Europe, 2017

Tuesday, 5 & Wednesday, 6 - Palo Alto/Barcelona

           On our way to SFO at 5:15 Tuesday morning, Connie and I watched a large full moon, striped by a couple of thin clouds, set over the hills.   It was amazing and I considered it good omen for our journey.  Oddly and even more fun, as we approached the coast of Spain with the marine layer below a smooth and even gray fading into varying intensities of yellow on the horizon, Connie spotted something strange out the window.  It was a bright orange/red horizontal disk in the distance as if there were an intense fire just below the cloud cover.  Over the next couple of minutes it gradually changed shape until it looked like a bowl and began fading from sight.  Just before disappearing completely, a bright crescent began forming above it and soon it became the rising sun.  Good night Moon.  Good morning Sun.

            Door to door, 22 hours.  Our hotel is on the Ramblas, the Pier 39 of Barcelona.  Picking a hotel from the travel sites is chancy, but we did well with this one.  Small with small rooms, it’s updated and delightful.  After some rest, we had a variety of dishes at a café in the Plaça Reial (contrary to Rick Steve’s advise) and came back and hit the hay.

Thursday, 7 - Barcelona

           Turned off the light at 9 and got out of bed this morning at 8:30.  We were tired.  After breakfast we walked through the Bari Gotic area to the Picasso Museum.  Housed in a 13th Century apartment building size home, it follows his development from a 13-year-old prodigy to a world famous artist.  He had such a long and varied career that the museum covers pretty well, though some periods are a little thin on the art.  We’d visited it before in 2002 and, over dinner, talked about how much we enjoyed it again today.

            From there, we walked to the Sagrada Familia Church, a trip that was punctuated by a stop for coffee and sweet toast and lunch once we’d reached our destination.  I can’t think of anything that is like Gaudi’s church.  It is nothing like just another of Europe’s long history of magnificent architectural paeans to the glory of God.  For that, you can look at the National Cathedral in DC, which began construction around the same time.  To me, Gaudi’s work exposes pure joy in architecture.  And in his magnum opus, it melds with adoration.  Unfortunately, we didn’t follow Rick Steves advice to buy our tickets online and there was no going inside today.  When we got back to the hotel, we bought tickets for the earliest time slot for tomorrow.

Barcelona

            Barcelona is in the southeastern corner of Spain.  It is the principle city of the once (and future?) country of Catalunya.  Catalunya, alone and through various treaties, even had its own empire, albeit small and short lived.  And before King John of England was forced to by the barons to cede some control, the Catalan Prince signed a document far more reaching in the establishment of democracy. 

            The oldest parts of the city are down by the waterfront.  The Bari Gotic is surrounded by other small districts and pretty much made up the whole of the town until the nineteenth century.  There are several buildings in the Bari Gotic that date from as early as the 10th century.  But starting almost 200 years ago, Barcelona began a great expansion called the Eixample.  It was built according to a plan by one of the city’s great architects (whose name I can’t remember).  The plan called for the construction of great city blocks of apartment buildings, with commercial establishments on the ground floor, the centers of the blocks open for sun, air, lawn and gardens for the residents and the block’s corners all cut off at 45º to accommodate great traffic circles.  The traffic circles have given way to modern stoplights.  Many of the buildings were built during the Art Nuveau period and all have the ubiquitous, and famous, balconies with wrought iron railings.

            A spider web of boulevards crisscrosses Barcelona.  These Passeig (PAH-sah) are wide with one or two lanes for motor traffic on each side of a tree lined center strip for bike traffic, pedestrians or both.  We took pictures of the bike lanes for our anti-motor vehicle crusader son, Peter.  A lot of the walking Connie and I did – 7 to 8 miles a day – was under the trees of these avenues.  The most famous passeigh is the Ramblas.

            Throughout its history, Barcelona has been one of the most liberal places on the planet.  The area was one of the last to hold out against Franco during the Spanish Civil War and he made them pay.  He even went so far as to ban the Catalan flag and language.  He had his own building phase and though the many apartment buildings aren’t quite as grim as Soviet Union construction, the outer rim of Barcelona claims no part of the architectural fame and beauty the city is known for.

            Finally, there is an argument for Catalan being the first Romance language.  Many Roman soldiers retired to Spain, with the higher-ranking vets preferring the north and central parts of the country and the enlisted men preferring the south.  It’s argued that the Romans in the north resisted the effect of the local language on their Latin while those in the south were more amenable to change.

Friday, 9/8 - Barcelona

           We got up early and took a taxi to Sagrada Famillia in time to have breakfast before going in (see below).  After the tour, we decided to walk up to Parc Guell.  It was a long uphill trudge through more work-a-day neighborhoods.  We thought we’d just buy tickets when we got there.  Connie remembers just walking in back in ’02.  But it was a zoo and we had to be content with walking around the two terraces and not being able to take pictures of the dragon stairwell.  Tired and hungry, we took a cab back to Plaça Catalunya for some lunch. 

Sagrada Familia

           The first time Connie saw the Sagrada Familia was when she and her friend Kris were bumming around Europe in 1968.  At that time, the northeast façade (The Nativity Façade) and some of the transept were all of the above ground construction completed.  When we toured it in ’92, the transept and apse were enclosed, some more of the smaller towers were complete and the frame of the southwest façade (The Passion Façade) was near completion.  The forest theme of the interior was a little overdone, however, there being a forest of scaffolding throughout.  Even so, it was obvious we were standing in a special place.

           Though still years from completion, the church was consecrated by the pope in 2010.  When it is completed, ownership shifts from the City of Barcelona to the Catholic Church.  The entire southeast façade (The Glory Façade), with its great bronze doors to become the main entrance and four more of the great towers has yet to be built.  The two southern chapels have to be built and the cloisters on that end of the church enclosed.  And finally, the greatest of the towers need to be completed.

           But that’s all outside.  Once inside, Gaudi’s dream is all but realized.  I’m not capable of doing its artistry justice – you’ll have to see it yourselves.  I’ll just note a few things.  The interior is at once familiar and unlike anything else.  All the traditional cathedral features are there and yet there’s nothing traditional about them.  For example, the great columns that run through the nave and transept branch and then branch again before coming in contact with the roof.  By doing so, more of the roof and towers loads are transferred to the columns eliminating the need for buttressing the exterior walls.  And the foliage features that form the forest canopy were designed to enhance the acoustics of the huge space made of stone, metal and glass.  The use of sunlight is also cool.  The ample windows on the sunrise side are in varying shades of reds and yellows to warm the day.  On the opposite side, the colors are blue and green to cool the afternoon’s heat.  But coolest is that from bottom to top the shades go from darker to lighter causing the observer to lift her eyes to heaven.  And, finally, in the museum below, we saw an incredible web of string and tiny little sand bags.  This turns out to be a way to reverse engineer the shapes of arches based on their widths and loads (the little sand bags).  If he did not devise the system himself, Gaudi was a major contributor to its development.

           Gaudi began work on the church in 1888 and was killed in a trolley accident in 1926 with little of the above-ground work completed.

Saturday, 9/9

           Without having used multi-day RailEurope vouchers before, we were a little nervous about trying to redeem them just before our train was to leave, so after breakfast we headed out to Sants Estacio Central (the train station) to get things figured out.  On our trip back, we got off of the Metro at the bottom of the Ramblas to wander around the Bari Gotic for a while before we had to leave for Avignon.  After lunch it began to rain so we picked up our bags at the hotel and took a cab back to the train station.

           What a delight the train was.  We’re used to the commuter train between San Jose and San Francisco – a jerky, noisy, bouncy and wobbly ride.  This was smooth and quiet whether racing along at near 200 MPH or slowly approaching a station.  We sat across from each other in comfortable seats with a table between us with leaves on each side so it could be narrow or wide depending on our needs.  I used the time to catch up on some of this and then just stared out of the window.  I can’t remember a more relaxing transportation experience and we were approaching Avignon in what seemed a lot less than four hours.

           It turned out that the train station where I thought we’d land and from which it was not a long walk to our hotel was not where the bullet train dropped us.  We had to cab it into town and when we walked into our hotel at a little after nine, the owner knew who we were.  He usually locks the door at eight but had kindly stayed up for our arrival.  After helping us to our room and showing us where to go for dinner – we were both tired and hungry – he took his leave.  Past the Irish Pub, across a main street, down an alley and past a church and, voila, a couple of cafés.   We sat outside at the one he recommended and were glad we did.  A piece of hearty French bread with tomatoes, cheese and basil all toasted for each and we shared a platter of salami, Brie, pate and small pickles and a bottle Cote de Rhone.  More food than we could handle, but we walked back to our hotel well refreshed.

Our Hotel

           Both Rick Steves and hotels.com recommended Hotel Boquier.  It is on a short side street, Rue   Boquier, and family owned and operated. It is in what was a three story home built in the 16th century and nothing is perfectly plumb, level or square.  There are only 12 rooms and the stairs are steep and narrow.  The owner gave us two keys, one for our room and one for the front door.  Instead of a thumb turn on the inside of our door, there’s just a key slot so when we’re in our room that’s where the key stays.           

           But, our bed and pillows are comfortable and the shower adequate and those two things are what matter to Connie and me.  We are on the deuxième étage, so there will be no one above us to come stumbling in in the wee hours.  Our window opens on to the street and, sitting here late on a Sunday afternoon, it is nice listening to the conversations of the people walking by.

Sunday, 10 - Avignon

           It was another catch up on our sleep night so we didn’t get up until late.  By the time we finished our breakfast, other patrons of the café were ordering lunch and beers.  There is a walking district in Avignon and we walked it without much of an agenda.  It was Sunday and most of the shops were closed.  (! I need to say here that both Connie and I are allergic to shopping in general and are definitely not vacation shoppers!)  However, parenthetical disclaimer aside, we are interested in a certain kind of basket the Megan brought back from France with her so many years ago and colorful fabrics.  But just that.

           Eventually we wondered out of the no-traffic zone and found ourselves in a place where immense structures seemed to have grown out of the roughly carved stone ahead of us.  Added to that was the music coming out from the narrow shadowed canyon like alley between them.  I did a pano video of the place that captured the music.  As we walked through the curving alley, I stopped to show the old man playing his accordion that his music was on our video and droped a coin into his cup.  He was delighted.

           Turns out we were on the backside of the Palais de Pepes (Palace of the Popes; more about later) and the square in front of it.  From there we walked back to the central square and had lunch.  A couple about our age from Reno sat down at the table next to us and soon we were engaged in a conversation about where we were from, our current itinerary and former travels.  Before we knew, two hours had passed.

           On the way back to our room we picked up a couple of coffees to go.  Once back, we spent the afternoon catching up on this blog – me writing and Connie working on the picture gallery.

Wrought Iron

           I wrote earlier about the ubiquitous balconies with wrought iron railings in Barcelona.  It’s true that they were a big part of the Eixample expansion beginning in the 19th century, but there is beautiful ironwork all over Europe.  Most balcony railings are iron, but you will also find it on street lamps, fences and gates, signs, in windows and doors and many other places.  It has been an industry size craft for centuries.  I have a friend from Bosnia, Sead Steta, who is a master ironworker and whose shop in Santa Clara is something to see.  It’s fun when I visit and he’s got a particularly fancy job on the benches.  It’s too bad that ironwork is not as appreciated in the US.

Monday, 11 – Avignon

           Today we walked down the street to check out the nearest laundry, having decided that we’d pay to have it done rather than use the Laundromat.  It was closed and we couldn’t get a response to the bell the sign said to ring.  Oh well.  We could make due until another day.  We also went to the train station to get tickets for Tuesday to the Pont du Gard, a portion of a Roman aqueduct and a pedestrian and cart bridge.  It’s one of France’s major historic sites and a short bus ride from Avignon.

           Business taken care of, we were off to follow Rick Steve’s walking paths through Avignon, some of which we had already walked.  This time though, we walked beyond the Pope’s Palace up to an arbor at the edge of the promontory that rose above the Rhone and protected the river side of the Palace.  Here were great views of the river, the island opposite us (the largest river island in France) and the Saint Benezet Bridge.  This is one of Avignon’s most famous landmarks.  Two sections of it extend 2/3s of the way across the Rhone.  The rest is gone, having been destroyed at least twice. There is famous folk song about the bridge.  We walked down and on to the bridge, which also gained us access to the ramparts of the city wall.  Now we’re talking.  Shooting arrows through the slits at those Holy Roman Empire bastards.  Yeah, baby!

           We meandered back through town toward les Halles (Market Place), arriving just after 1:00 – closing time.  Oh well.  We continued on to what turned out to be one of our favorite parts of town, the Rue Teinturiers.

           That night we went back to the Place de L’Horlage (central square) for dinner.  Connie had the toughest piece of beef we’d ever known and my lamb chops were paper-thin.  The ratatouille was mush, though both of us thought the potatoes were good.  And, we ordered dessert and digestifs – something we never do.  Crème Brule and a taste off between Cogac and Armangac.  Bad as the entrees were, the evening was great fun.  I credit the company.

Avignon

           Avignon’s greatest claim to fame is as that it was the capital of the Christian church for almost 100 years.  In 1309 Pope Clement moved the Papacy to Avignon.  Six popes later, Gregory 11th, moved back to Rome, beginning the “Great Schism” during which two popes reigned, one in Rome and one in Avignon.  As it was, the city remained the property of the Vatican until the French Revolution. 

           The old town is completely surrounded by a wall with towers at the many gates and battlements along its top.  The city was important to the Roman empire, helping guard the roads to Gaul.  When it housed the Papacy, the walls were raised to their current height curtsey of the popes.

           You can circumambulate the city easily in two hours or less.  The eastern part of old town is where the majority of the tourist attractions are, including a walking only section with lots of shops.  The rest of town is mostly local residences.

           The Saint Benezet Bridge, mentioned above is Avignon’s second greatest claim to fame.

Tuesday, 12 – Avignon

           After an early breakfast, we walked up to the bus station (next to the train station) and sat waiting on the Quai 8 bench and waited for the 10:10 A15 bus, clutching our tickets like two little kids going to Disneyland.  Just a 40 minute bus ride separated us from the Pont du Gard!  10:10 came and went.  No bus.  At 10:20 we walked into the ticketing room and found out that the A15 was not operating that day because of a national labor strike.  Other buses had come and gone, but ours was on strike.  C’est la France we were told.  Damn!

           After lunch, we decided to hop on the On/Off double decker bus.  It started near our hotel, circled a few blocks in the city and then was out the gate and following the ring road.  The tour crosses the Rhone and goes into Villeneuve lez Avignon, a village opposite Avignon.  We got off at the foot of a hill on top of which was a massive stone fort.  We walked up and into the ticket office/shop and found out that we could have lunch in the Abbey garden, but the fort itself was closed.  It was closed because of the strike.  No standing at the top of the battlements raining arrows down on the HRE soldiers.  Damn, again! Oh well, c’est la France.

           We spent the next hour or so wandering through the town, marveling at all the stone buildings rising out of all the stone outcrops in this hilly village.  We got back on the bus thinking we’d complete the tour and just stay on for the next, until we got back across the river again where we would get off and walk along the river front to place were a boat would take us back to the Avignon side.  No dice.  Not because of the strike this time.  When the driver parked the bus, he kicked us all off.  Tour over.

           Now some people might think at that point that it just wasn’t our day.  It did cross our minds.  But then we walked down to the rue Teinturiers neighborhood where we sat among locals, sipping beer at our table across from the café and reflecting on our trip.  Next to a creek, shaded by trees, far from touristamania and relaxed.  After dinner at a nearby café, we went home – as we’ve gotten used to calling our hotels – and packed for our trip to Arles tomorrow morning.

A couple of Notes about France

           Apparently you can’t graduate from middle school in France unless you can not only smoke a cigarette, but also show that you can roll your own.  Thus begins a lifelong love of Tabac.

           The French seem to resist translating anything into English more than any other people.  Menus, road signs, emergency exit instructions – tout seulement en Francais.  I blame it on their resentment that English became the lingua franca of the world.

           Now I’ve been around a little.  I’ve lived in North Carolina where complete strangers will greet you on the street as if they’ve known you all your life.  In New York City, as long as you don’t slow down the lunch line at the deli, the servers are perfectly affable.  But I’ve found in France that if one accidentally makes eye contact with someone on the street, a nod or smile will get a sneer and sudden interest in the sidewalk more often that not.  Connie has a little kindlier view.

           And now a fun fact: Nimes is another small town in Provence not far from either Arles or Avignon.  It is famous for a certain kind of fabric made there.  In the middle of the nineteenth century, a Jew from Bavaria immigrated to the US and imported a lot of the fabric to make trousers for the gold miners in California.  Thus was Levi Strauss & Company created.  Denim means de Nimes.

Wednesday, 13 – Avignon/Arles

           The train ride from Avignon to Arles takes about half an hour.  Once there we tried to call a cab, but then we just set out walking to our hotel.  We walked along the upper river walk until we got to the bridge.  Once we crossed the river, our hotel was a block and a half away.  I liked our hotel as soon as I walked into it.  Not only had the whole interior been updated in a way that kept the old world charm, but it was meticulously maintained.  The non English-speaking owner checked us in without too much trouble and seemed very nice.  He was able to show us on the map where a Laundromat was within a block of the hotel.  Our room was large and comfortable.  I had had some apprehension about the place because it was the least expensive hotel of the entire trip.  After getting settled, we walked back across the bridge for our first look at Arles.  We walked through the narrow streets gawking at the buildings and noticed a difference from Avignon immediately, though at that time we really couldn’t define it.

           We had planned to do our laundry that day but decided we’d take care of it the next morning.  The shirt I’d been wearing for two days was good for one more.   We grabbed a snack and spent the afternoon wandering aimlessly around, getting our bearings.   After an early dinner, we went back to our room and hit the hay early. 

Thursday, 14 –Arles

            The wife of the couple that owns the hotel was at the desk in the morning and showed us that an ATM was available right next to the Laundromat.  It wasn’t long before we had all the clean clothes we needed to get us to Florence. 

           The other bit of business we wanted to take care of was getting our train tickets for Nice.  Instead of walking back along the river, we went into town and did a little more exploring on our way to the station.  We were also still on the lookout for the kind of bright fabrics that Provence is known for.  We had Meghan’s blue/green decorating plan in mind, but everything we saw had lots of yellow in it.  That applied to ceramics as well.

           I believe the center of Arles could fit within the walls of Avignon, though the history of Arles predominance in the region predates Avignon’s.  When Julius Caesar was preparing to attack Marseilles, the city’s ship builders were able to provide him with 12 new ships in just 3 weeks.  After his victory, Caesar named the city a special city of the Roman Republic in gratitude.  His nephew, Octavian, stayed behind in France while Caesar went back to Rome to defeat the Republic and establish the Roman Empire.  Later, when he was Caesar August, Octavian made Arles an official Roman city – which conferred Roman citizenship on its inhabitants – to honor his uncle.  Until the French Revolution, Arles owned more property than any other city in France.

           The rest of the day – when we weren’t sitting in a café – we just wandered around.  We decided that we’d do the walking tour on Friday and visit all the Easel sights as well.  It was dark when we started walking back to our hotel after dinner and, since we were near it, we stopped at the Starry Night over the Rhone Easel.  After taking a picture of the Easel, we both took pictures of the river with streetlights and a few stars reflection off of it.

Friday, 15 – Arles

           After breakfast at the hotel, we set out on the Rick Steves walking tour of town.  Arles is where Vincent Van Gogh came and lived during his most productive period, near the end of his life.  Though he painted 200 pictures here, none is on display in Arles.  The Easels are small enameled signs showing a painting and giving some information about it.  They are situated where his easel was while painting the picture.  We took a picture of the easel and then of what he had been looking at as it appears today.  It was great fun.  The Yellow House, where he lived and Gauguin visited, is no longer there – the victim on an errant WW 2 bomb – but the building seen in the painting behind the house still exists.  The Jardin d’Ete is pretty much the same though the foliage is obviously different.  The Café at Night also looks the same, though its paint job is gaudy to make it look more like the painting during daylight hours.  It’s in the Place du Forum, with a couple of other large outdoor cafes.  The café is considered a tourist trap and the hipper visitors shun it.

           Arles biggest attraction is the giant Roman Arena.  It is still used today for events like their version of bull fighting.  Unlike the Spanish sport (?), in Arles, the young bull enters the arena where young men try to attract its attention and then run to and jump up on the wall before the bull can harm them.  It’s more like a big game of tag than brutal animal cruelty.  The arena can hold 20,000 people on its 30 rows of stone (cold) seats that rise above the floor.  Most of them are now covered by modern steel and wood bleachers.

           The outside of the arena is a series of great arches and there are two enclosed arcades at different levels that run around the arena to facilitate egress.  Between the openings to the seats in these arcades are small rooms that were obviously vendor stalls.  Three typical Medieval towers are also part of the arena.  One is open to walk to the top, which, of course, I did.  The view was magnificent.  Beginning in Medieval times and extending into the 1800s, the arches were bricked up and the arena became a walled city of 200 small homes.

           Above the arena near the Notre Dame Church and Arles’ highest natural elevation, is another Easel.  It’s supposed to give the visitor a view of the open country that inspired so many of Van Gogh’s painting.  But, the trees have grown up and the town has expanded and there isn’t much open space visible.

           Van Gogh was drawn to Arles in 1888 by the sunlight of Provence.  Though there are no Van Gogh museums in Arles, the Easel walks really brought his presence alive for us.  This seemed especially true at the building that was once the hospital where Van Gogh was taken after cutting off his ear.  Now called Espace Van Gogh, it is a square two story building with a large garden courtyard in the center.  While there, he painted the garden.  The tree has grown a bit in the last 128 years.

           I think the reason we liked Arles better than Avignon had to do with more than that there were fewer tourists.  The old town of Avignon, enclosed in its wall as it was, sometimes had the feeling of an amusement park, albeit a medieval amusement park.  Arles was just Arles.  And that was good enough.

Saturday, 16 – Arles/Nice

           We left for Nice in the morning after walking back to the train station.  The trip took most of the day, a lot of which was spent looking out the window at the beautiful cote d’azure.  As with each of our hotels, I put the name and address on the Notes app on my phone to show a potential cab driver and looked up the route if we were going to walk to it.  At Nice, it was just exit the station from the middle door, cross the street and walk straight down toward the Mediterranean.  Turn left at Boulevard Victor Hugo for two blocks and, voila – Hotel La Villa Nice Victor Hugo.  This was a real hotel in a big city.

           Once we dumped our bags, we headed down to the waterfront and walked along the strand.  In the 30 mph wind.  We were once again in the tourist zoo and, after some wandering around and a pizza and a beer (wine for Connie) in a café out of the wind, we started walking back to our hotel.  One of the things the French do that drives me crazy is change the names of their streets.  What was Boulevard Victor Hugo had become Boulevard Dubouchage where we intersected it.  Thinking we’d gone too far to the left, we turned right.  We were too tired for being lost. Finally a kindly young lady pointed out on our map where we were.  Eleven blocks later we got to our hotel.

Nice

           Nice is nice.

Sunday, 17 – Nice/Vernazza

           We managed to walk back to the train station without getting lost.  We had decided to have our petit dejuner of croissant, oj and café au lait at the train station before departing for Cinque Terre.  Waiting on the platform, our train seemed to come too early, but like a lot of other passengers, we boarded anyway.  For a while, we worried we had made a mistake and our complex series of train changes would be screwed up.  We were to change in Ventimiglia, at the Italian border, again in Genoa and once more in Levanto.  But all was well.  We’d just taken the earlier version of the same train.

           While boarding the train for Ventimiglia, I helped hand up some suitcases for an elder couple (possibly as old as Connie and I).  It turned out they were from Australia and seated across the aisle from us.  We spent a lot of the journey talking travel and where we were from.  When we changed trains in Genoa, the wife took two suitcases down and back up the stairs of train station and then came back for a third.  I not sure I could have done that.  Because most train and metro stations have stairways, Connie and I decided to reduce what we brought on this trip.  Still, I have the big suitcase and have been schlepping it up and down those ubiquitous stairs.

           The trip down the coast was nice, with the Mediterranean nearly always visible on our right, we passed through small towns and pretty countryside.  As we moved along, the mountains moved closer to the coast and eventually we found ourselves going through tunnels both long and frequent.  At Levanto, we changed to the local line and not long after that we arrived in Vernazza. 

           The train station is elevated over the town’s main street.  We took the stairs down to street level with no idea of where our hotel was.  Suddenly, a young man said “Rob Rice?” and held out his hand to me.  I was surprised and asked how he knew my name.  He was there to take us to our room.  We’d exchange emails about our approximate arrival time and he’d just picked me out of the crowd.  We were delighted and followed him down the street to a green door with “15” painted on it.  It opened onto a large room with a couple doors and a long, steep staircase leading up to our room.  Or, “accommodation”, as it was called.  He was nice enough to carry our luggage up and left saying be out ten and leave the key on the desk.  And that was the last we saw of him.

           If our hotel luck had to run out, we could have done worse.  The room was large with shuttered windows looking out over the main street.  The walls, floor and ceiling had recently been nicely redone, as had the bathroom.  It had a closet and 4 hangers.  It had a desk big enough to hold a laptop and 2 chairs.

           The shower is big enough to turn around in, though stooping down for the soap or shampoo – there being no shelf for those kinds of things – was a bit of a challenge.  And while there is an outlet for an electric shaver, there is no hair dryer or any glasses, plastic or otherwise.  We ended up cutting a plastic water bottle in half for a glass.  And then there’s the bed.  The mattress would probably be okay if there were a boxsprings below.  However, being over flat springs gives it a tendency to sag in the middle.  And, the pillows are wimpy.  So, add to that no front desk and no maid service, our temporary home left some things to be desired.  One consolation though was that this arrangement seems to be pretty common in Vernazza, if not other towns in Cinque Terre.

Monday, 18 – Vernazza (Cinque Terre)

           The first thing we did this morning was video ourselves singing happy birthday to Emilia.  Today is her first birthday as well as my sister Sharon’s birthday.  Then we walked up the main street of Vernazza, under the train station and up around a couple of bends to Il Pirata Belle 5 Terre, a small café with a big personality (the owner) for breakfast.  They have pretty good Wi-Fi so we sent the video off to Pete and Meghan to play for Emilia.

           After finishing our breakfast, we started up the trail to Monterosso.  The trail is steep – both up and down – and rugged or really rugged.  Gates at both ends had signs saying the trail was closed because of unsafe conditions (it had rained 3 days ago), but that didn’t stop a lot of people from making the trek.  Like many other hikers, we stopped to take pictures along the way.  Every new view of Vernazza as we ascended the path was worth a photo. As we rounded the first point we were treated to longer views of the coast.  Eventually we would be able to see Vernazza and two of the towns to the south.  The path wound around the hills between the two towns as high as 650’ above the water below and often with a shear drop off on the seaward side.  And finally, thank god, we began seeing Monterosso. 

           We also often stepped aside to let others pass.  We’re slow.  But, in doing so, we engaged several couples or groups in conversation.  It was interesting how many of them spoke English as their first language.  The supposedly 2-hour hike took us a little over 3.  And, the promised rain had begun to fall, though lightly, by the time we entered Monterosso.  Both of us agreed that the walk was one of the best things we had done on this vacation.

           We stopped for lunch and a coffee at the first café we saw.  I have been hopping to order a plate of anchovies since we got to Cinque Terre and there was an anchovy sandwich on the menu.  But rather than freshly grilled, they were out of a can.  Oh, well. 

           Refreshed, we set out to explore.  Monterosso is the northern most of the five towns.  It is the most like a beach resort and would be great in sunny weather.  I packed my swimsuit and goggles anticipating finally getting the opportunity to swim in the Mediterranean.  Not today.  Oh, well.  After checking out most of the old town where we ate, we passed through the tunnel to the new part of town.  More of the same, though newer.  The train station is on that side of town, so we bought tickets and rode the rails for the five minutes it takes to get back to Vernazza. 

           Before going back to our room, we walked through town again to pick up some cheese, bread and wine, thinking we’d dine in tonight.  We also walked back up to and stood outside the Pirate Café to send a couple of messages, an email and post a note to Facebook.

Tuesday, 19 – Vernazza

           We breakfasted again at the Pirate Café, taking advantage of their Wi-Fi to, among other things, see Emilia’s reaction to our video.   Then it was off to the train station to buy a couple of day passes. The local line serves Levanto in the north to Spezia in the south and all the Cinque Terre towns between.  Our plan was to go to the south having already explored Monterosso. 

           Riomaggiore is the southern most of the 5 towns.  It is the largest village and, in Rick Steve’s words, the most workaday.  To get to the town from the train station, we walked through a long pedestrian tunnel decorated on one side with cleverly set pieces of broken tile, marble, stone and glass. 

           Connie and I walked up the main street looking into shops and checking the café menus for anchovies.  Yesterday she had strained a tendon behind her left knee and descending stairs was painful for her.  When I suggested we take the high road back down, she declined and we said we’d meet at the bottom.  What I had taken as a relatively short higher road parallel to the main road farther down toward the harbor turned out to be much more.  At first it sloped down gently, but it was much longer, never neared the main street and eventually ended in a series of meandering, steep and narrow stairways (typical for these towns) that deposited me as far out on that side of the harbor that anyone could be.  Fortunately a path led me back to the base of the mainstreet where we met up.  Connie had actually walked the short upper road I thought I was setting out on.

            One of the attractions of Cinque Terre is that you can walk between all of the villages.  When we were up on a terrace overlooking the sea, we could see a walkway that disappeared around the point to the north.  We got into a discussion with a few other tourists about whether or not you could walk the path to Manarola, the next town north.  Connie and I told them that we were pretty sure the path had been closed because of storm damage.  We had known that for some time, though we couldn’t remember where we learned it.  One gentleman suggested it was just the same kind of warning that we got yesterday, and the general decision was that the people would try to take the walk.  Well, it turned out that the path we saw was walkable, but only to the train on the other end of the pedestrian tunnel.  We walked back through it and, while waiting for our train, I walked up to a point where I could see the beginning of the path to Manarola.  There was definitely no getting over or around the gate.  The path is still closed.  I took a picture and showed it to Connie.

           When we got off the train in Manarola, Connie and I began walking uphill.  Most people headed down where there was more action.  We were looking for a place to eat and thought the cafés thinned out pretty quickly, we kept climbing around each new bend.  Finally, just before the road leveled out and opened to a square with a church, bell tower and overlook, we found a café that offered anchovies. 

           It was small with just 3 tables on its front porch, all occupied.  But one couple were obviously finished eating and had just a little wine left in their glasses.  We’d wait.  He ordered another glass of wine.  The second couple eventually had their dishes cleared and things were looking up.  They ordered coffee.  Still, we’d wait.  The third couple ordered dessert.  Still waiting.  It’s Europe.  Diners linger.  But finally, couple number 3 got up to pay and we were able to sit down.      At last, salted anchovies baked on a bed of tomatoes, garlic and potatoes.  Connie had a frittata and the waitress suggested what turned out to be a great bottle of red wine.  We both loved our dishes and we too lingered over the last of the wine and cappuccinos (no one was waiting for our table by then).  Walking back down toward the harbor we agreed that it was the best meal we’d had on our trip.

           We walked all the way down to the harbor.  It is naturally protected by large rock formations, but is tiny.  Boats have to be lowered down into the water suspended from a derrick located at street level.  Though not that easy to access, it is considered one of the better places to swim.  The water is deep there.

           Between the tunnel to the train station and the harbor, Manarola is much more colorful and vibrant than Riomaggiore was.  On our way back to the train station, we agreed that we liked it second best to Vernazza.

Wednesday, 20 – Vernazza/Florence

            After a farewell breakfast at the Pirate Café, we boarded our train for Florence.  Less that halfway there we had to change trains and learned that we had failed to get first class vouchers at the Vernazza station.  Not that big a deal, except that the entire new train seemed to be first class.  These have reserved, numbered seats.  We walked the length of the train looking for a coach car and finally got fed up at the last car and sat down.  If people got on with tickets for those seats, we’d just move to others of the several that were empty.  We made it to Florence without having to move, but I was a little stressed out by the whole situation.

           Getting to our hotel was pretty easy.  It was only a few blocks from the station and on the way we passed a Laundromat (yup, that time again).  Hotel Croce di Malta is very nice and we were delighted to learn that our room had a small balcony with a table and two chairs. 

           After getting settled, we wondered around the corner to the Piazza della Republic, a large square lined on one side with the canopied tables of cafés.  We were in the mood for pasta and I wanted to see how their pasta with clams compared to mine – though the wild boar pasta was tempting.

           After our late lunch/early dinner, we walked down to the river and along it toward the Ponte Vecchio, crossing the river a bridge before to avoid some of the crowd.  The approach to and one side of the old bridge are lined with shops, nearly all of which sell jewelry (?).  Connie and I are not shoppers, though we have been looking for certain fabrics and ceramics without any success.  Once back on the city side of the bridge we meandered back to our hotel.  Florence is the first big city we’ve stayed in since Barcelona.  Though everywhere we’ve been has been crowded with tourists (like us), somehow it’s more overwhelming in cities.

           We decided to stay in this hotel because Peter and Meghan came here on their honeymoon and raved about sunsets viewed from the rooftop terrace.  We went up to have a glass of wine and watch the sunset.  The view of Florence was great with the Duomo dome and all the campaniles dominating the skyline.  After watching the sun go down with a few of the other guests, we went back to our room and to bed.  We were tired and had a big day planned for tomorrow.

Thursday, 21 – Florence

           We had breakfast in the hotel.  Breakfasts in Europe are probably the cause of the first twinges of homesickness.  All of Europe seems to live on some form of white bread – white bread, pasta, pastries, etc.  Our most common breakfast until we got here was a variation of the petit dejeuner, a pastry (usually a croissant), a glass of orange juice (almost always fresh squeezed) and a tiny cup of coffee.  Here in the hotel, the buffet offers some dishes more to American tastes: a strangely colored scrambled egg like substance, slightly warmed bacon and a slightly coffee flavored weak tea.  However, they also had yogurt, which has been hard to find over here.

           After breakfast we did our laundry at a place between the hotel and the train station.  During the wash cycle, we went to the station to buy Firenze cards (a pass at saves money and gets you into most of the city’s attractions without waiting in line), get first class tickets so we could avoid the hassle of our trip here and to buy tickets for our day trip to Sienna.  It was rush hour and the ticket area was mobbed.  We did get the Sienna tickets from a machine and learned that passes were available at the tourist information office across the street.  As for the ticket upgrades, we decided to try again when we returned from Sienna. 

           Once our laundry was done and packed away, we headed out across town to the Galileo Science Museum, a small museum on the river next to the giant Uffizi.  This museum is loaded with all things mechanical from the scientific reawakening of the Renaissance to the earliest electricity generating devices to the earliest electric motors.  We spent a couple of hours there enthralled – so much that that night I spent wakeful hours figuring out valve activating hardware for a two sided steam piston and a way to capture and condense the exhaust steam.

           After a break for coffee and a pastry, we walked down to and along the river for a while.  The pause and some walking braced us up for what lay ahead. 

           We got in line for the Uffizi Museum with others who had reservations or Firenze Cards.  The beautiful building was built in the 1700s to house the great art, artifacts and scientific instruments of Florence.  It is home the finest collection of Italian Renaissance art in the world.  Connie and I love art museums.  However, Italian Renaissance is our least favorite kind of art.  Oh well.  Still we looked at hundreds of depictions of the Madonna with Child accompanied by various visitors, of the crucifixion and so on, all attended by saints, angles and cherubs.  We observed the progress from two-dimensional stick figures portrayed with inferior paints, through the Italians learning about perspective and eventually being able to paint women and children with some degree of accuracy and with decent paints. Meanwhile, the Dutch Masters had been doing exceptional representational painting for centuries.  But one thing I don’t get: central and southern Europeans are almost all darker skinned with dark hair and eyes.  Why would Mary and Jesus be depicted as having blond hair and blue eyes?

           Still, we walked all 93 rooms.  The building itself is nice with long, window lit halls on its courtyard sides and ends.  These galleries held mostly statues and portraits of popes and famous Florentine citizens.

           Afterward, we walked to where Peter had stayed for a month in 2002 while studying abroad.  We’d visited him for an afternoon then while on a cruise.  We also scoped out the Baldovino Restaurant nearby.  Peter said we’d have to eat there.

Friday, 22 – Florence/Sienna

           After breakfast at the hotel, we left for our day trip to Sienna.  I had wanted to go to Sienna since 1980 when I read Winds of War and War and Remembrance.  Once a year a religious festival is held that includes a horse race between the town’s clans that is held in the central square.  The square is large and not really square, with a depressed central area surrounded by a stone-paved road and the areas in front of the buildings.  For the race, the central area is fenced off and packed as densely as possible with spectators.  Likewise with the areas in front of the buildings as well as every window, balcony and rooftop.  The roadway, covered with a thick layer of sand, becomes the race course.  Members of each clan carrying religious icons and their clan’s flag escort the horses and riders into and around the arena, led by last year’s winner.  Videos of the race were playing on a TV where we had our lunch.

           The Sienna train station faces a modern shopping mall across a small piazza.  To get to the town, you had to go through the mall.  Since there was no exit on the opposite side of the first floor, we took the escalator to the second floor and for the same reason went up to the third.  There we found a lobby that led to a long, steep escalator.  Which led to another.  And another.  Six in all before we got to the level of the old town.  Sienna was built as a citadel.  After getting our bearings, we (and several other people) walked off to find the central square.  For reasons I can’t figure out, the streets curved one way and the other and the contiguous buildings did as well (not uncommon for these old towns).  As a builder, all I could think of was how much harder it made framing and tiling the roofs.

           When we got to the square, we grabbed a table near the edge of those grouped outside a café.  In the shade we sat and marveled at the scene, the beautiful day, imagined the festival and enjoyed people watching while we ate our lunch.  Connie had ravioli and I finally tasted pasta with wild boar – it was no big deal.  We ordered a bottle local 100% (white) Sauvignon and really liked it.  We lingered over the wine and then the coffee and when we finally got up realized we’d spent two hours having lunch.

           We couldn’t remember the train schedule and so began looking for the Tourist Information station shown on the town map.  After a while with no success, we headed back to the train station.  At the top, I took an altitude reading with my phone and did so again at the bottom.  Those escalators saved us a climb of nearly 700 feet.  We walked through the station and out to the platforms just in time to see our train pull away slowly from platform number 3.  Oh well.  There would be another in an hour.

           Back in Florence, we picked up some bread and cheese and a bottle of wine and dined out on our balcony.  That has become something we do more often later in a trip when we’re tired and don’t want to go out looking for a restaurant.  However, I don’t remember having a balcony to sit out on before.

Saturday, 23 – Florence

           Our first stop was the Accademia where Michelangelo’s David is on display.  There is a copy on display outside the Uffizi, but this is the real thing and the main draw to the museum.  It is pretty impressive, like looking at the Mona Lisa or Sistine Chapel ceiling.  There were other nice pieces of sculpture as well, but one of the coolest things was blocks of marble that he had started work on but never finished.  Connie and I talked about how hard it is for us to imagine carving something so beautiful out of a big chunk of stone.  With the unfinished pieces, you can see how the process begins.  Another interesting display was in a room dedicated to plaster casts.  Apparently, the first step is to create a rough version of the final piece out of plaster.  This involves creating several molds of parts of the final piece and combining them into a model.  There were several examples of the finished models on display – some of them quite intricate.  There was a video showing how the process works.

           After a break for coffee and a snack, we headed down toward the Bargello Museum.  On the way, we passed by the Duomo, Florence’s famous cathedral.  Started in 1296, the builders left a huge hole in the roof for the dome that they couldn’t build.  They knew, however, that some day someone would complete their dream of a crowning dome for their magnificent church.  That person turned out to be Filippo Brunelleschi, who in the 1400s built the largest dome in Europe since the Pantheon in Rome, which he had studied.  The original builders also didn’t add a façade to the church and for most of its life the exterior walls were just rough brick.  That’s hard to imagine given the beautiful Neo-Gothic exterior of black and white marble that adorns the church today.  That change was completed in 1870, just in time to celebrate the newly united Italy.

           The Bargello Museum is housed in a large building that was once a police station and prison.  You enter into the great central courtyard with a long stone staircase leading to a balcony all around.  Second floors here are always at least 20 feet above the ground floor.  There were some sculptures on the ground floor and the balcony, but the real goods were inside.  The main attraction here was Donatello and especially his David.  Apparently, everybody who was anybody did a David.  However, nearly all Davids stand triumphantly with Goliath’s head at their feet.  Rick Steves – on whom I have relied heavily for background material – and others believe that Michelangelo showed David not at his moment of triumph, but rather as he’s facing his adversary – steady, confident and concentrating on what was to come.

           We may not have given the Bargello its full due, being somewhat tour weary.  When we left, we headed over to Baldovino for a late lunch/early dinner.  This is the restaurant that Peter had recommended.  There was a street repair project going on close enough to the restaurant that its outside dining space was really constricted.  We slid in next to another couple who were just finishing their meal.  They turned out to be from Florida and we engaged in a conversation while they paid their bill.  They gave us the rest of their bottle of wine and she even offered the rest in her glass before we wished each other bon voyage.  When we saw minestrone on the menu we had to have it.  The San Francisco Bay Area has a large Italian descendant population and minestrone is big there.  Though good, it was nothing like what we make back home.  Meanwhile, a young Indian couple slipped in to where the other couple had been sitting.  We engaged them and it turned out that they live in Dublin, Ireland (not California).  They told us about how they met, got married and ended up taking jobs in the Irish IT sector.  Having these kinds of conversations is one of our favorite things about traveling.

           Back at the hotel we discovered that I had not forgotten my phone in the morning, but had lost it somewhere along the way today.  Connie tried calling it and using Find my Phone, but with no luck.  I was really bummed.  After her third attempt at calling it, however, someone called back.  A woman who works at the Accademia had my phone.  Tired though we were, we trudged back to the museum and got my phone.  What a relief.

Sunday, 24 – Florence/Venice

           Though we’d requested a 10:30 train, the ticket agent wrote down 11:30 and we didn’t discover it until it was too late.  After breakfast we finished packing and sat for a while working on the blog.  It took a couple of hours to complete our trip from the west to the east coast of Italy.  I wrote a little more and looked out the window at a dramatically gray landscape in the rain.  By the time we reached the Venice train station the rain had become an on again, off again drizzle. 

           Venice’s bus system is called the Vaporetto.  These boats ply the waters around Venice along the two big canals and to and from the other major islands, picking up and dropping off passengers at designated stops.  Our hotel was closest to the Rialto Bridge stop so we hopped on the 2 outside of the train station and got off at the bridge.  We managed to find our hotel without too many missteps – a feat in Venice.  Our room was really nice, though on the third floor in a hotel without an elevator.  When I huffed and puffed to the landing before the last flight to our level, the young lady cleaning the rooms dashed down and hauled it the rest of the way up, crushing my male ego for about a nanosecond.  50 steps, counting the 7 landings on the winding way up.

           After settling in, we hung out for a while before going out in search of a late lunch/early dinner.  The woman at the desk recommended a place not far away.  It turned out to be one of our favorite meal experiences.  A couple with a small child were waiting in the street ahead of us and a waiter came out and gave us all a refreshing drink.  They seated us in true Italian style – that is several tables for two set rows tight next to each other.  The small room was packed, the atmosphere friendly and the food excellent.  The wait staff ratio insured not only prompt service but also a little time for banter with the diners.  And, the owner (chef?) would come out to talk to the patrons.  At the end of our meals, the waiter would bring small glasses of grappa and a little dessert.  We decided we’d eat there again.

Monday, 25 – Venice

           We really didn’t have a plan for Venice.  We’d seen the most popular attractions and didn’t need to see them again.  We did want to go to the Peggy Guggenheim Collection and with not much more in mind we headed off for the Academia Bridge.  Once on that side of the Grand Canal, we wandered in the direction of the museum.  It turned out that the line to get tickets was long.  Since we weren’t in the mood to wait, we decided we’d come early tomorrow and kept walking toward the end of the island.  The last building at the point is the large, former tariff building from Venice’s hay day.  Directly across from San Marco Square, it is a great place for a panoramic view of that end of the city.

           We decided to walk back along the Giudecca  Canal, less interesting, but certainly not as crowded with visitors.  We were vaguely searching for a gondola maintenance shop we’d stumbled upon on another amble and eventually cut back into the city.  Soon we came out into a square I recognized immediately.  This is the place that gave the world the word “ghetto”.  In the old days, most of the Jewish population lived on Giudecca Island and around Campo San Agnese where there were and still are two synagogues.  But one side of the square was bordered by iron wright shops.  The word ghetto means foundry in Italian.

           While stopped for a rest and some coffee, we looked through some of our information and learned that the Guggenheim would be closed on Tuesday.  We hurried back and lucked out.  No line.  The museum is in Peggy’s old house and most of the contents were part of her personal collection.  But being in a house, some of the rooms – including a hallway – just don’t work well for displaying paintings.  That being said, Connie and I agree that it is the best collection of early and middle twentieth century for any museum of that size.

           By the time we were done we were tired and decided to walk back to the restaurant we liked for an early dinner.  Turned out it was crowded with 3 couples waiting out in the street (alley, really), so we just went back to our hotel.  After some rest up time, we ate a nice meal at the restaurant closest to our hotel and then went back in for the night.

Tuesday, 26 – Venice

           The cold Connie announced she had yesterday had gone from a tropical storm to a category 3 hurricane overnight.  A lot of walking wasn’t in our immediate future.  For our trip to the airport tomorrow, we planned to take the Vaporetto to the train station and a bus from there.  We thought we’d rehearse the first leg to time it and locate the bus service.  As soon as we’d bought our day passes, a different kind of boat tied up to the Vaporetto dock.  Called the Alilaguna, it was lower and narrower.  Turns out it is a regularly scheduled airport shuttle.  The boats were more suited to fast travel over the lagoon to the airport than the clunky Vaporetti. 

           We carried out our rehearsal anyway.  Given what we’d heard about the shuttle it turned out that plan A was usurped.  Since Connie felt so crappy, we decided to just ride the waterbus for a while.  It was a local and stopped at most of the docks along the Grand Canal.  Its final destination was Lido, an island separated from Venice by about 10 minutes of water.  We got off at the next to last stop before Lido.

           That end of the island, when viewed from the water, has always seemed to be big, lush park.  And, we weren’t disabused of that notion immediately.  Rather than turn toward the park entrance, we turned toward town in search of a café.  Right there.  It was in what had been a large greenhouse and was very nice.  We sat indoors, had dopio café lattes and the best muffins we’ve ever had and that fixed us up just right.

           We headed toward the park entrance and noticed that there was town behind the thick veneer trees and soon we came upon a ticket booth.  Behind it was more than a park – it included a cultural center.  Not for us so we went back to the canal boardwalk and enjoyed the trees along it as we headed toward the end of that island.  But, Connie’s cold and three weeks on the run had taken its toll and after a short rest on a bench, we caught the Vaporetto back to town.  The time that we spent out there was nice because it was away from the crowds and noise.

           We got off at San Marco Square and walked the most direct route back to our hotel and then on to our new favorite restaurant for lunch.  It was great again, though not as crowded.  An hour of beyond the call of duty shopping did us in for the count and we retired to our room exhausted.  Tomorrow we’d be going home.

           By the way, the reason Saint Mark’s Basilica is in Venice is that the Venetians, at the height of their power, went to Alexandria and ripped off his remains.  He had been the Bishop of Alexandria and now he’s a tourist attraction in Venice.

Wednesday, 27 – Venice/California (not Venice, Calif.)

           You can go east to west in one day.  Door to door, 18 ½ hours, including the longest (11 hrs.) flight I can remember.  It was good to get home.  The dogs were beside themselves with joy.  Meghan’s brother, Patrick, and his girlfriend, Alena were here and Meghan and Pete came by and made us dinner.  Emilia had had 7 vaccinations that day and was really out of it.  She kept staring at us as if trying to figure who we were and where we came from.  But then she smiled.

Tour of the West, 2016

            At long last, the Land Yacht is about to embark on its first long distance voyage – The Tour of the West.  We have been thinking about this trip for years.  It is the offspring of our 3-month tour of the US in 1985.  During that trip, we drove the perimeter of the country, but not so much the interior.  On this voyage we will travel through Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, Colorado, Canada (getting there from CO by a route yet to be determined), Washington and Oregon.  We will be visiting family and seeing sights we’re really excited about.    

Thanks to Pete for setting up this blog.  We hope you enjoy sharing our adventures with us.

1985

           In 1985, Connie and I loaded all of our personal possessions and my pickup into the garage, rented our house to 5 Stanford students, packed Megan and Pete (10 & 8 years old) into a used 1978 Ford ¾ ton van with oversized tires and bumpers and headed off on a 3 month drive around the country.  We stopped for a few days in Yosemite to calm down after the incredible effort to get out of town.  Then, out the back door of the park and down 395, it wasn’t long before we were exploring Grand Canyon and Pueblo reservations – Hopi, Zuni and Acoma.

            After a nice visit with a friend in Santa Fe, we pretty much b-lined it to my folks’ home in North Carolina.  When we moved on, dad came with us to the Outer Banks for a couple of days and, after we said goodbye, we younger Rice’s wandered up the eastern seaboard, finally landing at (my sister) Sharon & George’s 100 year old farm house in the woods of rural Maine.  There my sister Kathy and her son Mike joined us and the nine of us (Sharon’s kids Nate and Jess, but not George) headed off through Canada to a Rice Family reunion in South Haven, Michigan.  Connie and I and the kids got to stay at the Harrys’ farm, always my favorite place.

            On the road again, we dipped down to northeastern Iowa to visit a former schoolmate of Megan and then set out across the northern Great Plains.  The Badlands, Yellowstone, the Black Hills & Deadwood, Jackson….  By the time we were driving past the Grand Tetons were “oh yeah, more natural beauty”.  We were road weary and wanting to go home – which we couldn’t do for more than 3 weeks.  However, stopping to watch “Back to the Future” in Idaho Falls helped and soon we had Seattle in our sites.

            After a great visit with our friend Kris in Seattle and a quick trip up to Victoria, we dragged our heels down the west coast until our tenants’ lease was up and we could finally go home.  3 months and 12,800 miles on the road is a long road trip.

            But it was a seminal time for our family.  In the middle of what passed for our careers and while the kids were young, we had taken 3 months off and spent all of that time together exploring, camping, visiting family and, most importantly, being together in a relaxed way.  It was on that trip that Megan began her love of reading.  We stopped at several bookstores along the way.  It took Peter a few more years, but he too learned to love reading.  If you ask either of them today, both would include that trip among their favorite memories.  It certainly is for Connie and me.

Day 1 (4/1)

         After some last minute packing, we got out of town around 9:30.  I don’t really think of our being out of town until we’re past Salinas (about an hour away), but once we were, what a beautiful drive down Salinas Valley we had.  Central California was dazzling in its best springtime green – grass, brush and trees.  The roadside and hills were often splashed with a pointillist patch of bright yellow mustard.

            At King City we stopped for lunch and changed drivers.  The drive was uneventful, the traffic light.  We always listen to books while driving long distances and this time it is “Just Mercy”.  It is a memoir of Brian Stevenson’s early career as the founder of a nonprofit law firm in Alabama that specializes in defending death row convicts.  It is very powerful and should be read by anyone who really wants to understand Black Lives Matter.

            We made up our trip itinerary so as to avoid driving more than 5 hours in one day.  Since it usually takes us around 7 hours to drive to LA, we planned to stay the night in Avila Beach, midway between San Luis Obispo and Pismo Beach.  This was our third time staying at the Inn at Avila Beach – a converted apartment building being funkily remodeled a quirky motel.  They serve pie at 8:00 every night to anyone who stops by.  Our previous two visits were in the offseason and we had the small town practically to ourselves.  This time, the beach was crowded and the farmers’ market was opening for the first time this year.  Finding a place to eat was proving challenging until we realized we could eat at the bar of the restaurant where we wanted to get dinner and, could watch the Warriors game to boot.  They lost at home.  Boo.

Days 2 & 3(4/2 & 3)

          More driving & flowers . . .

For the few minutes it took to pass through the Pismo Beach area, we had a view of the beach towns and the ocean.  But then the road veered inland and we drove through grassy fields and rolling hills.  Here the land began to look a little dryer than it had farther north.   After an hour the hills got higher and rockier and we eventually broke out onto the coast again with the Pacific right on our right hand side and the coastal mountains rising dramatically on our left.  This is the thirty-mile run into Santa Barbara that I always enjoy and we soon learned that yesterday’s flower show was just a preamble for the show the ocean’s added moisture was to provide.  Traffic began to pick up and soon we were in heavier urban freeway traffic.

            South of Santa Barbara, the highway again runs close to the beach either down near the water level or higher up on cuts in the adjacent hills.  From the higher vantage, we looked down on the old Pacific Coast Highway (PCH), which is lined with the aging RVs of a beach loving cult.  And here too was the mustard’s piece de resistance – whole hillsides painted yellow by the flowers.  It was truly amazing.

Note: “If the scenery was so beautiful, why don’t we have pictures of it?”  Well, we’re sort of new at this whole blog thing and we have traveled this route several times and we weren’t expecting the flower show we saw.

            Soon we were in Ventura and then LA proper with the expected traffic gridlock.  But then . . . we were at Megan & Zack’s house.

            The Sterngolds . . .

            It’s always so great to get to Hermosa Beach and be greeted by the girls (Maya, about to be 8 & Lila, about to be 5).  They were dressed in “fancy dresses and shoes” and had created a red carpet out of various blankets, shawls, etc. for us to walk across upon our arrival.  Dominating the dining area table was the second of the two Little Libraries ® I had made, nearly ready to be installed.  A quick trip to Home Depot and a stop at the Kioskis, M & Z’s besties, provided us with the materials and tools to affect the installation. 

            After a series of discussions about whether we would eat at Nick & Emalee’s (Kioski), we ate here and they there, and we watched the UNC Tarheels earn their way into the NCAA National Basketball Championship game.  Connie and I fell asleep with smiles on our faces on the queen size airbed in the garage.  Go Heels!

            Sunday started with an early breakfast/photo shoot at the Kioskis.  Emalee is starting her own Speech and Language Pathology practice and wanted pictures of frolicking kids.  Shots were taken in their former dining room, which has been converted into a padded cell/rumpus room.

            Afterwards, the Sterngolds and Connie & I headed out to Mystic Canyon Ranch in Palos Verdes where Maya and, now, Lila take riding lessons.  Lila, who is usually reluctant to try anything new, was brilliant at her first time riding and between the miniature horse, the tiny saddle and Lila, there was a danger of, as Megan said, “cuteness overload”.  After helping Lila brush down Princess (what else?) and put away the tack, Maya began her lesson.  For being so new at it, she looked comfortable with the horses and a natural in the saddle.

            Zack, Lila and I left early while Megan, Maya & Connie went to a local horse show.  After a short rest, I installed the Little Library ® and had so much fun watching how excited Megan and the girls were filling it up with books.  After dinner here with (yup, you guessed it) the Kioskis to celebrate once again Connie’s 39th birthday, and confirming that the Warriors won, we all went to bed.

Day 54/5 

            On the road again . . .

            Although it takes less time to escape Automaniamegagopolis going east than going north, it’s still over an hour before you’re leaving Riverside behind. But then the traffic lessens some and soon you’re out in the desert.  Lila overheard me tell Connie that desert was my least favorite topography.  A little while later she said, “I think the desert is pretty”.

            Last summer when Peter and I drove back from New York, we passed a sign for the turn off to Joshua Tree NP on I-10.  Although we knew there was a northern entrance to the park – to which we would have taken a different route from LA – we headed to that southern entrance.  My usually infallible navigator, Connie, guided by both I-maps and Google maps, told me to turn off the freeway at a place with no sign for the park (an input glitch).  Soon we were traveling through sparsely populated desert on smaller and rougher roads.  When we were told to by our electronic guide to turn onto a single lane track of gravel the size of cobblestones, we decided that something was wrong and turned around.  After reentering “Joshua Tree NP” and a 13-mile drive back to the freeway, we were once again back on the right path, chuckling about our little sightseeing detour as we went.  Soon we saw the sign for the park and seven miles later, we pulled into the parking lot at the visitor’s center.

            Remember that northern entrance I spoke of?  When I looked at the map outside the Visitors Center, I learned that the greatest distance between any two campgrounds in the park was the one we were near and the one where we had reserved a site.  Fortunately, they were able to accommodate us there and soon Megan and the girls were setting up their tent next to the van.

            We also soon learned that the only possible source of campfire wood and a pump for Megan’s two airbeds was the truck stop 4 miles down the freeway.  Struck out on both counts, but we were able to borrow a pump and I gathered left overs from the fire pits of unoccupied, nearby campsites.  After getting set up and a bit of a rest, we went for a hike.

            Hiking is another one those activities that Lila hates until after the first five minutes into it.  From the campground we descended into a small canyon and then back up over another ridge.  The canyon beyond was exactly like every box canyon showdown between the posse, bad guys, cavalry and/or Indians I’d ever seen as a boy watching westerns on Saturday mornings.  By then the girls were running ahead and climbing on every rock they could scale, both in flip-flops and Lila in her party dress.

            Along the path were the occasional sign describing one of the varied nearby plants.  A general description could have read, “yes we have pretty little flowers, but if you get too close, we’ll rip all the skin off your body”.  Nearly all of the desert flora is heavily armed with really sharp spines.  And, one thing we never saw was a Joshua tree.

            On our hike, we crossed paths with a dad and his 3 daughters who were camped near us.  His girls had proper footwear and were obviously used to hiking.  As Megan passed by his camp, he offered us an extra bundle of firewood he had.  We soon had a fire and the girls were roasting hot dogs over it.  Hot dogs and carrots (Connie and I had sausages and chili) lead to smores for dessert.  Turns out that Maya is an expert at roasting marshmallows.  Megan put the girls to bed, zipped the tent shut and came over to share a last glass of wine with Connie and me.

            A few hiccups here and there and some unpreparedness, but all things considered, not a bad first day on the road and first night of camping.

 Day 6(4/6)        

            On to Scottsdale . . .

            After packing up, we stopped at the Visitors Center to ask how far we would have to go to see an actual Joshua tree.  40 minutes in the wrong direction prompted talk about how we’d go through the park from north to south during next year’s trip.

            The day had dawned clear, but a haze began to develop and increase and soon we were watching range after range of sharp edged hills rise up from the horizon in varying shades of muted grays resolving eventually into darker grays and browns as we skirted by or between them.  The day finally did clear up and after a couple of hours, we crossed the line into Arizona.

            The first thing I noticed was that we just passed 411th Ave.  Apparently, the entire state is crisscrossed by avenues (N-S) and streets (E-W).  The next thing was that we were driving through the kind of hills we’d been driving past.  Pretty, but soon we were in flat, uninteresting, ugly desert on a road that varied from straight by no more than two degrees.  Soon, Megan said Maya had to pee.  I said we’d pull off at the next overpass, Meg said “she squirming”.  So, we stopped on the shoulder of I-10 with cars, vans, pickups and semis screaming by, pulled out the port-a-potty and Maya took care of business.  Had Lila been awake she would have insisted on doing the same having wanted to since she discovered its existence.

We were all hungry for lunch and not too much later the endless highway provided the small town of Tonopah.  The Family Diner showed its age and the food was a little strange (Connie’s vegetarian pizza was covered with broccoli and cauliflower), but at least we had a break and a little to eat.  As I left I noticed the vast bar and dance floor.  Obviously the place didn’t survive on its sparse luncheon patronage.  On to Phoenix!

            The suburbs start 30 miles from Scottsdale.  The Phoenix area reminds me of an updated LA, though not as big.  The freeways are easier to drive (change lanes, enter, exit, etc.), well signed and all of the interchanges are works of art with a different design impressed on the colored concrete at each one.  And, on the surface streets, every quarter mile is a major road, often with 4 lanes, that allow the traffic to flow swiftly and smoothly and diverts traffic from the intervening neighborhoods.

            Not long before we got there, Marian texted that if we could make it in time, she would be performing with a little dance troupe at he Scottsdale Civic Center.  Within 10 minutes of exiting I-10, the five of were being seated in a nice, air-conditioned theater, watching a revue of senior citizen singing and dancing acts.  The audience favored the elderly though younger family members were spread among us.  We did get there in time to see Marian’s act.  They did a synchronized tap number all dressed up like bell hops with top hats.  The acts varied from an a cappella aria to a hip trio folk group with several dance numbers interspersed and emcee who was the king of groaner jokes.  It was an unexpected and delightful way for all of us to decompress from the long drive.

            That night, Stan and Marian feasted us with grilled steak and salmon, rice and their famous salad.  Julie and Daniel came by for dinner but Kim and John couldn’t make it that night.  After dinner, Megan and the girls went home to stay with Julie and Daniel.  It had seemed like a long day, but it’s always nice when you’re getting together with family. 

Day 7 & 8  (4/7 & 8)

            Not enough time . . .

Everyone told us we had to have breakfast at Randy’s so after we picked up the girls we did just that.  Or tried to.  Lila was not at her best that morning and we ended up having to get hers and Megan’s breakfasts to go.  Randy’s lived up to its reputation with good food, fast service and waitresses that call you “hon”.  While they were out walking around the shopping center for some calming time, Megan and Lila picked up some swim noodles.  Back at Stan and Marian’s, the girls hit the pool with their new toys.  Lila was still on the wrong side of happy so Connie and I took her and Maya to Target to pick up some of the things need for camping.  She fell asleep in the shopping cart and when she woke up back at the ranch, she discovered that she and Maya had new ponies, albeit plastic toys.  Her outlook improved.

            That night we dined out in Scottsdale’s Old Town where we finally got to see Kim, John and Feryal, John’s daughter.

            On Friday, Connie and I woke up early and decided to walk to Starbucks in the Safeway in the same shopping center as Randy’s.  Scottsdale has a wonderful greenspace that flows all through the town and into Tempe.  It incorporates paved bike and walking trails, ponds, a Frisbee golf course and so on.  It is also a flood control channel.  We walked through the greenspace on our way to breakfast but were barred from walking through one of the major road subways because the previous night’s rain had flooded it.

            While Connie was cleaning up the insider of the van, I finally spent some time in the pool with the girls.  It was great fun.  After lunch, we drove for miles to the AAA office for maps of the four corners states and to Trader Joe’s for supplies for the dinner we were cooking for that night.  While running our errands, we got word that Kim would be home early enough for us to visit before we started cooking.

            She and John live in Tempe, home of ASU.  We dropped off the groceries, picked up the girls and drove to their house.  Their neighborhood is older, funkier and definitely more college town looking.  The first thing we noticed was the massive barking dog that could easily have burst through the flimsy gate at the open front door.  This was Porter who was a puppy when Peter and I passed through in June.  He and his new sidekick, Avery, turned out to be big love muffins and after a quick but thorough tour by Kim, we left to fight the traffic back to Scottsdale.

            With Stan’s help, we got dinner on the table, though Julie and Daniel weren’t able to join us.  Daniel was at a Diamondbacks game and Julie had fallen victim to having treated 5 kids with stomach flu that day.

Day 9  (4/9)         

            Let the Adventuring Begin . . .

            For Connie and me, Saturday morning was filled with laundry, last minuet shopping, repairs, etc.  Megan and the girls spent time at the pool, but when a pair of kids closer to Maya’s age came, Lila lost interest and came into Stan and Marian’s house.  Marian was showing Connie her crafts room when Lila became interested in an oval shaped wooden picture frame.  Soon she and Marian were involved in a picture project to be displayed in the frame. 

            It wasn’t long before our short visit to Scottsdale came to an end.  Stan fed us chicken sandwiches before we hit the road and Marian took some departing shots (pictures) and off we went.  They were going to take Megan and the girls to the airport later in the day.

            I had been talking incessantly about the beautiful drive into Scottsdale that Peter and I had while driving back from NYC last summer and was looking forward to showing Connie the beautiful water carved sand stone art show as we ascended out of the Valley of the Sun heading east.  I hadn’t paid attention to the route Pete and I had taken last year and just assumed it was Highway 87, the main eastern route out of the Phoenix area.  Well, I was wrong.  It was not.  But, it was spectacular in its own way.  We rose through rocky hills of sage, mesquite, creosote and other chaparral flora, all lorded over by imperial Saguaro cacti.  As our elevation increased, so did the majestic views and the numbers of Saguaros.  The chaparral eventually gave way to small and then larger conifers.  We also saw sign after sign telling us to watch out for the Elks crossing the road.  In one instance, there were 8 in a row, separated by about 100 yds.

            We crested one ridge and were amazed to find the horizon defined by the shear face of the Great Basin plateau not many miles ahead of us.  It wasn’t too long before the world we had been driving through for the past two plus hours – crumbling, broken hills and chaparral and undulating tree covered mountains – became flat grasslands with endless vistas of plains, mesas and distant mountains under a never ending sky.  We had to stop to take some pictures.  We had started out at around 1000 feet of elevation, had peaked at around 7500 and were standing at 6400 feet.  It was magnificent.  I had to remind myself to keep an eye on the road as we drove on slowly descending to around 5000 feet as we approached I-40.  Ninety-five miles up the freeway we checked into a motel in Gallup New Mexico.  Tomorrow, the rubber hits the road.

Day 10(4/10)

            Everything I thought I knew was wrong (maybe) . . .

            After breakfast at the hotel, we stopped for groceries and firewood and set off for Chaco Canyon, or, officially, Chaco Cultural National Historical Park.  We drove for a while on US 491 and then on Navajo Reservation roads, which were all good until we turned on to highway 57.  Were tooling along a perfectly good paved road and, trusting Google Maps, made a sudden, sharp turn on to highway 57.  Highway!  It was a dirt road!  And, we had 20 miles to go.  After the first couple of miles I was thinking that this might not be so bad and then we hit the washboarding.  For the next hour we would get up a little speed and hit a patch where I would try to calm the screw loosening rattling by slowing down, which would only raise it to a tooth loosening level.  It was stressful and maddening and seemed to last forever.  But finally, we were there – Chaco Canyon.

            I don’t know how long I have wanted to visit Chaco Canyon.  It may have started when I helped Connie with a paper on Native American culture while she was finishing up at Santa Clara University.  That was 44 years ago.  Or, it might have been later, but not much.  I read an article in National Geographic about Pueblo Benito and the canyon and have sense then wanted to see it.

            Pueblo Benito was one of the greatest structures built by Native Americans and had been described as the largest building in North America before the nineteenth century.  The article described Benito as the home of 1500 people and the center of a civilization that stretched up and down the canyon.  I have been telling people this since and all of it is wrong.  Maybe.

            We stopped at the visitor’s center and checked in, and then went on to the campground.  Not seventy meters behind our campsite under the cliff overhang was the ruin of an ancient home.  We took the bikes off   the back of our van, moved the firewood out of our living room and had lunch.  Then, we drove the 4 ½ miles to where our first tour was to begin.

            Our tour guide was an archeo-astrologer working for the park service who had been living in the canyon for 29 years.  This tour was of Pueblo Bonito, the most intact of great house ruins.  It didn’t take long for me to learn that all I though I knew about the place was wrong.  Maybe.  Our group of about twelve tourists wandered around and through the building and grounds thoroughly entertained for two hours by all that our guide had to say about the site, the canyon and Chacoan culture and history.

            The first tour ended just in time for us to begin another tour that started at the same place.  This one was of Chetra Ketl, another big house a few hundred meters from Benito.  This guide was a volunteer, but fully knowledgeable and he had a notebook of visual aids.  Chetra Ketl was built late (1100 CE), just fifty years before the Chacoan diaspora began.         

            Our former brother-in-law, George Bottesch, is a stonemason in Maine.  I have taken some pictures of the various masonry techniques to show him how these buildings were built.  The cliffs of the canyon are made mostly of sandstone.  It’s estimated that several hundreds of millions of stone bricks were used to construct the buildings in the canyon.  The bricks were cut with stone tools and the mortar was a mixture of local clay and water.  But, the lintels (wood used to support the stones above doors and windows), vigas (wooden logs that support floors and ceilings) and letias (smaller logs perpendicular and above the vigas) were all imported from as far as sixty miles away.  Over 260,000 of them.  Early Europeans thought that the ancient builders had clear-cut a forest that existed during their day when the climate was wetter.  Modern archeology has proven them wrong on both accounts.

            While the construction was interesting and advanced for the time and area, the layout was amazing.  The most astonishing example was the great kiva on the south side of the canyon.  All of the Great Houses were on the north side of the canyon and the homes of the people were, for the most part, on the south side.  The great kiva was an exception.  Fully twenty-five feet deep and 120 feet in diameter, this was a massive place of ceremony.  It has two entrances, stairways that are perfectly aligned on a north-south axis.  And barely visible above the canyon rim to the north is Pueblo Alto, again on that perfect north-south line.  Another village to the south and out of our sight completes the line.  Around the north stairway is an antechamber with two doors.   If you sight through the two doors with the cliff face two miles away centered in your view, you are looking along a perfect east-west line.  And, if you do that on a solstice, the sun will rise from the base of that cliff face.  It goes on with more mind blowing solar and lunar orientations, including a truly arcane lunar 18 ½ year cycle created by the wobble of the moon.          

           Dusk at 6200 feet was colder than it had been in Gallup, so we got as set up as necessary and retreated into the Land Yacht (god bless our van!).  We heated our rotisserie chicken and precooked rice in the microwave.  It was the first time using it powered through the inverter by the house battery.  All went well and with the wind blowing outside, we were snug inside eating our hot meal.  Afterward, we donned our heavier pajamas and snuggled down under comforter and blanket and had ourselves a great night’s sleep.

Day 11(4/11)     

            Our first hike . . .

After breakfast, I split some firewood into sizes more amenable to use in campfires and Connie stacked it into the one of storage drawers we have in the back under the bed.  After making up a lunch, filling up our water bottles and another stop at the Visitors Center, we drove the 4½ miles to the trail head of a short hike we wanted to take to Pueblo Bonito Overlook.

A short walk got us to the base of the canyon wall where we began to climb straight up a rock stairway, up steps that most certainly did not comply to code in terms of their height.  A little more than halfway up, we came to a slot behind a massive section that had separated from the cliff eons ago.  It was narrow and steep, but it was also cooler than when we were out in the sun.  Once through the slot, we were on top of the cliff edge, the lowest shelf of a mesa that rose to the north in a series of steps.

We walked for about a half an hour parallel to the edge and sometimes around little hanging valleys, taking pictures and being passed by younger, faster hikers.  Eventually we got to the overlook and took pictures of Bonito from above, ate snacks and drank water.  I shared some trail mix with a raven whose timid partner squawked at us from a safe distance.  On our way back, we saw the two of them dancing above on the cliff face updrafts.

The walk back took less time than expected and soon we were at and then down through the slot.  That was when we realized how much easier it is to climb up steep, big rocks when the ones above provide hand holds to help you balance.  Where the hell were the handrails for the downward traffic?  We finally made it down (obviously) and drove over to the other side of the canyon for our tour of the Great Kiva.

           All of the names in and around Chaco Canyon were conferred by Europeans or local Native Americans, including the name of the canyon.  Without a written language there are no records or any way to relate the language or languages spoken there in 9th through 12th centuries to any of the modern languages.  23 tribes claim ancestral connections to Chaco Canyon.  They include nineteen Pueblo tribes – who share four unrelated languages and are genetically diverse – and the Hopi, the Ute, the Navajo and the Apache.

            Modern archeology has been able to determine things about the construction of the Great Houses like the dates of the wood used in construction, the composition of the mortar used to join the bricks together and the plaster used to hide all that beautiful masonry inside and out (both techniques demonstrated by local Native Americans), the orientations of the buildings and village layouts based on the movements of the sun and moon and so on.  They have determined that the climate during the active period of the canyon did not vary that much from today’s, that there were droughts during those times and that the Chacoan diaspora, which began around 1150, was due in part to a seventy plus year drought.

But who were the people who lived here and built these great structures?  And why did they build them?  Evidence shows that very few people actually lived in the big houses and that those rooms that were not inhabited were not used for storage.  All of the Big Houses included one or two wide-open plazas and a number of kivas.  According to our guides, the more we learn about it, the less we seem to know about the place and about the people who lived and worked here and why they chose Chaco Canyon as their center.  Some suggest that it was a center of trade (things that could only have come from Central America were found there) and that it had religious significance seems obvious.  Archeological evidence shows that the Chocan culture, including many other Great Houses, was spread out over 60-70,000 square mile surrounding the canyon.  And, if they built the Great Houses simply to create something big and grandiose to honor their gods or themselves, well then, they were just doing what we humans have been doing throughout our history.  Maybe.

            Having listened to other disgruntled drivers discussing the dirt roads and having seen other vehicles driving over them, I decided that driving faster may be the key.  Sure enough, right around 37 mph seemed to calm the rattling significantly.  It didn’t take long to get back to Gallop and our hotel.

Day 12  (4/12)      

South, East, Northeast, South and now, West . . .

            Peter had told us to have breakfast at the famous El Rancho Hotel in Gallup, but we didn’t want to take the time.  However, we backtracked two entrances on the highway to go by and take a look.  What a kick!  It is an old hotel indeed and is where all the movie stars stayed in the hay day of westerns.  It has a great southwest rough-framed lobby with a grand staircase to a balcony lined with signed photos of the old stars and posters of old movies.  We spent time looking around and taking pictures and, on our way out, asked about the room prices.  Next time we’re in Gallup, we’re staying at the El Rancho.

            Flagstaff, the gateway to Sedona, is about 3½ hours down I-40 from Gallup.  The traffic was easy and we were already into our new audio book, The Fallen Man by Tony Hillerman.  We bypassed Flagstaff and it wasn’t long before we were into Oak Creek Canyon, the first half of which is like being dropped straight down between shear cliffs on hairpin turns.  Connie was white knuckled and she wasn’t even holding on to anything.  But soon the rate of descent slowed and the curves widened out and we were following the creek (more like a small river) through sun-flecked woods.  As soon as we exited the woods we were in the middle of the tourist part of Sedona.  Which is dangerous because the surrounding scenery so jaw-droppingly spectacular that you could run over six pedestrians and smash up three or four parked cars before you took your eyes of the skyline.  

             I didn’t kill anyone and somehow managed to get us to our hotel about a mile down the road.  After we got situated, we walked back up the road in search of a beer (a marguerite for Connie) and a little something to eat.  For part of the walk the land drops off precipitously from the edge of the sidewalk.  Along that part about every 50 feet or so there were plaques describing the landscape, the history the town, that it’s an arts and crafts center, how many westerns were shot there and so on.  We learned that Sedona is named for Sedona Arabella Miller Schnebly.  She and her husband set up there homestead at the mouth of Oak Creek Canyon.  Her mom made up the name Sedona.

            We took our time over the drinks and a massive dish of nachos, relaxing in an open-air second floor room.  We sat overlooking the street, but our attention was on the magnificent backdrop to the town – a massive wind and water carved rock sculpture stretched across from us not more than a couple of miles away and towering up to a brilliant blue sky dappled with fluffy white clouds lazily floating by.  Closer at hand were the little bits of Cottonwood fluff drifting past like snowflakes that had lost their way.

            On our way back to the hotel we stopped into an Irish bar and made the bartender look for every possible way to watch the Warriors game that night.  No matter how she tried, there was just no way.  We’d have to see if we could stream it in our room.  It was a while after we got back that we learned the game was to be played the next night.  Oh, well.  Before going back to our room, we stopped by Elote, the hotel restaurant.  While reading the menu at the bottom of the ramp that leads up to it, we were accosted by a couple who told us that we absolutely had to eat there and that if we wanted to, we’d have to be in line at 4:30 the next day.  They practically made us swear that we would.  After that, we decided that we too tired to go out to dinner and that the nachos would last us until breakfast.  In our room we got into bed and read for a while before turning off the lights and going to sleep.

Day 13 (4/13)     

Among the beauty and the quiet . . .

            After breakfast and on Nanci’s advice, we drove up the hill to the airport.  It serviced mostly helicopters and small planes – no 747s will be landing there.  It also provided a spectacular view of west Sedona where most of the residents lived, as well as the hills beyond to the north.

            Back down in town, we stopped to get a cup of coffee at Starbucks.  On the way from where we had parked the van a young fellow in booth engaged us in conversation.  He was trying to get us to go to Holliday Inn sales spiel, but when he heard where we were staying, joined in the chorus about Elote, the restaurant.  While sitting on the patio enjoying our coffee, we discussed which of the amazing number of nearby hikes we should take.  Both of us were still sore from the hike up to the Bonito Overlook in Chaco Canyon, especially Connie.  We finally decided on the Court House Butte Loop hike.

            The trail circles Court House Butte and Bell Rock, a smaller, more pointy topped butte next to it.  It is only about 4 miles long and relatively flat, but, like I said, we were in no mood to do a lot of climbing.  At the Grand Canyon in ’85, Connie talked about how that kind of natural beauty calls out to be walked through and how not being able to can be frustrating.  I have called it the Grand Canyon effect ever since and it was good to be able respond to it in Sedona.  The walking was easy, the trail well marked and, once we were away from the trailhead area, the quiet embraced us.  The weather was clear and the temperature just right.  We met some hikers along the way and, on the road side of the buttes, the occasional mountain bike rider.  It was a really satisfying walk and just the right length for the day.

            Back in town, we rushed to get ready for dinner and I ran over to get in line.  There were about 15 people already in line.  After Connie joined me, we engaged young women in conversation.  She was on the last leg of moving her and her husband’s household from Durham (where Sharon, Jess, Taylor and Emery live) to Irvine.  She was driving across country by herself – hubby and most of their stuff being in California already.  We asked her to dine with us and we all had a delightful time.  She had been working as a chemist in pharmaceutical company but quit to become a flight attendant.  She currently flies out of JFK but is hoping to transfer to LAX.  We each ordered a different entrée and tasted each other’s. The restaurant lived up to its reputation.

            After dinner there were hugs all around and best wishes and then Connie and I walked around for a while.  When we went back to the hotel, we watched the Warriors make history with their 73rd win of the season.  Tomorrow, on to Zion.

            Among the many brochures, maps & guides available on the streets of Sedona is a map of the local vertices.  These are founts of particularly strong spiritual “energy” spread around the area and are the reason many people come to visit Sedona.  I think easy access may also have something to do with it.  It’s not too far from the more heavily populated areas to the south and west, and in an emergency, a quick flight to Flagstaff, hour Uber ride and you’re there.  Voila, instant New Age Mecca complete with 5 star hotels with spas and great restaurants.

            Certainly the red rock cliffs and buttes surrounding the town are inspiring.  But they are just one jewel among a vast trove of geological formations and vistas that are awesome (in the true sense of that word) that are prevalent all over the great Southwest and that have been inspiring Americans since they first came here all those thousands of years ago.  I find it easier to honor spiritualism standing next to the ruins of a Great House in Chaco Canyon, or in the shadow of Shiprock or in the crumbling ancient Hopi village of Oraibi than among the crystal vendors in Sedona.  But that’s just me.

Day 14 (4/14)     

            Zion here we come . . .

            Not long after leaving Sedona, we were on I-17 heading north toward Flagstaff.  When we got above 6000 feet, I noticed that the road surface was washboarded in places.  By 7000 feet it was pretty common.  No doubt it had to do with the big swing in temperatures from freezing to very hot.  On a rural dirt road you’d expect it, but on an interstate highway with big rigs doing 70 MPH? 

            In Flagstaff we picked up US 89 for the long drive north to Zion NP.  The views kept changing with the near by competing with the great vistas in strangeness and beauty.  After three hours we were approaching Page, AZ.  Peter had told us to go see Horseshoe Bend on the Colorado River (though he can’t remember doing so).  The turn off to the trailhead is just 2 miles before getting into Page, but we just blew by it.  We were hungry and there was a Starbucks in the Safeway.  After eating lunch and picking up a few supplies, we stopped at the Glen Canyon Dam a couple miles up the road.

            The dam and the visitors center were pretty cool, but looking down stream from the bridge was amazing.  The river was 800 to 1000 feet below us.  We could only see about a quarter of a mile of it before it turned around a bend, but it was exciting to think that this is the beginning of the Grand Canyon!  It was hard to get a feel for Lake Powell.  At the dam we could see that the water level was well below the high mark.  The reservoir stretches out to the east and highway 89 turns northwest.  For the short time we were adjacent to it, the water surface was below us in canyons.

            Not far out of Page, we crossed the Utah state line.  Having told Chris McKowen that I had read Riders of the Purple Sage last year and that I hoped I‘d see some on this trip (the book takes place in southern Utah), he asked us to take some pictures of it if we did.  It didn’t take long.  At first there were just clumps among the ground cover, but soon they became more prevalent and by our 5th picture the whole landscape was (would be) Purple Sage.  It is still late winter in the higher elevations of the Great Basin and the Purple Sage doesn’t bloom until late summer.

            Finally, we turned off on the small road that would lead us to the park.  It wound through the barren sandstone mountain tops for twenty something miles and then we got to the park entrance.  Not far beyond we drove through a 1.1-mile tunnel and then 1000 feet down the side of a canyon wall on a series of switchbacks.  Down on the floor, it didn’t take us long to drive through the park (past the junction that lead to the park’s goodies) and into the town of Springdale where we would be staying.

            Our motel was from another era.  Built of cinder blocks, probably in the 50s, it belonged to an older couple.  I assume that its shabbiness (shabby is being kind) was due to their having stretched things kind of thin to buy the place.  The picture on Expedia was not taken in our room.  It was a pit and we have a long history of staying in some pretty dodgy dumps.  We considered blowing off the four nights charges and seeing if we could get in somewhere else (at twice the price), but figured we could stay one night at least.  Which we did, after pizza and beer (wine for Connie) in a friendly place a short walk up the road.

Day 15 & 16 (4/15&16)

            Zion . . .

            Springdale, Utah is one street town of motels, restaurants, gift shops, cafes, a grocery store and so on.  There is a free shuttle bus that runs the length of the town – maybe two miles – and deposits passengers at the park entrance.  After a mid-morning breakfast at Me Me Café (across the street from out motel), we boarded the shuttle and walked across the bridge at the last stop and into the park, flashed our Senior Pass at the entrance kiosk and walked onto the park shuttle.

            The feature attraction to the casual tourist in Zion NP is the canyon, down which the shuttle travels to the end and back stopping at several points of interest and trailheads.  About halfway from The Junction – where the canyon loop meets main road – to the end, it began snowing.  It snowed enough to partially cover the ground but had turned into a light rain by the time we reached the end and started heading back.  Connie and I got off at The Lodge.

            Our chief reference for a place like Zion is Yosemite Park.  While planning our trip, we had briefly considered staying at the lodge or, at least, having dinner there.  We pictured something like the Ahwahnee, though of course, not as grand.  The Zion lodge is recently built and not very impressive, and, on that day crammed with tourist trying to get out of the rain.  We spent time perusing the gift shop and grabbed a hamburger and coffee in the café.  Since every surface in the lobby was covered with people, food and children, we opted to eat outside under the expansive entry awning.  It was cold, though not enough to spoil our watching kids playing with what slush the snow had left behind while we sipped our hot coffee.

            Heading back, we got off the shuttle at The Junction and walked the river trail – really a concrete sidewalk – the less than two miles back to the park entrance.  We looked around the Park Service exhibits at the entrance complex and then crossed over the bridge, hopped on the town shuttle and went back to our hovel – I mean hotel.  Because we had so enjoyed breakfast there and weren’t in the mood to go restaurant shopping, we went back to Me Me Café for a crepe dinner.  Afterward we walked for a while along the road away from the park to an area of a couple of nicer hotels and restaurants.  We went into a gift shop and Connie found a tee shirt she liked.  Then, back to the dump and bed.

            In the morning we ate a breakfast of yogurt, granola and orange juice in our land yacht and picked up coffee at Me Me’s before boarding the shuttle for the park.  The weather had cleared up and promised to warm up and we were looking forward to a day of short hikes and picture taking.

            Like Yosemite, Zion’s canyon has towering cliffs, though of varying strata of river eroded sandstone rather than glacier carved granite.   And though the cliffs didn’t rise as high above their bases as they do in Yosemite, the narrowness of the canyon created the same impressive effect.  But that narrowness also constricts the area over which the multitude of visitors can spread out.  The Park Service has done their best to accommodate all those people by providing wide paths, with many of those on or near the canyon floor paved.  Though we were there early in the season, it was not hard to imagine a Disneyland like feeling deep in nature out in the middle of nowhere at the season’s height.

            At the turn around point of the shuttle route, the canyon opens up into a pretty meadow dappled with Cottonwoods.  Here the canyon splits.  The Virgin River, the mechanism of this work of natural art, flows down from the right and the adjacent foot trail takes visitors further upstream from the shuttle stop.  This is the route to one of the park’s gems – The Narrows.  At the end of the path the canyon narrows considerably.  When conditions allow, people can hike further upstream, mostly in the shallow river.  Here the canyon is supposed to be a gallery of curving smooth walls in all shades reds.  It is the goal of most every visitor healthy enough to walk up the stream and goes on for miles.  When conditions allow.  With all the snow and rain upstream, The Narrows were closed.  Flash flood warnings were all over the place.

            We turned around at The Narrows, walked back and boarded the shuttle for other trailheads.  One of our favorites was the Emerald Pools Trail.  We climbed for a while and then the trail traversed a semicircle carved into the overhanging cliff.  Halfway around I noticed the whisper effect.  This is what I call something Connie and I learned about in the gallery high up in the rotunda of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London.  There, someone can whisper next to the wall and another person listening halfway around gallery can hear the first person as if sitting right next to him.  I was so excited about it that I explained it to two young ladies whose father was farther down the trail.  I had them tell him to say something next to the wall while they listened close to it.  Sure enough.  It worked as advertised.  Later I offered to and took a picture of the three of them.

            It was at that semicircle overhang that water spilled down into the lower of the two emerald pools.  Connie and I took turns taking pictures of each standing near enough to the spray to get wet.  Our last walk of the day was a repeat of yesterday’s walk from The Junction to the Park Entrance.  It had been good day of walking and picture taking and after our disappointment over our lodgings and the weather, we felt redeemed.  And, Connie’s Fitbit recorded 22,000 steps and 50 floors!

            The previous night we had noticed people lined up outside a restaurant up a short side street near our motel, so we put our name in for dinner.  The wait was about 25 minutes so we figured we could walk back to the gift shop and buy the shirt Connie had liked last night.  We got back just in time to be seated and enjoyed a dinner worthy of the crowds that wait to eat there.

            We had originally planned to stay in Springdale for four nights and explore both Zion and Bryce Canyon from that base camp.  Before getting to Zion we had decided to put Bryce off to another time and during our visit we decided to stay just three nights in order make time to stop at Monument Valley and Shiprock on our way to Mesa Verde.  In the morning we grabbed pastries at a place across from Oscar’s and coffee from Me Me’s and set out excited about the day ahead.

Day 17(4/17)     

            Zig . . .

            We slept in that morning and got off to a late start.  The zigzag route we had set up for ourselves required that we back track as far as Page, NM.  On this visit, we did go to the Horseshoe Bend overlook about 4 miles downstream from the Glen Canyon Dam. 

            The turnoff took us to a large, rather full parking lot.  The wide, well traveled path lead us the ¾ of a mile over the hill and down to the overlook.  It was definitely worth the walk just to look down into that canyon again.  Where the Colorado River does its 270º turn, the effects of the seven-year drought is obvious.  Much of the circle is green with long strands of algae.  While taking pictures from the overlook, I asked if I could help a couple of young ladies who were trying to set up a picture of themselves at the edge.  I took the picture and they thanked me.  As Connie and I were walking back they caught up with us.  I asked where they were from – Phoenix.  Then I asked about the amazing drive I hadn’t been able to share with Connie when we were leaving Scottsdale.  After describing the water carved red sandstone along the route, they said that that must have been a park whose name we can’t remember.  We got all excited and thanked them.  One of the girls then said we should check out Antelope Valley, which was near by, if we wanted to see similar sights.

            We stopped again at the Safeway in Page, but this time we just got coffee.  In the parking lot we made sandwiches in our van and had a leisurely lunch before heading out toward Kayenta, halfway across Arizona.  We passed the turnoff to Antelope Valley, but with such a long drive ahead, I said I didn’t want to take the time and we kept on going.  Now we wish we’d stopped.

            We checked into our motel in Kayenta and immediately went to explore the Navajo museum next door.  On the grounds were three hogans (traditional Navajo houses) and a wagon with signs describing them and their history in great detail.  We spent so much time looking at them that we ended up entering the museum just before closing time, though the young woman inside didn’t mind talking with us as long as we wanted to stay.  Later, when we went to dinner in the motel dining room, we learned that it was directly related through family to the original trading post that became the town of Kayenta.  The menu had dishes evolved from traditional native dishes and the women waiting on us all wore traditional Navajo clothing.  We had a fry bread hors d’oeuvre, Connie got a fry bread sandwich and I had a side of black bean chili.

            The long drive had given us a good idea of just how big and spread out the Navajo reservation is.  We were listening to The Fallen Man by Tony Hillerman and driving through the area where the story takes place.  Tomorrow, we would see Monument Valley and Shiprock on our way to Mesa Verde.

Day 18(4/18)     

            Zag, Zog . . .

            After carefully laying out our route prior to leaving Palo Alto, we almost immediately began to change it.  Going to Mesa Verde was the first major change and stopping at Monument Valley and Shiprock were done on the fly after that, I think in Zion.  To date our trip had been going along as well as we could have hoped, so I guess we were sort of due.  As if the spirit of the land wanted to reprimand us for snubbing Antelope Valley, we drove right past the turnoff for Monument Valley and didn’t notice until we were too far beyond.  That put us off and a dark cloud hung over us on our way down to Shiprock.

            The air cleared however when we realized that we could stop at the actual four corners without much of a detour.  And so we did.  We turned off the road and paid a fee to the Navajo Nation, who maintain the small park surrounding the actual medallion.  It’s in a kind of amphitheater surrounded by native crafts vending stalls (common all over the southwest).  And, there’s not much else there.  There doesn’t have to be.  It may seem silly, but there’s something powerful about being at the actual place where four states come together.  After taking a picture of a family, their dad took a picture of Connie and me standing in all four states.  Then it was on to Shiprock.

            Shiprock, (Navajo: Tsé Bitʼaʼí – The Rock with Wings) is an eroded volcano core rising 483 m (1583 ft) above its base about 17.3 km (10.75 mi) from the town that bears its name.  Navajo legend tells of how the great bird brought the people here from the north.  It is sacred to the Diné (Navajo for the Navajo people), though that doesn’t keep others from climbing it – which has been illegal since 1970.

            We could see it in the distance as we drove into where the town was supposed to be.  The typical outskirts never turned into a series of shopping malls, pawn shops, bars and so on.  We passed the Shiprock office of the Navajo Tribal Police (as per The Fallen Man) and got to a tee intersection and wondered which way to turn toward the actual town.  Neither way looked promising, so we went left through a little less of more of the same and soon were driving out of whatever we had just driven through.  I immediately went into a mode familiar to both of us from our many years of adventuring – calorie mismanagement melt down – though we rarely recognize it until after making bad decisions.  We retraced our route leaving behind the “town” of Shiprock, the dark cloud mentioned before now hailing on my head.  On the first rise that gave me clear shop of Tsé Bitʼaʼí, I took a picture, probably from about 21m (13 mi) away.  Had I turned right instead of left, we could have taken pictures from less than a mile.

            It didn’t take us too long to get to Cortez and check into our motel.  We’d seen a local brewpub while driving down the main street and decided to go there for a beer (wine for Connie) and a bite.  We liked the Navajo tacos they served (fry bread instead of tortillas), though the beer was below average.  Our earlier disappointments had worn off and our spirits were healed by watching the Warriors win and the anticipation of touring Mesa Verde tomorrow.

Day 19 (4/19)     

            Mesa Verde . . .

            It doesn’t take long to get from downtown Cortez to the turnoff for and entrance to Mesa Verde National Park.  The mesa is probably about 14 long north to south and maybe 10 miles wide and contains more than a dozen canyons, mostly running north to south.  It is not actually a mesa, though.  It’s a cuesta.  Connie and I once lived on Cuesta Dr. in Los Altos, but it wasn’t until we went to Mesa Verde that we learned the meaning of the word.  Because of its 7º tilt toward the south, it does not qualify as a mesa.  Mesas are closer to level.  But because it tilts to the south, it favored agriculture with more sun exposure.

            Most of the ruins are on the south end of the mesa so we had to drive some time (and distance as the roads are full of curves) before getting to them.  While doing so we were treated to great vistas of the fertile valleys below and I figured that between just 3 vantage points I was able to video record a 360º panorama.  As nice as that was, driving through the damage of three wild fires was disturbing.  As we gained altitude the chaparral gave way to low forests of Juniper and Pinion Pine.  And then, suddenly, a whole swath or even a hilltop became the devastation of conflagration.  Connie and I are used to seeing this in the Sierras, but there we are also used to seeing undergrowth come back in pretty short order.  Here, though the three fires noted by road signs were in the late 90s and early 2000s, there was no green among the ghost trees.  Except for the seemingly indestructible Yucca dotting the landscape these areas were forest graveyards.

            It’s not well understood why some of the people from the agriculturally productive valleys below the mesa decided to move to the top.  This began around 550 CE.  As most Ancestral Puebloans did, they lived in pit houses.  True to their name, pit houses were partially dug into the ground with short, above ground walls and roofs of wood and mud.  Entrance was through a hole in the top as is the case with modern day kivas.  This may have something to do with the Puebloan creation myth wherein the people entered this world from the world below through a hole in the earth called a sipapu.  Being the oldest of the ruins, these excavated sites are protected by buildings from the ravages of the weather.

            The top of the mesa we visited is covered with that low forest of conifers.  It’s speculated though that in the in those days the forest was cleared trees for wood to be used for building and firewood and to clear space for farming.  That agricultural life of the valleys below was transferred to the top of the mesa.  For most of the next 800 years, life there thrived.  Around 1200, they began to build villages under the overhangs that are so prevalent in decomposing sandstone cliffs.  These are the main attraction to Mesa Verde.

            Our first stop was at the Far View sites.  From around 900 CE, this was one of the most populous areas of the mesa.  At the modern site we walked through excavated ruins of 5 villages dating from around 800 to 1300.  But the most amazing thing we saw was what is now called the Mummy Lake.  Built in two phases between 900 and 1300, it is a 27.5 m diameter by 4 m deep depression encircled by stone walls.  There is evidence of trenches to share the collected snowmelt and rainwater captured with other pueblos as well as to guide waters to the reservoir.

            We moved on to Spruce Tree House (1200 -1280), which is described as the third largest and best preserved of the cliff dwellings.  It is also one of the most accessible.  Usually.  Since rocks have been falling from the arch above, which itself has been showing signs of structural questionability, the easy hike to and self-guided tours have been suspended.  What a disappointment.  So close, and yet, just across a narrow canyon.

            We stopped at other sites, but the pièce de résistance is Cliff Palace.  This is the picture you see on any brochure for Mesa Verde.  The largest pueblo, it is still subject to archeological survey.  It is also available for a ranger guide tour with advanced reservation.  In season.  Like with Spruce House, the feeling of being able to look at but not touch was overwhelmingly frustrating. 

            In the middle of all of this touring, we stopped to have lunch in our van in a visitor center’s parking lot.  We went into the café for coffee and perused the gift shop and bookstore.  I bought a Swiss Army like knife with wood sides, one engraved with a Mesa Verde profile and the other with “Rob”.  Connie added to her points of interest patch collection.  We also looked at what appeared to be machine made pottery.  I asked about it and was told that it was hand made (like the label claimed) and reflected the pottery that was made in the area in ancient times.  After we had completed our touring and were heading out of the park, we stopped again at the bookstore and bought a small bowl.

            What a great day it had been.  We were really tired – not just from a long enjoyable day, but from a lot miles on the road.  Tomorrow we would drive

Days 20 & 21 (4/20 & 21)      

            At Reen & Brian’s . . .

            Not far past the entrance to Mesa Verde NP on our way out of Cortez, the country changes from the farming valleys to hill country and soon we were following various streams and rivers through lovely tree lined canyons and upland farming valleys.  Google Maps had given us a choice of three routes and we picked the eastern most.  It was the right choice.  We kept gaining altitude and soon the little bits of snow on the ground began to fill in the landscape.  We climbed above 8800 feet and were no longer in the hills.  These were the big boys – the Rocky Mountains.  Though snow was everywhere, the road was dry and ice free.  After surmounting one summit and beginning our descent we came upon a wondrous vista of many snow-covered peaks in the distance.  Near the bottom as we swung to the northwest, we passed the turnoff to Telluride.  What a beautiful drive it had been.

            We came out of the mountains into wide valleys defined by great mesas.  It was drier country.  It is the kind of country that Reen (my sister Maureen) and Brian live in.  Whitewater is a suburb of the city of Grand Junction, though both are on a smaller scale than in major metropolitan areas.  Since Whitewater doesn’t have a downtown, we drove right past it and into Grand Junction looking for a late lunch.  As it happened, Reen was in town and met us at a bagel shop where we got a snack to tide us over until we could enjoy the pork roast dinner she and Brian were preparing.  On the way to their house, we stopped to pick up what we’d need to cook tomorrow night’s dinner.  Connie and I were tired of road food and were looking forward to cooking something ourselves.

            Brian was at their house and so were their four Dachshunds.  We fell in love with Skippy, a still puppy like white dog with black spots that look like they were painted on by a three year old.  And, he has blue eyes.  Cocoa, a long-haired brown, once got into our van and it took both Connie and me to get him out.  He loves to travel.  The pork roast dinner lived up to its billing and after we were done, Brian insisted on going into town to Barnes and Nobel’s to look at their maps and have ice cream.  We ended up buying the Western USA map because we spilled coffee on it, but then it was back to their house and a great night’s sleep.

            Brian left for the gym and breakfast with his cronies before we got up.  After the three of us had breakfast and hung around for a while, we rode with Reen into town where she had a short appointment.  Afterward, we wandered around Grand Junction’s small downtown area.  The city obviously takes pride in this older part of the town.  The area is thriving with shops of every description, cafés with outdoor seating and even a brewpub.  On every street corner is some piece of outdoor art.  We wandered in and out of some of the stores and stayed a little longer in an antique shop.  Finally though, we headed over to Brian’s dad’s house where Brian had been slaving away since he had said goodbye to his breakfast crew.

Brian’s dad had recently died and he and Maureen were dealing with clearing out his house.  Brian’s dad was a world-class collector and also was reluctant to get rid of anything. What a monumental and arduous task they were involved in packing up all of this amazing stuff to take to an auction house in Denver.  We saw every electronic device his dad had ever owned.  We also saw a 16 mm projector complete with take-home versions of very early movies, which we thought were very cool.  It was equal parts of interesting collectobelia and stuff that should have been recycled years ago.  I could have spent hours looking through it – I was particularly drawn to a hand-held extending telescope like the ones used on old sailing ships. 

Connie and I had maintenance tasks to do (she’d been working on the laundry since we got there yesterday) and dinner to make so we headed back with Maureen.  I needed to attend to our poor bikes that had been bouncing around on the rack behind our car for 3 weeks.  While I washed our bikes, pumped up the tires and oiled the chains on our bikes. I did the same for theirs.  I also had to change my back inner tube.  After completing a couple of other chores, I headed into the house to discover that Connie was done making the Italian Sausage soup that I said I was going to make.  I didn’t have any complaints, though.

Morning came all too soon and it was time to head ‘em up and move ‘em out, though we lingered until almost noon.  Brian had followed the previous day’s routine, so we didn’t get to say goodbye to him.  But, once we were able to pry Cocoa out of the van and give Maureen big hugs, we were finally off to Moab.

Day 22 & 23(4/22 & 23)        

            Moab and Price

            Maureen had suggested a route to Moab that is the shorter and more scenic than the other.  Both require a couple of hours on I-70 West, but when we turned off, I began to wonder about the one we had chosen.  It was paved and wide enough for two-way traffic, but there were no shoulders and no painted line.  However, it was less than twenty miles before we turned onto a better road and then the show began.  For the next hour we were treated to the handiwork of the Colorado River –we were deep and then deeper in to a carved, red-rock canyon winding our way along with the river through some spectacular natural art.  And then, suddenly, we are at a tee in the road where that canyon meets another, wider one and Moab was just up the road to the left.

            If you want to go camping, canoeing, fishing, hang gliding, hiking, kayaking, mountain bike riding, off-road driving, partying, rafting, ride a gondola to the top of the canyon, road bike riding, skiing or snowshoeing (in season), touring or zip-lining, Moab is your place.  The number and variety of dune buggy like vehicles was staggering.  And, at least in this part of Utah, they are street legal.  And, we got the feeling that, local or visitor, everyone was happy about being there to do whatever activity mentioned above they had come to do.

            We had dinner at a pretty nice brewpub where I learned that beer served from a tap could only be 3.2% alcohol, whereas if you buy it in a can, it can be higher.  I prefer draft beer so I ordered their IPA.  Just like every other 3.2 I’d tried in Utah, it was the definition of blah.  So, gritting my teeth, I ordered a BEER OUT OF A CAN (gross), figuring that, combined, the alcohol was about the average of normal beer.  The BOOAC was actually pretty good.

            Going to Moab was not our plan.  From the beginning we had planed to go straight north from Grand Junction to Jackson, Wyo., Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons.  In doing so, we would be retracing part of our path from 1985, but we’d be doing it without our kids.  However, as with most of our trip, the weather played its part.  We faced nothing but rain and snow to the north and we worked long and hard to come up with an itinerary that would allow us a way to skirt all the late spring storms that were passing through the northwest.  Since, other than the interstates, there are only 6 roads in Utah, our only possible destination was Boise, Id.   But it was not that easy.

            Tired after all that cogitating over when and where and how much it would rain, and how long it would take to get there and by what road and what time the Warriors were playing and would there be free internet to post to the blog and follow the Giants, we went to bed.

            Navigator and meteorologist extraordinaire Connie Rice had determined that we could get as far as Price, Utah before we would confront the storm.  Since that was not much more than two hours up the road, we had no reason to leave Moab early in the morning.  We took the opportunity to ride our bikes.  Starting 8 or 9 miles up the canyon we had driven down, there is a bike path that accompanies the road along the river.  We drove to the tee intersection, parked at the park there and, instead of heading up the river like we had considered doing, went down a bike path on the other leg of the tee toward Arches National Park.

            The first thing we noticed was that the wind in our face was so strong that, if the downhill were slight, we’d have to pedal in order to keep going.  Good for the return trip, we thought.  Although it paralleled the highway, the path was nice and before long we made it to the park.  We went to the visitors and bought a patch for Connie’s collection, but the road beyond there was dauntingly uphill for what seemed like forever, so we headed back.  And, for most of the ride the wind was at our back. 

            Back in town, we stopped at Safeway to get a couple of rolls and some coffee from Starbucks and sat in our van eating a leisurely lunch of leftover sausage soup we heated up in the microwave and the rolls.  Finally, we headed down the road toward Boise, or as far as I thought we might be able to get.

            The wind we had dealt with in the canyon – and had been dealing with off and on for the last few days – became pretty fierce as the land flattened out a bit.  Our van is pretty tall and at one point we were blown by a gust over to the shoulder.  Fortunately it didn’t take long to get to Price and, disappointing to my hopes of going further and validating Connie’s weather report, it was raining hard just beyond the town.

            Price is a pretty small town.  Though our motel looked as though it had been built in the 50s, we could tell immediately that it would not be a reprise of the hovel in Springdale.  A woman about our age quietly checked us in to the room we had parked in front of and we were pleased to see that it was nice and clean and comfortable.  When we went into the office later to ask about where we should go to eat, the woman reappeared, though she was 25 years younger.  They were obviously mother and daughter.  I don’t know if there were other family members running the place.  She told us about the local brewpub up the road.  It was small, quiet and homey and full of locals.  A nice change from the kinds of places we had been eating in. 

Day 24 (4/24)      

            Oh Boise!

            We left early with a long drive ahead of us.  Soldier Summit (7500 ft) is about halfway from Price to where we would pick up I-15 in Spanish Fork.  When we stopped there for gas I had to knock icy snow off the pump handle.  That it was under an overhang testifies to the strength of the wind.  But the road was clear and dry and in a little over an hour we were on the outskirts of Provo and on the interstate.  For the next 120 miles, we never left urban freeway, driving past Provo, Salt Lake City, Ogden and Brigham City until we finally turned off to the northwest on I-84.

            This road was obviously less traveled by, with much smoother pavement and less traffic.  Connie took over driving with clear sailing ahead, uh . . . except for the wind.  It had been hounding us off and on since New Mexico and – and this is really strange – it is always a cross wind and, no matter which direction we’re travelling, it blows from the left side.  We traded back a couple of hours later and eventually arrived in Boise.

            The Rice family had had a mini family reunion in Boise back in ’98.  Nephew Nathan Guisinger and his girlfriend, Rachel, were there for the Boise Shakespeare Festival season and each had been cast individually for the roles of Romeo and Juliet.  The play was performed while we were there and it was great fun seeing the two of them playing their parts.  Downtown Boise was so small-town that we had no problem letting all the cousins (Megan, the oldest was 23 then) walk the several blocks to a downtown movie theater at night.

            The city seems to have grown a bit in the intervening 18 years.  And after a long hard drive, it was really just a stop on our way to Vancouver.

 Day 25 (4/25)      

            Too early in the season . . .

            It was in Boise that Connie suggested we stay at Mt. Rainier on the way.  Unlike the southwest, the northwest held so few places of interest to Connie and me – not that we didn’t do our best to find them.  In order to not violate our not more than five hours of driving in a day target, we decided to stop in Kennewick, Wa.  We thought we’d camp there and once we got there, we found out that almost all real campgrounds had yet to open for the season.  We found out that there was a KOA up the road in Richland (one of the tri-cities) and went to check it out.  True to their MO, it was right next to the freeway.  We did a drive around a park full of RVs with a couple of open driveways with charcoal braziers on posts.  We decided to stay in another hotel in Richland.  The first one we tried was full, but the one down the road had a few rooms left.  Right out the back door was a walking/bike riding path that ran along the Colorado River.

Day 26 (4/26)       

            Mt Rainier . . . 

            After breakfast, we got the bikes down off the rack and headed upstream on the bike path.  What a nice ride past city parks, condos, older neighborhoods, playing fields and open spaces.  Across the river was more rural country.  We came across a paddle-wheel riverboat moored at its loading ramp.  This was one of its daylong stops on the tours it provides up and down the river.  We’d gone just under 5 miles when we reached the up river end of the path, so on our return we went past our starting point and even did a lap around the parking lot bring our total to 10 miles.

For the last two days we had been driving through the high desert farming country of eastern Idaho and western Oregon.  Around lunchtime we pulled into the town of Yakima in Washington, outside of which our friend Marguerite Fletcher grew up on an apple farm.  We had been there a couple times when the kids were young and the Fletchers were there visiting.  After getting a bite a small barbeque house in the historic district and eating it in the van, we got some coffee across the street at what was the old train.  Connie texted Marguerite what we had done and she told us that she knew the place when it was a pub.

            The farmland grew lumpier and it wasn’t long before we could see Mount Rainier, even though it was hours away.  Soon the rolling hills were covered with both hardwoods and conifers and the shades of browns and reds and yellows of the dry country we had been driving through for most of a month gave way to verdant greens.  We drove through river canyons that would open into farming valleys and then, it was just forests.  At one point we turned onto a much smaller road and wound our way upward through several stands of Aspens and Alders.  Finally, Google Maps told us to turn right.  But the only road near where we were supposed to turn was a dirt road.  We turned around and came back to it and just as we started up, a Park Service pickup pulled on to it.  We both stopped and rolled down our windows.  To my “Does this road lead to the National Park Hotel?”, I got “It’s for park vehicles only”.  To my “Google Maps’ got some ‘splaining to do”, I got assent from all in the other truck.  

            The slightly longer route on the better road got us to the park entrance pretty quickly and a few miles up the road there it was, The National Park Hotel.  Unlike the Lodge at Zion, the National Park Hotel was built a long time ago.  It was the annex to the original hotel built in 1891 and burned down in 1926.  Rooms are available with bath or with a shared bath down the hall.  Though the building was old, it was very well kept up.  We were a little anxious about what our room would be like, but that was dispelled as soon as we saw it.  Though a little small, it was quite cozy and the bed comfortable.

            When we went down for dinner, the dining room looked empty.  Never one to pass up a chance to be a wise guy, I asked the hostess if she thought she might be able to find a table for us.  In fact, we shared the room with two other couples.  I had trout, which I had not been able to get in the Boise restaurant “voted best seafood restaurant for two years in a row” that served only Atlantic salmon in cooked in various way.  Dinner was good, the atmosphere rustic and relaxed.

Day 27 (4/27)      

            Oh yeah . . . we’re cool . . .

            After breakfast at the lodge, Connie and I decided we’d walk one or two of the nearby trails.  We chose the Trail of Shadows, which wound through ancient forest along the edge of the meadow that drew the first developer to this area.  It’s called Longmire Meadow, as is the surrounding area, for the family that first began bringing tourists to this side of the mountain and built and maintained cabins, a gas station and the hotel.  I don’t have words to describe the beauty of the forest.  Everything was green – the moss that seemed to cover everything, the ferns, the hardwood saplings at the edge of the meadow and, of course the magnificent conifers of all sizes, including giants.  Spilling from the marshy meadow along the streams was a plant with a beautiful, large yellow flower, which, like most primitive flowers, was not much more than a more evolved leaf.  We learned from one of the several information signs along the path that it was Skunk Weed.  We came upon pools with bubbles streaming up through them from below.  We felt the water and it was cold.  Later we learned that these natural baths had been an attraction for their “healthful qualities”, until the Park Service figured out that sitting in a pool of water with CO2 bubbling up through it didn’t do anything for one’s health and shut them down.

            Even though the path had been a short introductory nature walk, we were charmed and decided to head out with that good feeling.  We were excited about going to Vancouver and anxious to get on the road.

            The ride down from the mountain and along the western side of the Cascades led us to bucolic farmlands southeast of Tacoma.  Eventually we came to a real highway and headed for Puyallup (yeah, let me hear you say that the same way twice) where we would turn north and go up the eastern side of Lake Washington before crossing over to Seattle on I-90.  It turns out that the road to Puyallup is about 50 miles of El Camino Real, with every fast food restaurant, national brand auto parts store, drug store, supermarket, gas station, sit down restaurant, smog check place, etc. repeated every five miles and punctuated by a stoplight every two or three blocks.  By the time we got to 167N, I was ready for some crazy fast urban freeway racing.  Thirty miles to 90, another 12 to I-5 in Seattle and still another 40 miles north before the traffic and I calmed down.

            About an hour later, we pulled up to the boarder crossing station.  The nice young man in a SWAT uniform smiled and asked us for our passports.  Uh . . . passports?  (Passports?  We don’t need no stinking passports!)  Uh . . . we. . . didn’t bring them.  (World-class travelers Connie and Rob Rice arrested at the Canadian boarder trying to enter the country without passports!)  What, are you crazy?  No, he didn’t say that.  After asking us some standard questions and filling out a small form, he told us to park over there and go into that building.  We were told to sit on that bench (not the group W bench).  I had thought about bringing them a few days before, but on the day we were leaving, neither of us thought to grab them.  Anyway, after checking us out and figuring these dowdy old farts aren’t a threat, they let us into Canada without searching our vehicle – like they were doing to other travelers, or turning us away like they said they usually did in this situation.  Can you say chagrinned?  Oh yeah, we’re cool.

            I’m not going to detail the long drive into Vancouver.  Suffice it to say that our 5+ hour drive had turned into a 7+ hour drive and we were grateful to get to our hotel and get moved in.  Because the hotel’s parking garage as well as all the near by garages could not accommodate our van’s height, we would have to park in an open lot eight blocks away.  However, Derrick the doorman pointed out that the metered parking space on the street in front of the hotel was about to become available and helped me back into it.  Logistics taken care of,  we grabbed a beer (wine for Connie) or two and some snacks in the bar and went off to our room exhausted but excited about exploring Vancouver.  Our day had gone from the sublime to the limit of arduousness, but now it was over.

Day 28 (4/28)

            Vancouver!

            Downtown Vancouver and Stanley Park are on a peninsula formed by a fjord called Indian Arm that extends many miles inland and False Creek, an estuary that encircles its southern end.  The rest of Vancouver is neighborhoods and probably 10 times the size of the downtown.  Our hotel was pretty centrally located in the downtown area, though closer to the north waterfront.  At 9 o’clock our parking space became a traffic lane, so just before then we pulled out for the parking lot on Cambie St.  Anxious to get started on our walk, we paid for 24 hours of parking (about $20, US) and headed to the nearest Starbucks for a little breakfast and some coffee.

            Connie and I love waterfronts and the paved seawall walk/bike path encircled both the city and Stanley Park.  Today we just walked around the city.  We passed a cruise ship terminal, marinas, a seaplane tour dock where we watched a couple of planes takeoff, water side cafés, little plazas and parks and more.  To the waterside was the vast Vancouver Harbor, which the eastern tip of Stanley Park eventually reduced to a smaller inner harbor (or as the Canadians say, harbour). 

            The path then crosses the lower part of Stanley park before coming to English Bay on the west side.  There are beaches along this part and, in the distance, we could see two great bridges over False Creek.  The farther one led to our destination, Granville Island.  I was getting pretty tired by then and not looking forward to the climb up to and the walk along the traffic bridge when we discovered that there is a small ferry service to the island and points along the (medium large river size) “creek”.  On Granville Island there is a large public market that we explored, but otherwise I was a little disappointed in the area.  We had some lunch where we had a view of the creek and the underside of the bridge and, afterward, picked up coffee and sat outside the market drinking it.  The large open space outside the market was filled with people enjoying the sunshine and listening to live music.  While we were sitting there, an orchestra whose members seemed to be in middle school began setting up and Connie wanted to wait until they began playing, but as far as we know they may still be setting up, so we left. 

            We took the ferry farther up the slough to a place called Yaletown.  This is one of the unique neighborhoods highlighted on the map.  It is newer and known for its innovative architecture.  In fact Vancouver can take pride in the architecture of its downtown area.  To the landward side of our walk we saw many interesting modern buildings and it was evident that even in building the many high-rise apartment buildings, efforts were made to make them interesting.  One of our favorites was about 20 stories high with a wide, flat disc extending from the penthouse with a 30+ foot tree growing from the center of it.  There was also on the shore of Yaletown a very interesting building with a three-story penthouse that is supposed to belong to a prince from Dubai and is said to have cost him 27 million.  Pocket change.

            By the time we got to Yaletown, we were pretty tired.  Fortunately, we were not too far from our hotel.  Going out to find somewhere to eat was beyond us – we’d walked 9 miles that day – so we grabbed a bite at the hotel grill and retired to our room.

Day 29 (4/29)

            Biking around Stanley Park . . .

            We had to pay for another 24 hours of parking by 9:11 or risk being towed, so we got an early start and got there about half an hour early.  Since we were going to wait until the last minute to pay, Connie walked back to the hotel to get her phone, which she had been charging.  Once she was back, we set out to explore the nearby Gastown district.  This is where the city started out and the roads and many of the buildings are original.  After walking around a bit, we went into the Smart Mouth café for breakfast.  On the way back to the hotel to pick up our bikes, I noticed a Royal Canadian Mounted Police store and went in.  It wasn’t officially attached to the Mounties, but had lots of Mounty souvenirs.  I spied a tee shirt with RCMP blazoned across the front and bought it – Rob, Connie, Meagan & Peter.  Later, Peter reminded me that had been our very first computer password.

            We got our bikes and headed down to the waterfront.  When we got there we found that we were 3 levels above the walk/bike path.  So, we took the elevator – much to the amusement of the people standing around I am sure.  For most of its length the bike and walk parts of the path are separated.  We covered familiar ground until we got to Stanley Park and began to ride around the inner harbor.  Along the way there were some great places to take pictures of the downtown area from across the harbor, which we did.  We also stopped at a totem pole display with an area of several fine examples.  While there, I spotted a Bald Eagle circling high in the sky.  On we went until the greater part of Vancouver Harbor was exposed and we could see the North Vancouver across the water.  We could also see Lion’s Gate Bridge, which spans the harbor from the north point of the park and over which we would be driving tomorrow on our way to Whistler.  Not long after we rode under the bridge, we rounded a point and immediately knew we were on the windward side.  

            There, you look out into Salish Sea (to the north of Peugeot Sound) with ocean going ships at anchor far out and Vancouver Island filling in the horizon between the north and south points of the land.  The wind wasn’t that bad and, after a while, we stopped adjacent to a pair of stairs that led up to a café and teahouse (English, not Japanese).  We decided to push on and before long came to a public swimming pool that was being readied for opening.  Warmer weather was obviously just around the corner.  Not far past there we missed a turn we should have taken and ended up following the path we had taken the day before toward Granville Island.  Once we got straightened out, we were soon on the path back to where we would head up to the hotel.  We rode past the elevator we had taken earlier and not 100 yards beyond found the bike path ramp that brought us to street level.

            Back at the hotel, after putting our bikes back into the storeroom and going to our room, we once again decided to dine in (I know – boring).  However, at the bar – not the café – we found much better dishes than we had on the first night and were satisfied with our day when we went back upstairs.

Day 30 & 31 (4/30 & 5/1)

            Whistler . . .

            Whistler is wonderful.  Right from the beginning.  At the corner we just took a right and never turned again until we were turning into Whistler an hour and a half later.  Through the rest of downtown and Stanley Park, across Lion’s Gate Bridge and then following along Indian Arm (the fjord) on the Canadians’ take on a freeway.  One minute you’re driving along on a four lane divided highway at 90 (km/h, that is), winding in and out among the cliffs overlooking Indian Arm and as you round a bend, the road becomes two lanes, two way and 55 (~ 35 mph) with a stop light 100 m ahead.  Big and small, fast and slow, freeway and surface street, changing over and over again and, apparently no problem to anybody (except maybe me).

            We stopped at Whistler Creekside – just a couple of miles short of Whistler – and bought some supplies.  Once we turned into the resort, it didn’t take long to find Rob and Nancy’s condo.  You just keep going uphill.  After checking in, we moved in bring with us nearly every piece of clothing we’d brought in the form of dirty laundry.  I’m not exactly sure why, but as soon as we looked around we felt comfortable.  It wasn’t just that this was not just another hotel room.  It was more like we were their guests even though they weren’t there sharing it with us.

            But, the best thing (besides the washer and dryer, of course) was the kitchen.  We had long since become sick of road food.  We love to cook anyway and don’t go out to eat very often.  And to have no choice but to do so for going on 5 weeks was bringing us down.  We’d bought steak, potatoes and asparagus and were looking forward to dinner.

            But first, since it was just early afternoon and we were hungry, it was time to do some exploring.  The path beside the condos led to just above the bottom of the sky run and the base of the lift.  Skiers and boarders were still heading up the slopes, though they had to go all the way to the top of the mountain, way beyond the first crest.  Others were taking the lift, some of whom were walking back down.  This is the Blackcomb run that ends in the upper village.  The Whistler run ends in the lower village.  We confined our walk about to the upper village and eventually sat outside a café and ate lunch and watched the people going by.  Finally, we went back to the condo where Connie did laundry and I got started trying to catch up on the blog.

            By dinnertime, we were still too full from lunch so we each just had half a baked potato and the asparagus.

            While I slept in in the morning, Connie, per Rob’s enthusiastic suggestion, went down to the bakery and picked up some muffins.  I fried up some eggs and we sat down to a great breakfast.  The muffins lived up to their reputation.

            We hung around the condo doing more laundry and just hanging out.  Today we would explore the lower village.  When we finally did get going, we walked downhill and onto a path that led a covered pedestrian bridge that crossed Fitzsimmons Creek.  The creek separates the upper and lower villages and, being surrounded by enough wooded open space and with trails on both sides, it offers a wonderful, quiet get away from the bustle of the villages.

            The lower village is twice as large as the upper village and both are filled with unique shops and restaurants, cafés and ice cream parlors.  In a world where national brands have eliminated mom & pop operations, this was a refreshing respite.  We walked around stopping to check out what interested us.  I saw a hardware store and, because it seemed a little out of place, went in to ask the clerk about its history.  She was the owner’s wife and said that they had started the store when the resort was young and probably wouldn’t have been able if they’d tried later.  I told her I thought they had a gold mine of a location.  We had been steadily walking down hill and eventually came to the lower end of the commercial part of the village.  Hungry, we turned around and retraced out steps almost completely until we found the café where we ate lunch.

            Connie and I like the artistic style of the First Peoples of the northwest and weren’t finding anything to our liking, so we decided to head over to the Squamish Lil’wat Cultural Centre.  This took us back through the lower village, through the Winter Olympic Plaza and, after confusing help from a couple of locals, a lot farther than it should have before we got there.  The entrance we used took us directly to the gift shop where Connie found a tee shirt she liked and I happened upon a blanket I really liked.  After buying both, we suddenly realized how tired we were after walking all afternoon in surprisingly hot weather and we headed home.

            Whistler is an interesting place.  Like Moab, its sole purpose is as a gathering place for people coming to have fun doing out door activities.  And fun is infectious.  We saw lots of young people in boots, snow pants, jackets and helmets and goggles, carrying their boards to or from the lifts.  There were also skiers in various levels of dress, including a man is skin tight short shorts and tee shirt.  Several of the people wandering around were tourists like Connie and me out enjoying what was apparently one of the first truly warm days there.  One man even walked down through the village clad only in his undershorts.

            But there was another interesting aspect of Whistler.  It reminded both Connie and me of Disneyland.  As far as I could tell, the resort began some time in the eighties.  Even if earlier, everything has been so well kept up as to look brand new.  And, like in Disneyland, there are people who go around cleaning all the public places.  Unlike Disneyland, it never felt crowded, or busy, or noisy and we never once had to listen to “It’s a Small World After All”.

            More home cooked food: steak, baked potato and left over asparagus; chopped up steak bits & cheese in the last two eggs with more of the great muffins.  Thanks again Rob and Nancy for a great break from the road.

Day 32 (5/2)

            Remember that firewood . . .

            Rather than take another hour long tour of Vancouver’s outlying neighborhoods by following 99 all the way back to I-5 at the boarder, we detoured on to Highway 1 to save time and aggravation.  I had lain awake the night before worrying about dealing with boarder guards over out lack of passports and when we got to the kiosk, we were directed to park over there and go into that building over in that direction.  The guy who interviewed us to establish our citizenship was so laid back he asked if he could call Connie Connie instead of Constance. 

            We breezed through that and were sent to the agriculture counter.  There we met the Nurse Ratchet of boarder patrol petty bureaucrats.  Humor, empathy and kindness were dirt she wiped off the soles of her shoes at night.  Yes, we did have 4 oranges, some carrots and lettuce, all of which we had purchased in the good ol’ US of A.  She would have to inspect the van.  I had to go out and lower the bike rack in order to open the back doors.  Then we were told to go sit on that bench over there.  When she came back, she had the oranges (the carrots and lettuce apparently don’t constitute a threat of any kind).  Ok, cool.  So we are free to go, huh?  No!  The fucking firewood.  We’d bought in Gallup, NM, hauled it around over 4000 miles through 6 states and Canada but couldn’t bring it back across the boarder.  YOU MUST RETURN TO CANADA!  But what can we do with it?  Not my problem.  Fortunately, a couple of helpful officers working outside told us of a RV camp that would take it back up the road a few miles and soon we were back at and able to cross the boarder only an hour and a half after we had originally arrived at it.

            Our target was Edmonds, a suburb north of Seattle where Connie’s best friend since 7th grade, Kris Valencia used to live.  Several times we brought the kids up to visit for vacations and we stopped for a while on our trip in ’85.  Following her job as editor of The Milepost (the ultimate travel guide for Alaska), she moved to Anchorage about 15 years ago.  We had decided to stay there for old times sake and picked a motel down by the waterfront.  We walked along the waterfront to the ferry terminal, reminiscing about old times and being awed by sunset over the snow capped peaks of the Olympics across the sound.  Then we walked into town a little and ate dinner.

            In the morning we walked again to the ferry terminal and bought round trip tickets.  We didn’t have time to do more than ride across to Kingston and back, but being on the water is better than being next to it and the views are so beautiful. 

Day 33, 34 & 35 (5/3, 5/4 & 5/5)

            The best for last . . .

            We drove into Seattle and parked below the freeway adjacent to Pike Place Market.  While I was putting the parking receipt on the dashboard, a gentleman approached me and told me that if we parked there, our bikes and anything of value would be missing when we returned, courtesy of the local homeless.  We thanked him and were able to find free parking on the street nearby without too much trouble.  After walking around a bit and buying a tee shirt from City Fish Co. to replace the one I’d bought there twenty years ago, we had a great lunch (real seafood!).

            Our main reason for stopping in Seattle was to visit with family and friends.  Anna, whom Peter dated years ago, is both a friend and part of our extended family.  She and her husband have been living in Seattle for the last nine years and we have enjoyed watching their daughter, Mable (8) and son, Jackson (5) grow up on Facebook.  It had been a long time since we’d seen Anna and we spent a while over coffee in the back yard getting caught up until it was time to walk over to the kids’ school to bring Mable her shoes for PE. 

            They live in the Queen Anne district of Seattle, a neighborhood of older houses on top of a hill west of the freeway.  The school, a few blocks away, is amazing.  The exterior looks like your standard multistory urban school with an enclosed play yard.  But most of the interior is connected open space, including the ground and second floors by an atrium.  It’s like the classrooms were turned inside out.  The classes have their own spaces and the openness is broken up by bookcases, banks of cabinets and cubbies, screens and so on, but there seems to be more of a general sense of overall community there.

            After dropping off Mable’s shoes, we walked back to Anna’s house by a different route to get more of a look at the neighborhood, talking and getting caught up.  Anna talked about moving out of their cramped place, but finding a school as good as the one they have there sounded nearly impossible.  When it was time to pick up Jackson and his pal, we walked back to the school again.  Mable had an afterschool hip-hop class and we once again sat in the backyard and talked until she came home and, all too soon, it was time for us to leave.

            Anna wanted to show us another part of the neighborhood with great views and hopped into the van (the neighbor was watching the kids).  We drove along a wall where hillside fell away and got some great views of the sound and the peaks beyond and them came to a little parking area where we had a fantastic view looking down on the Space Needle.  We got out and took pictures.  Anna said she’d walk back, but we drove her home anyway, vowing to not wait so long to visit again.

            It took about an hour’s drive south to get from Anna’s house to Federal Way where Jimi and Rebecca and their girls live.  When I originally texted Becca that we wanted to take them out for dinner on the night we’d be there, she responded, “That sounds nice, but who are you?”  My phone number was not in her contacts.  After we got that straightened out, we told her to pick out their favorite restaurant and let us know where to go.  Jimi wouldn’t be able to join us because he was working late, so we arranged to have breakfast with him the following day (and, of course, with the girls).

            We had met Rebecca only once, at Jenny and Jesse’s wedding (Jenny is Jimi’s baby sister).  Phoenix was only a toddler then.  But, Connie and I have enjoyed watching Phoenix and her sister, Coral, grow up on Facebook through Becca’s many and Jimi’s fewer posts.  And, we felt we had gotten to share a little in the Cook family’s life over the time we hadn’t seen them.

            As it turned out, Puerto Vallarta Mexican Restaurant was in the shopping center across the street from where we were staying, though we drove the van there on a circuitous route, having looked it up on Google Maps.  They were sitting in the back corner when we joined them.  After hugs, Phoenix (5) told us that she doesn’t like to talk much – a fact her mom confirmed.  She then talked nonstop until we buckled her into her car seat and said good night.  Coral (2 ½), though not as talkative, was every bit as cute and engaging.  We talked with Rebecca about how they had come to live in Federal Way (from Modesto), what they were doing now and how their lives were changing.  They’d followed Jimi’s career here and since then, her career has also been taking off.  It was the most fun we’d had at dinner since leaving Phoenix (kind of cool, huh?  I mean the Phoenix thing).  The time came to leave and though Phoenix wanted us to come home with them to see how fast she can run, we had to say that we’d see her in the morning for breakfast.

            Biscuits Café is next door to Puerto Vallarta and this time we walked over.  Jimi looked great after his extra long day of work, but the girls were a bit subdued, even after their whipped cream topped pancakes came (ah, to be young again).  Jimi elaborated on their plans and told us about his new career as a voice over actor.  He’d built a studio in their house and is considering pursuing talk acting while staying home and caring for the kids while Becca works at her job.  Having breakfast with Jimi and the girls was, like dinner, great fun and when we said goodbye it was again with the promise to visit again soon.

            Lily, Kris’ daughter, lives in New Castle, about halfway between Bellevue and Renton on the east side of the Lake Washington and less than an hour from Federal Way.  We hadn’t seen her since Peter & Meghan’s wedding.  She came out the back door of the condo as we pulled into the parking place ready to show us around.  First it was the condo Kris had bought a few years ago.  She told us about how horribly it had been decorated before and what effort it took to cover up the garish paint colors the previous owners had painted the walls.  We met Buster, her pugnacious lap dog who doesn’t like anybody – though I’m pretty sure he and I parted on good terms.  Then, it was off to tour Lily’s world.

            She drove through suburbia on a dizzying route until we reached the campus of Bellevue College where Lily is working toward a nursing degree.  The former community college had recently been partnered with Eastern Washington University, part of the UW system.  She spoke of the trials of getting into the program she wants, mostly because of its director.  Then our tour continued on to Bellevue where we eventually stopped at a falafel & gyro restaurant.  I have to say that the food was the best I had ever eaten in that kind of restaurant.

            Connie and I had only intermittent contact with Lily when she was growing up in Anchorage, but, like Kris, she had always been part of our extended family.  During our visit it seemed as if Lily wanted to catch up on some of those years, as she talked almost nonstop.  She told us about the condo, school, living in the area, her friends, Bellevue, etc.  We talked about politics and travel and maybe getting together when Kris comes down in the summer.  We really enjoyed being with Lily and talked about what a nice visit it had been when we finally said goodbye and headed back to our hotel in Federal Way.

            Our final scheduled stop was in Portland to see Nate and Arianne and, of course, Kale and his new baby sister, Maize.  Unfortunately, Nate was in New York on business for his great new job (in Portland, not NYC).  We got to hold Maize while Arianne took a shower and she immediately fell in love with Connie, like all babies do.  I had a rougher time, though there wasn’t much I could do about feeding her and it didn’t take mom long to come to my rescue. 

We got a tour of the almost complete duplex they have been building next to the house and heard all about trials of their construction project.  To my professional eye, it is nicely laid out and well built, which I’m sure, makes up for some of the business hassles they had to deal with.

            Kale (2 ½) came home and immediately started talking to us.  In addition to being tall for his age and smart, he is also very gregarious.  We decided to go to Pine State Biscuits for lunch and walked the seven blocks to get there.  I’ve told complete strangers about Pine State Biscuits, though I recommend it for breakfast.  Their specialty is biscuits, of course, but the rest of the food and the down home atmosphere keeps us coming back whenever we visit Portland.

            Kale kept us thoroughly entertained through lunch and the walk back home, but by the time we got back, there was no putting naptime off any longer.  We decided to head out then – reluctantly.  We were 700 miles from home and really sick of the road.  But, the last two days reminded us that though ancient ruins and natural beauty may be the lure of the road for us, the best times are those we spend with family.  That is the first note we will apply to our schedule for the next voyage.

Epilog

             So there you have it.  37 days on the road, 5515 miles, two nights camping, 16 different motel/hotels and, thankfully, the hospitality (and laundry facilities) of the Megan and Zack Sterngold, all the Cauwets in Phoenix, Reen & Brian Bookman & Rob & Nancy Schwartz (all family).  And, hundreds of pictures and over 20,540 words.  And, a lot of lessons learned along the way.  And . . .

            From Portland, we made it to Roseburg, OR, where we spent the night.  I drove over Siskiyou Summit and on to Weed, rain threatening.  Connie took over then and it began to actually rain.  We’d forgotten how long the descent to the Central Valley is – a127 mile series of twists and turns going on forever in the rain.  We finally reached flat land in Redding and by Red Bluff we were done in and stopped.  It rained all the way home the next day, but the smile on Rosie’s face when we walked through the door, made us forget the last, long stretch.

Lessons

            Itinerary           

            Our starting date was determined by Maya and Lila’s spring break.  Early spring around here may be a bit rainy, but the temperatures are usually pretty mild.  However, the Great Basin must average an elevation of over 5000 feet.  We drove over passes near 9000 feet and saw lots of snow.  We also saw a lot of the coming Spring pushing hard at the door and a lot of resorts and campgrounds waiting for the season to open.  Our course to the Yellowstone country was altered by the spring weather.  Though camping was part of our expected experience, weather and timing limited that option.  Lesson 1.

            Our trip was essentially a tour of the Southwest and the Northwest with a lot of driving in between.  We’ve decided to plan better in the future and spend more time exploring one such region.  More time to look around and more time to visit friends and family.  Lesson 2.

            The Land Yacht

            Although we hadn’t done any long camping trips in it, we had done some short ones in the van to know that, with a few planned improvements, we could camp just about anywhere.  What this trip showed us was that our Dodge/Fiat self-converted camper van was every bit the vehicle we had hoped it would be.  It was comfortable for driver and passenger, able to handle all the road conditions we encountered and, when challenged, thumbed its nose at the wind.  A couple of the added in – house electrical details need some fine-tuning, but all in all, its maiden voyage passed with flying colors.  Lesson 3.

            Hotels and Motels

            Though we had planned to stay in a motel occasionally,  we had pretty much given up on camping by the time we left Colorado.  Back at Gallup we were talked into joining HHoners, one of the clubs chain motels now offer.  It was free and offered easy check in and points, etc. for stays in any of the Hilton family of hotels.  We probably stayed in 5 Hampton Inns.  The nicest ones were deep in the Navajo Reservation and were much cheaper than others in cities.  The only bad motel we stayed in was in Springdale, Utah (Zion NP).  We splurged when we stayed in downtown Vancouver.  Though it was nice in some cases to be able to go down to the hotel bar for a snack when we were too tired to cook, we still would rather have camped.  And, all that high living made the trip cost a lot more than we had planned for.  Camping availability is now high on our planning checklist.  Lesson 4

            Road Food

Burgers, nachos, burritos, pizza, fish & chips, chili, sandwiches, enchiladas . . .  Fries or slaw with your order?  As the lodging expenses went up, the dining budget suffered.  We did have some great meals – at Elote in Sedona, at the National Park Hotel on Mt. Rainier, at Pike Place Market, and, also at the hotel in Kayenta, way out in the middle of the reservation.  And, one huge disappointment.  Near where we stayed in Boise there was a seafood restaurant voted best for seafood.  I was drooling for some trout.  All they had was farm raised Atlantic salmon in a variety of preparations.

            We like to cook and are very good at camp cooking.  (See Lesson 4)

            The Blog

            Connie and I have both been blessed to be able to do a lot of traveling.  We’ve both kept notes and about our trips and I’ve written a couple of travel logs about some of them.  Some are yet to be completed, I admit.  Doing a travel log as a blog while traveling is a little like taking your homework with you to the movie.  It’s always there and you’re always behind on it.  On the other hand it is the most complete memoir of our travels we have and knowing it would be read by an audience other than our future selves, has made me pay more attention to the writing.  Will I do it again?  That’s a definite maybe.  Lesson 5

A couple of fun things and then the end

             Connie and I really like the Southwest the best.  We love learning more about the First Americans of that area, especially the Hopi and the Navajo.  But one thing was strange.  We never saw the riverbed through the water until we got to the Cascade Mountains in Washington.  All the rivers and streams before then were heavily laden with silt.  Mother Nature is still sculpting the land out there.

            While driving through Oregon we passed a highway road sign that said, “45th Parallel, You are now halfway between the equator and the north pole”.

            Looking out our modern hotel window at Mesa Verde, I brought up the compass app on my phone to see if I was looking east.  I was.  Then, on a whim, I held it against an interior wall.  It was perfectly aligned north-south.  After all we know and had recently learned about First American culture of the southwest, it blew me away.  Was it intentional?  Or serendipitous? 

            We listened to 5 books along the way: Just Mercy by Bryan Stevenson, The Fallen Man by Tony Hillerman, The Orphan Train by Christina Baker Kline, Honolulu by Alan Brennert and The Dark Wind also by Tony Hillerman.  The Hillerman books are part of a series of mysteries, the main characters being two Navajo Reservation policemen and all the action takes place on or near the reservation.  We both have read most of them and learned a lot about the ways of the people who live in that part of the world.  The Orphan Train takes place in 2011 and the early part of the twentieth century and is about the struggles of a foster girl about to turn 18 and her relationship with a 91 year old woman who road the orphan train west after loosing her Irish immigrant family in New York City.  Though suitable for older teens, I would recommend it to anyone.  And Hololulu is a history of the city and Oahu seen through the eyes of a Korean “picture bride”.  Again another recommendation.

            Okay.  Enough.  Connie and I really enjoyed being on the road and are looking forward to the next one.  Hope you’ll ride along with us then.

The End