of the perfect day has come to require SUN and WARMTH.
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| The Fiat on Kaiki Faro to Seville |
[From Mort, written on stationery from Pousada Dos Loios, Evora]:
23 January 1975 Evora, Portugal
Dear Ron & Laura: we have spent the last week or so discovering Spain. I sent a letter to you from Fuenterrabia, Spain where we spent our first day in that country. After that we drove to Burgos and then to Madrid where we spent 3 days, and last night after Toledo we slept in another Parador which like the one in Fuenterrabia is a castle which is elegantly refurbished by the Spanish Government for tourists.
Today we drove to the Portuguese border and crossed it. Tonite we are staying in the Portuguese equivalent (or attempt to equal) the paradors. It is a converted monastery which keeps the antique feeling of high ceilings, marble staircases, a courtyard and lots of dark wood, while modernizing with clean modern rooms, some luxury, and a dining room which according to one of our guidebooks is the best in Portugal. After dinner tonite B and I agree that if it is the best they have, we are in big trouble. It was pretty awful and at high prices we are not used to (but are getting so). And, tho the room is quite comfortable, it would be much more so if the steam heat was working and if there was hot water from the tap. It seems that this part of the country has had a very dry winter and the water shortage forces them to shut down for most of the day.
Portugal is in political upheaval, having thrown out the military junta in which the General who pulled the coup and promised democratic elections has since been unable to get the country going— the usual problems of every country today: inflation, recession, blah, blah.... As a result, the things that have to be done and are done by efficient Fascist countries like Spain like road repair are not done. As was evidenced by our first day going from Spain’s lovely Fascist paved road to one of jarring cobblestones almost all the way from the border to here.
On the other hand, the sudden democracy also gives a great difference to the streets. In Spain, all was well-ordered, cops on every corner, people neat and prosperous and quiet. But here one walks in the town square and the difference is obvious. Graffiti is everywhere on white walls— "Long Live the Communist Party" ... or "XX Party equals Fascism"... "Vote for the Social Democrats" ... Banners hang from buildings and in this town which has a university nearby, it seems everyone has a political opinion. There are posters announcing a debate in the town next week and people supporting the government wear lapel pins. The banks— who I would guess support the right or center party— also have posters. Newspapers are grabbed up instantly.
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| Evora |
As we drover today through miles of beautiful countryside we talked of the recurring feeling of unrest we have both been feeling about our travels. It is almost 6 months now and we have ceased to be impressed by museums, churches, town squares, or crossing borders into new countries. We are increasingly less patient with the hassles of language, of hotels, foods, weather, prices. Today we spent our time discussing Spain and concluding that it was not worth the hassles even tho we have had some good times: a night in the first Parador, a day in Madrid in the Prado and the zoo, a dinner in Goya’s old house with a guitar trio.
Even the pleasure of finding that in the last parador we stayed at, the bill contained an error in our favor of $10 — the first time that has ever happened — didn’t help cancel out the memory of the hassles. Now after another bad meal & cold night ahead our spirits are again at ebb tide. We have already increased our budget but even that doesn’t help. Tomorrow we will go to Lisbon and later head South and back around Spain looking for some— hopefully— warmer weather. If that does not lift us out of this feeling we may well execute Plan B which calls for calling the trip short after one more drive through Italy to be home (in the US) by May and LA by June.
But Spring may change our spirits and take away this homesickness (neither of us are really looking forward to the decisions that we have to make on our return— house: to buy or rent; to work: back at the PD— if they are still hiring these days or to write full time, etc., etc.
But then again we continue to miss your company and to worry about you all and each time we see a cat think of ... Fred and chubby Ginger: B even had a nightmare about them— brought on no doubt by too much pepper or olive oil.
Write to Villeparisis Love Mort & Bea.
I just wrote a letter to Ron&Laura in which I express most of our feelings of the moment. Despite huge attempts to uplift them, our thoughts remain somewhat negative. Bea summed it up well: "The good times do not cancel out the hassles."
The cold, prices, difficulties in general are getting us down and can’t be forgotten even by driving through beautiful country, like the plains, hills, orchards of the Extremadura and Eastern Portugal, the niceness of the people we meet or the novelty of being in a new country.
I think we are both simply tired of traveling , more often bored than excited. The "sights" become repetitive, the food even when good, leaves us just stuffed, and we would love to burn all the clothes we have with us so that we would never have to wear them again.
But then, things may change: warmth, Spring, Italy, who knows what lies ahead. So our motto when things look bleakest has always been: THIS TOO SHALL PASS.
It is not a negative one, really, despite the way it sounds. As we suck in all the experiences, we know from the fluctuations of our moods, that before evaluating them as "good" or "bad" we have to let them settle into memory, digest them, compare them to all the others.
It also speaks to our innate resilience, knowing that there are good times around the bend.
24 January Friday Evora to Lisbon
The dinner at the Pousada last night was one of the worst ever and outrageously expensive, as was our room. The lack of heat, water (because of a local shortage) and occasional electric blackouts and rain all night topped off the almost comically bad experience.
The rain meant there was water in the morning washing but it was brackish. We bought bread, ham, cheese and wine for the road and changed money all of which required absurd amounts of energy. We then got gas for $2.40 per gallon! And our mood was assured for another day. The wine was vinegary, the cheese unpleasantly salty, the roads still bad.
Finally we got into Lisbon and drove around for two hours trying to find a suitable—i.e., warm and quiet— room. Even our desperate willingness to spend more doesn’t seem to help—one place opens the steam only at night, they claimed— the other, a three-star (!) apologized for a heat "breakdown" today. We settled for a noisy, cold, but cheap room conveniently located so we could leave our car parked—10 blocks away in the nearest garage we could find.
After walking to our room it was 4p.m. and we were too tired to go strolling. We went to a nearby restaurant for a fair meal that left us still unimpressed with Portuguese cuisine and then walked around the neon square until time for a movie.
The evening lifted us somewhat and turned to near ecstasy at discovering our room to be comfortably warm. The warmth led us to enjoy a relaxing bed-time, loving for pure joy rather than to rub bodies together for survival. In recent times, the cold, fatigue, and low ebbs have drained desire, making us peevish; we joke some about being old friends and I think there is some truth— lucky we like as well as love each other—the passion is hard to keep up (pardon the pun) in some circumstances. This too shall pass ...
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| Alfama |
25 January Saturday Lisbon
With renewed vigor after a good night sleep we woke to the alarm and walked ... and walked ... and walked ... to the harbor, then up steep narrow streets through the Alfama which is a colorful slum, to and around its flea market—mostly outdoor clothing shops, back down to the river and to Commerce Praca, to some shops in the square. Then we rested our weary legs and went out and up again to another section which had to be climbed, finally returning pretty tired to our room to rest up for the evening walk to our meal..
Though we continue to be blasé about "sights" and tired of the hassles of travel, we have not given up, mostly out of a realization that it would be a waste to not see more while we are here and knowing that when we return—which process in itself will be a drag (we will have many more decisions to make)—we have turned to things more interesting than mere "sights." Bea now wants to do serious and intense SHOPPING and I want to go somewhere warm and stay put for a while.
Somehow we may manage both goals, though there are some abrasions between us because of the conflicts of competing wants.
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| Sintra |
26 January Sunday Lisbon to Sintra to Belem to Lisbon
We surprised ourselves today by going out and having a busy day sightseeing and enjoying it. We got out of bed late and had lunch at a small local restaurant, having decided that if we could not find a good food at least we would eat cheaply. Oddly, the food turned out to be quite good, much better than the crab and shrimp we had last night at twice the price.
We then drove to Sintra, a small town now a suburb, that had been the Portuguese Royal Residence. It has a National Palace in which each room is tiled. We then drove up a mountain through a forest to a castle built by a German architect last century to recapture th Middle Ages. It was filled with intricately carved furniture and porcelain brightly painted. The ceilings are arched. The towers, turrets and terraces have a great view of the Atlantic, Lisbon, the farms, forests and towns around the panorama.
Driving down we found ourselves in a traffic jam caused by a weekend market. Everyone in Lisbon seemed to be there and they have all brought their cars. We went back to the city and strolled along the port, to Belem Tower —"No Arc de Triomphe," Bea feels compelled to say, continuing the running gag— and the monument to the explorers, a yacht harbor and park full of people enjoying a Sunday outing.
27 January Monday Lisbon to Faro
Today we drove all day trying to find something which was 93 million miles away. It feels like we drove at least that far but be didn’t find it. Occasionally during the trek we saw glimpsed evidence of our quest but these were only meant to tantalize us. Visibility was not helped by continuous pelting by rain and thick grey clouds that allowed nothing above them to be seen.
We were also frustrated by the road itself, on which we bounced along hour after hour through small towns with their white stucco walls bordered blue, red or yellow, over brown and green meadows lined with orange trees whose fruit further teased us about our goal by suggesting its color and shape, cork trees whose bark had been stripped up to the limbs leaving green bark gloves on them, and almond trees with delicate pink blossoms whose petals fell like snowflakes.
Finally we reached the Algarve, reputed to be the permanent home of the object that we sought. But the rain and clouds continued and we heard from other hunters that it was further east ... in Seville ... where we are now told, it kept the locals "boiling hot" all day today.
28 January Tuesday Faro to Seville (Spain)
Sometimes traveling is worth all the hassles, uncertainties and decisions, when you keep a sense of humor and make some right choices.
After last night’s rain we found the sun shining and the air crisp. To stay or leave? We opted to go, to cross the border back into Spain up to Sevilla. That required changing money again as we still had about $60 in escudos. At a bank we presented our cash, the clerk checked with his adding machine and consulted a supervisor, who told us the bank didn’t have enough pesetas to exchange! We protested, that seemed unlikely. They huddled, conferred, and admitted they could not accept escudos at all. There was a law prohibiting exchanging escudos for any foreign currency unless the person is a resident. We would have to change in Spain.
We bought some food and hit the road, mumbling to ourselves about high finance. We remembered that Greece had refused to change our Egyptian lire; suppose Spain refused escudos altogether—we could be stuck with the stuff, not the wisest investment, unless Portugal discovers oil.
We reached the border after a pleasant if bumpy ride through almond blossoms and went up to the border checkpoint. On the other side was a river. After passports, we realized with the confusing language barrier only partly scaled, that the crossing was by ferry to the Spanish town across the river. Our maps showed no such ferry—the border seems to be just a red dotted line. Only the sharpest examination revealed a very fine blue line representing a river. The whole thing seemed to be like a joke, but we got a price which was not unreasonable and drove onto the dock.
Soon a small Kaiki like boat drew up and some people scurried on board with packages. I drove on as directed, the only car, taking up most of the deck. It was a nice 15 minute ride and we were in Spain. Passport, car papers, and they did take our escudos for pesetas, not burning us too badly in the exchange, and we were on the road to Sevilla, 150 kms in an hour or so. Then, finding our way around to the hotel we wanted.
The city was sunny and warm and we walked around in an ecstatic trance at finding Spring at last. For dinner, tapas and sherry and paella and sangria. Then back to our hotel room which was icy cold, a sagging mattress that kept me trying to sleep on a bongo board all night, along with a pillow made of stone. Well, you can’t have it all your own way.
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| Mort finds warmth in Seville |
There is something about the restlessness our spirit ... my mind often reacts in ways I don’t understand ...
The morning was beautiful. Out of our hotel the narrow high walled streets were cool, the air crisp in the shade. But from the apartment windows canaries sang and the rectangle of sky was perfectly blue. We walked to the Park Maria Luisa and sat on a stone bench among the palms and orange trees and watched three ducks bob their rears in a lake. The sun rose slowly and became delicious. Bea wrote postcards and we read. It was just what we had been wanting.
Yet I felt uneasy, a vague feeling I couldn’t pin down. I wal+ked to the news stand but couldn’t find an English language newspaper. We walked around and found a place for lunch but I had no appetite. We went back to our room and out again, found the Alcazar and strolled through its gardens enjoying the place: damp, green, warm and sunny. We then walked to the center of town to El Cortes Ingles, a big department store having Enero sales, roamed around, buying some little things, had banana splits in the cafeteria and dragged ourselves tiredly back to the room as the sun went down.
I read a stupid book without thinking about it and went to the bar and brought back snacks which we had for dinner. I finally slept, still feeling my loginess and vague sense of unease.
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| Seville Plaza d'Espagne |
When I woke up I looked out of our hotel window for the small square of sky and noticed it was gray instead of blue and no yellow light fell on the white stucco. So I called for room service to send up breakfast and went back to sleep. It was that kind of day.
There were two highlights: I shaved off my mustache and we spent a couple of hours chatting with a lady who had retired as secretary for a CEO in NY and begun traveling alone. We had sherry and tapas before dinner of paella and another sherry with the lady and returned to our bed where we had spent most of the day reading and relaxing.
We really have needed this kind of re-charging—we have been mercurially moody, with the weather, expectations, homesickness and pre-menstruality, whose Blues seems somehow to have attacked us both.
31 January Friday Seville to Cordoba
The clouds have remained, so we decided not to.
The car which has been sitting in the small Plaza de Santa Cruz under an orange tree and a few feet from a house which is being wrecked, was covered with two days of dust and leaves on top of the month’s grime which has turned Ol’ Blue to Ol’ Gray.
We gassed and followed trucks most of the way to Cordoba, looking through a strange hazy fog for an automatic car wash but found instead patchy farm land on rolling hills. When we reached Cordoba we had no hotel names but found our way by experience to the old section near the train station and cathedral, which we have discovered is the area in each town where decent cheap hotels and pensions are.
After two tries we found one right opposite the Great Mosque, near the synagogue—the Juderia, the Jewish Quarter, which we walked through and around and in. The mosque / cathedral was being used for location by a film crew and the synagogue (one of two Spain has restored) was sad and empty. In leaves a queer feeling to see the carvings in Hebrew which have been pieced together by scholars and archeologists to reconstruct the fallen temple, which was once a part of a great community. It was built in 1314—Maimonedes was born here.
I realized the cause of my odd queasy feeling: we have viewed similar reconstructions in Greece and Egypt and it is odd to think of my own culture as a dead civilization.
1 February Saturday Cordoba
During our travels we have rarely returned to the same restaurant twice. The Gloucester House in Hong Kong for dum sim was one. Never before have we gone back three times. Until now. Yesterday we were looking for a cheap (3 star or less) lunch. Since this is the tourist center there are many eaterias. We walked into one, typically decorated with white stucco walls, bull’s heads, fight posters, checkered cloths and warm fireplace. Bea had gaspacho and pork chops and I had the best omelette I have tasted out of France. We went back for dinner and I had breaded squid, the best, tenderest I have ever eaten (even better than the Greek version) and 130 pts, $2 and change.
The place was empty and the owner / chef looked nervous. I told him how good the food was. He acted like he knew it. It was the economy, he shrugged at the vacant tables. But tomorrow would be full. We returned for the best salad since Greece and two plates of Calimari and the place was well patronized if not full. He recognized us when we entered, said in relief, "Sabado."
One of the nice traveling events. Las Califas, one street back and around the corner from La Mesquita.
2 February Sunday Cordoba to Nerja
We drove to the Costa del Sol and as we had been willing to bet every peseta we had left there was no sol. And no prospect of any. 182 km’s to Malaga, the car acting up, the absurdly poor direction signs got us lost. Put us in a fine mood.
We searched for a warm hotel and again settled for a cheap and frozen one. We visited the Nerja caves and returned to the room. We have an electric heater that is VERY hot—but it heats only itself. A foot away the air is frigid.
3 February Monday Nerja
When I opened my eyes there was a border of sunlight around the blackout curtains. I stayed under the warm blanket and decided to take a shower. Bea stirred. She has a miserable cold, wants to sleep. We talked, decided to stay another day. I showered, went onto the balcony with my book and watched the fishermen lay nets and haul in their catch. The sun was so bright on the ocean that it hurt my eyes—it sparkled like headlights in a rainstorm. My hair dried quickly. I watched the sun move up and across the balcony.
Bea got up. We went out for chocolates and she showered and washed her hair. The wind came up and blew clouds into the sky and over the sun. The sea changed quickly, waves larger, greener, with whitecaps. We both went inside the room which was increasingly cold but not as cold as the balcony.
At 3 we walked out to the main drag, found a café to eat at and had good food and enjoyed playing with the cat which again reminded us of home and how long we have been gone. We went back to the room and read until dinner, which we had in the hotel. For most of the meal we were the only diners. The weekend is over and Spaniards don’t eat until 10.
4 February Tuesday Nerja to Granada
I was wrong today.
It has become a running joke with us that Bea is the one who is wrong—I am never wrong. But today I was wrong.
We left the Costa del Clouds whose only attraction was the beach outside our window with the sea, fishing boats and cats. The car gave us some trouble—4800 miles without a lube, but we got on our way. We wound up and down a two-star mountain road along the coast and then made a 90 turn north through the Sierra Nevadas until we reached Granada.
It was early afternoon and we decided to go to Am Ex, see the cathedral, walk around and save The Alhambra for tomorrow. We found a decent hotel—heat and hot water 8 to 10 a.m. and p.m. and walked to a restaurant. We found 900 café bars, 4 star hotels, 3 and 4 fork restaurants, but we felt like paella we have found to be uniformly good.
One menu near our hotel listed it, but after we sat down we were told, Manñana. So we left and hunted for it. All we found was a Woolworth coffee shop, a menu in Spanish but with pictures of a hamburger, club sandwiches, and banana splits. We closed our eyes and recalled Ships in Westwood— it was too tempting.
We sat at the counter. Bea ordered fried chicken and I a chicken and bacon club sandwich. In the menu photo it was cut in quarters with potato chips in the center. We watched the waitress put it together with eager anticipation as if we were watching a sushi chef or master cook: three slices of white bread toasted on the grill on one side, a slice of chicken and one of bacon, some lettuce and tomato slices.
"She’s not going to use any mayonnaise," I said to Bea in an urgent whisper, with fear and disgust, shock and pain in my trembling voice.
But I was wrong, very wrong. She picked up a spatula and slathered a pound of gooey greasy white stuff on the lettuce then squeezed the third slice of bread on top, until it oozed out the sides and onto the plate like The Blob.
Bijou and I looked at each other and laughed aloud. The timing was like a pie in the face in a silent movie.
5 February Wednesday Granada
Today Bea was wrong. Or rather she was wrong yesterday but we didn’t know it until today.
When we came the sun was shining and Bea said "Let’s wait till tomorrow to see The Alhambra because it takes a full day."
We should have gone yesterday.
Today it rained hard and long and the iron clouds held out the 3 star panorama of the "snow capped Sierra Nevadas..." of the song. It was cold and we sneezed and slogged through the pleasure palace of the Moors. The fountains, rooms, gardens were cold, muddy and wet, instead of the way they should have been seen, sun drenched, warm and luxuriant.
We went back to our room after only an hour to find parking and did the only thing tourists can do on a day like this—curl up in bed with a book and wait until mañana.
6 February Thursday Granada to Alicante to St. Juan
We drove a lot of miles today—through mountain roads much of the way between rocky and sandy hills between trees of pink and white blossoms until we reached Murcia, then across wide flat plains with red-brown plateaus on the horizons.
Finally we passed a palm tree forest and small towns until the Costa Blanca appeared with its high rise decadence. We stopped only six times: 2 to look at the many pottery stands along the road, 2 for gas and 2 to change drivers. It was an exhausting day.
In Alicante we saw the "car ferry to Genoa" and were tempted to take it and do Italy now rather than drive to Paris and back. The feeling of travel fatigue came back with a fury.
Through the forest of high rise condos and apartments, we finally found a hotel and checked in. At the bar we met an elderly talkative vague English fellow who claimed to be formerly of the British army, and formerly a tea plantation owner in Assam, India. He also claimed he had been in a London car crash and been dead of 7 days. Neither of us knew what to make of this guy, who reminded us of the weird guy we had met on our very first day in Tokyo, while waiting for Isetan to open up.
We have met very nice and interesting travelers, but also some bizarre characters who were not necessarily unpleasant companions but very strange.
7 February Friday St. Juan to Javea to Valencia to Saler
For some reason we awoke with a feeling of optimism, maybe because we are on the return leg of this trek. We finally found a lavado automatico and after an hour scrubbing by the muchacho who worked the machine our car was again blue and sparkling to look at, though it is not running as beautifully, which provides mucho anxiety. We toyed with the idea of taking it to a Seat dealer. ["Seat" en Español rhymes with "Fiat", is Spanish license version of the Italian carmaker. But we opted not to trust the Spanish mechanics. MB 5 June 2002.]
By noon we turned again toward the coast and pulled into Javea in whose puerto is supposed to be moored the sailboat of Howard and Roean, friends of friends of ours [Karen&Dan]. We couldn’t find them but had paella lunch and then continued on.
Soon we were again tired and annoyed as we drove through rice fields in one lane traffic all the way to Valencia. Once in town we made our way to the main square which was noisy and drab and found a hostel. It was empty, dark, cold and depressing. The owner wanted too much. But we were in no mood to go traipsing and there did not seem to be a "hotel row." So we decided to go a few miles back to the Parador which is expensive, but we knew would be comfortable and cheer us up.
It turned out to be cheaper that we expected and we spent the afternoon watching the sun set from our balcony and sipping wine. There is a 3 hole golf course, a swimming pool and the beach is a short walk away. We will try to stay two or more days.
8 February Saturday Saler
Bea never really woke up today. She has some kind of lingering "bug" that just makes her feel listless and out of sorts, but doesn’t come out and get the attack over with.
I got up and ordered breakfast and after she went back to bed I went out and took a long walk on the beach. It was overcast and cold and a perfect day for a moody walk. The beach is long, the sand fine and deep. Shells of every color and shape and flat stones, a living star fish which I recovered from the shore and put back within the tide’s grasp, thinking to save it but not really knowing whether it preferred to be on the beach. Was I again tampering with Nature’s grand plan?
I walked around the grounds of the Parador and looked at the green manicured freshness of the golf course and returned to the room. Bea was in bed and blue and soon I went in, too and we were both blue, and we helped each other to change from blue to some other colors.
Later we stuffed ourselves with dinner.
9 February Sunday Saler
The Parador really jumped today with Domingo revelers, golfers, two busloads of kids, weekend couples from Valencia and a soccer team that has been here for several days.
We went for a walk along the beach, collecting shells. It had rainstormed all night and the tide was high and it was still strong. It rained again after we returned and had lunch. I wrote and Bea arranged the shells in various designs after washing tar and sand from them. It rained for the rest of the day and we lounged around until dinner.
We have both fattened up here: churros for breakfast, macaroni for lunch, paella, potatoes, and caneloni for dinner. Tomorrow we leave to try to return to VP as quickly as possible.
The rest of Europe is still very much in doubt—as of our present mood. The call to Home is equally strong and our decision to go home is only being put off because of our chronic indecisiveness and if that sounds circular that is because that is the problem.
Friday July 24, 1970
Dear Mort
...Mort, I’m enjoying myself this summer—I’ve seen fabulous things but I don’t know if leaving you was worth it all—I miss you so much I keep thinking about what it is going to be like when I return. Are you going to be the same? I can’t wait to get back to Cannes to get a letter from you...
...We’re in Barcelona, a large city with much to see. Yesterday we walked all over the place. The streets are very wide but there is no parking. There is a huge underground parking lot which would put the lots at UCLA to shame ...
This city too has an old section and a new one. I was surprised to see how modern the city actually was. This morning we went to the Picasso Museum, filled with his etchings, paintings, prints and lithographs, some dating back to 1901 when he was 20 years old. His whole series of bullfights is here, really impressive. I, of course, bought post cards—I’m going to be bringing back tons of weight in paper—books and postcards.
Then we had paella for lunch, which is a fabulous concoction of rice, sea food, chicken and sausage—very Spanish and really good. By the way I’ve been eating octopus: they’re much better tasting than they are looking.
Right now we are sitting in a café outside the bullring waiting for show time—I hope the fight we see is as good as the one you and I saw. Even seeing a bullfight in Spain reminds me of you.
Mort, how are you? Please write and tell me everything—I’m dying for news of you.
I love you, Bea.
10 February Monday Saler to Barcelona
We checked out of the luxurious Parador after another breakfast of churros and made it all the way to Barcelona in a little over 4 hours. It rained heavily most of the way on the Autopista and the skies remained a dull gray as we entered the city. We found our way to the center with little trouble, but spent some time before finding parking in an underground lot.
We went to a hotel recommended in our tour book and it turned out to cost more than the Parador and was heatless (a "temporary breakdown" of course). Eventually we found a decent one nearby and went for a long walk exploring. We decided to see a film but could not find one in English—all are dubbed. We went to a bar and after dinner of tapas and beer.
I slept from 8 p.m. through the night.
11 February Tuesday Barcelona
We drove to Pueblo de Español, a sort of Disneland for souvenir shoppers where, on streets which imitate those of the regions of Spain, stores sell crafts of each region. Bijou had a wonderful time examining studying all the variations of crafts she herself had tried, admiring this and shrugging at that. It rained and it was gloomy.
We returned to the Old Town and after an hour, found parking, again underground. The car is by far our greatest expense and hassle: gas, tolls, parking, engine trouble. We then walked to the cathedral and a museum under it which contains excavations of Roman ruins in the very spot where they have been dug up.
Out again we went shopping and then to the Ramblas, wide avenues, and down to the puerto and along the avenue—where Columbus returned in 1493 from discovering The New World and where we discovered the post office, then all the way back to our hotel.
Later we went out and walked to the Picasso Museum which was filled with sketches from his childhood beginning at 9 years old and including his Barcelona paintings, some Blue Period works, etc., including the series based on Velasquez’s Las Meniñas, and Picasso’s pottery and paintings done as recently as 1968.
The scope of the man’s life work is remarkable. Looking at the beginning work and the last together in the same museum, it is hard to think of all as being from the same mind. But the layout of the exhibit traces his amazing growth— the impatience so great that many works are unfinished; the striving for simplicity, immediacy, even in his signature, and the pattern of some sort of understanding of his genius emerges.
12 February Wednesday Barcelona to Valence (France)
12 February Wednesday Barcelona to Valence (France)
We drove from Barcelona all the way to Valence, paying $25 in gas, $10 in tolls. Back in France it rained hard and continuously all day and we found our dollar frighteningly devalued and our traveler’s cheques unwanted. Tomorrow we will bite the bullet and dash for VP, hide out there for a week and cut out Italy before ... it looks like now ... returning home in a month or so from today.
Wednesday July 29, 1970 8:30 A.M.Dear Mort,
...Now we are traveling across France—we will probably stop in at Cannes—to check Cook’s for mail. I sure hope I have some waiting for me. By the way, I will be in Rome about the 6th or 7th of August until the 11th when I will meet Robbie—we will go to Greece for about 10 days. Then I will return to Rome ... So in the hope that you are writing to me ... mail to Rome ... I’m coming back September 1.
We just arrived in Cannes and I got a letter from you—the one you wrote two days after your birthday... Keep writing. I know how you feel about being alone—there are times when I want to get on a plane and come right back I want you so much I can taste it. Living alone is not that bad—remember you will have me to bug you a lot. (After all, I have to make up for two months of not being there.) ... And I promise to cook lots of meals for you!!
Right now I’m sitting in the shade but I’m broiling hot ... Write to me.
I love you. Bea.
13 February Thursday Valence to Villeparisis
We drove—sun turned to rain and we drove. We filled up the tank and we drove.
Langedoc’s vineyards gave way to pastures and to forests and suburbs and we drove.
I drove.
Bea drove.
I drove again and we were on the Peripherique: We drove—slowly.
At VP we discovered a box full of soggy mail and the house double bolted and no apparent way to get in. Obviously, The Family decided that since we were to be gone so long, they needed extra protection from invaders—like us. We cursed and walked around the house many times, kicked at the door.
Then we drove— to a phone booth and Bea called Raymond. Lola and Clara and Hélène were in Switzerland and he didn’t know about any other keys.
Back to the house I decided to break in. With neighbors watching, I pulled the car up to the garage doors, climbed onto the hood and then onto the balcony. After several tries, I pried open the shutters and the French doors without much damage to property and only a skinned knee for me.
The house was frigid but I put the heat on and we read the mail and wrote letters, then exhaustedly fell asleep.
14 February Friday Villeparisis to Bondy to Villeparisis
It was nice to be back "home" even if it really isn’t home and not really "our" bed and even though it wasn’t much warmer than many of the frozen ice palaces of hotel rooms we have stayed at.
We drove to a big Fiat dealer in Bondy at the end of the Autoroute and dropped the car off for its 6000 mile check up to have the rattles ironed out. After inquiring, we found a bus stop across the street. The driver seemed never to have heard of Villeparisis, looked it up on a chart and then said he would have to leave us off at the "Marie" a "short distance" away.
When we got off we discovered the "short" distance to be 8 kilometers. So we began to walk. After a half hour we got lucky and hitched a ride with a young guy who took us all the way to VP.
We bought food, spent the afternoon eating it and later watched 2 films on the telly: "Pepe Le Moko" and "Mr. Deeds Goes to Town".
15 February Saturday Villeparisis to Bondy to Villeparisis
This day is labeled under the category of "You Can’t Get There From Here," another of the catch phrases that state so many realities of our trip.
We woke up at 9 and walked to the train station which seemed to be the most convenient way of getting to Bondy from VP without a car. Suspecting the worst, we gave ourselves plenty of time, arriving at the station at 10, two hours before we were due to pick up the car at the dealer which closed for Le Weekend at 12.
Two trains, a bus and numerous confusions later we were racing to the dealer at 11:45 praying they would not be closed which would require another trek back to VP and a return on Monday. We cursed public transport and felt grateful we had the convenience of our own car—until now.
Our attitude was soon changed. The bill for the lube and oil change was 529 francs, $124, a disaster. Trying to get an explanation of the bill or shouting "Warranty! Warranty!" did not help. They showed parts that had been replaced — from someone’s car, anyway — and pointed to the labor: 7 ½ hours labor for an oil change (?)
Not wanting to cause a major strike, and needing our car again, we meekly paid.
16 February Sunday Villeparisis
A day spent reading, writing and doing laundry.
17 February Monday Villeparisis to Paris to Villeparisis
We went into Paris to try to get some info on our forthcoming trip to Italy at the Italian Tourist Bureau and seek help on the problem of how to ship the car home. So far we find that from Belgium to Newark is $550 which is a lot of cash. When we are in Italy, maybe we can find out how much it would be to ship from there.
We met Max and Raymond at "Fair Play" and went for lunch with them, then went to see two movies, one on St.Germain and the other on the Champs Elysees. The second was "That’s Entertainment" which we watched 1½ times (twice for Fred and Judy, only once for Esther Williams). It made us very homesick for the States and feeling very American.
18 February Tuesday Villeparisis to Bondy to Villeparisis
The letters and tape we found when we came back from Ron & Laura were very nice and made us homesick for the normality of good times with them and the cats. We have been planning to return home sooner rather than later—at least after Italy, and have checked with car shipping companies.
The only problems are these: (1) the cost and hassles of returning home after shipping the car--- going by train, sending packages home, etc, are as worrisome as the expense and hassles of shopping—there is no way to just BE home, we have to GO home. (2) The nagging reminder remains that there is still so much to see that we would be missing—though in itself that is not enough to keep us here. The song lyric keeps circling around my head: "... we may never pass this wa-ay again ..." (3) Ron & Laura wrote that they might be coming to Paris in April themselves.
That stopped us cold—how could we say to them that would be great but we’d rather see you in LA? So as it stands, another big uncertainty is added.
We took the car back for more repairs. After all that aggravation and expense, it is still having the same problems as before.
19 February Wednesday Villeparisis
We sent home three boxes of gifts, pottery and clothes today, by mail. It cost $30 and we said goodbye to the property with a certain knowledge that they would be going on a suicide mission through the mail systems of France and the US. Many begin the journey beautiful and new, but few arrive without being irreparably injured, many never arrive at all.
Still, like tearful parents we guiltily paid their fare and sent them off after pitifully marking them "FRAGILE." It is better to think of them like money taken to Las Vegas ... already lost.
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