The Dark Continent

I had always wanted to go to Africa.  Since childhood those visions of steamy jungles or desert sands have kept my interest. When I finally got there, the Immigration Officials would not let me enter the country of Morocco. My trusted travel mate and I had not had our passports checked while on board the ferry from Tarifa, Spain.  How were we supposed to know this? Some sort of international telepathy, perhaps. We quickly scrambled back aboard the ship to find a disgruntle and rude immigration agent. He was quite rude and I had to remind Claudette that some sort of verbal rebuttal from us would be futile, if not detrimental to our cause.  I have always revered the man with the star regardless of the situation and fully realized that this sloven, rude, disgruntle little man could refuse us entry into his country.

  When we final got ashore a bearded little man in a robe and brimless hat approached us and asked if we were going on the tour and if we were English.  We answered yes to both questions.  We were used to being asked if we were English since we were frequently identified by the language we spoke.  He said. "Good! Good! and led us to a small Mercedes van obviously loaded with tourists.  We dutifully climbed aboard and a young man in a Yankee's baseball cap introduced himself as Ahmed. There were nine of us on the mini-bus plus the driver and Ahmed. He spoke to  the driver in Arabic and the mini-bus grudgingly started to move.  Arabic is the major language in Morocco followed by French, Spanish and then English.

No one spoke French on our bus but there were five English speakers: Claudette and me,  two recent college graduates, and a mechanic from Wales. The other four spoke Spanish.  As we bounced along a rather brisk clip, Ahmed told us about his country and city.  Tangier has over one million people, is the second largest city in Morocco and is building new hotels and modernizing its harbor to attract more tourists.  The driver brought the mini-van to a screeching half beside an open area between some buildings and Ahmed exclaimed , "Everybody, camel ride!"

Here we saw a bearded man in a t-shirt and baseball cap with two camels. He was offering camel rides for one euro. I thought I wanted to do this, but after I saw that there was nothing to hold onto, I reneged. A few of the people did.  One of the camels was very cantankerous.  Our next stop was the bazaar. Ahmet was dressed in western style so he was easy to follow. Some of the men were in the robes and brimless hads while others were in western dress.  We see very few women in less that ankle length skirts and usually with headwear such as a kerchief.  The typical long robe with hood and veil is common.  However, when only the face or eyes are visible, it is usually well made-up.  Some are quite beautiful particularly with "raccoon" eyes.  Also, some of the long dresses were of brilliant solid colors and are worn a few sizes too small. The streets were very narrow and crowded with people, push carts and frequent motorbikes or scooters but no donkeys or camels.  I made sure everything of value was in my money belt.  Our guide was quick to point out that although Morocco was a Muslim country we could readily see Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish houses of worship.  As we walked by the tiny stalls selling all sorts of merchandise and food stuffs, I could not help but remember some scenes from "The Raiders of the Lost Ark".  Thankfully I did not see a very large man dressed in black with a scimatar!  I had thought the streets in the medieval Europe were narrow, but they were wide compared to these.  In some places we walked single file. Vendors are constantly tugging at your elbow to buy their wares, usually jewelry of sunglasses  They love to bicker about the price. But if you complete ignore them and never make eye contact they will leave you alone. However, if you offer any kind of encouragement they will stick like glue until you buy something or leave the country. We visited one shop in which native handicrafts were sold, beautiful leather work and ceramics. In one shop I bought some spices for a barbecue rub. But the creme de la creme of things for sale were the rugs. They showed us many beautiful ones that were hand made with intricate colorful designs. If I had had the extra money I probably would have bought one. And, of course, they had no flying carpet. By the way, they accept any kind of currency in Tangier.  There is the probability that you could use Monopoly money, maybe?  We ate a meal at a local restaurant and it was good, cous-cous topped with vegetables and mystery meat.  The music was very interesting played by musicians in white robes and red fezzes. As we walked through the bazaar we could hear the call to prayer from the mosque, "Ashhadu an la ilaha ills Allah..." 

Our three hour tour was over.  Unlike Gilligan we did not have Mary Ann, Ginger and the Professor but did have two cute college girls and Welsh mechanic.  I should like to return to Tangier with more time or maybe instead to Egypt.  I understand that there aren't many tourists there now due to political unrest.

A Look Into The Past

It was Sunday, September 17, 2011, we  were

in Madrid, and I was fortunate enough to visit Naval Museo, the Spanish Naval Museum, located on a quiet street a few blocks from Spain's  famous Prado, one of the world's greatest art museums. The naval museum is operated by the Spanish Navy, and you must go through security screening before entering the upstairs exhibits. Lodged in 24 rooms, the museum traces Spanish maritime history from the fifteenth century until the present.  It houses some great "guy stuff" and my dear wife and travel mate indulged my musings.  While the exhibits are too numerous to mention, I will try to give a brief account of what we saw.  We surveyed the art and artifacts in chronological order which I believe is best.  

One of the many ship models.

There are paintings galore; some of them wall-size, about twelve feet by twenty feet and larger. They depict various ships as well as famous battles and famous events.  One wall has portraits of naval heroes exclusively.  Large maps and charts also abound.  The most famous is a map painted on leather by Jaun de la Cosa, a cartographer during the time of Columbus.  Actually de la Cosa made seven voyages to the new world, three of them with Columbus. There are also hundreds of model ships, some quite small, crafted by sailors at sea.  Others are ten feet long, and many have immaculate detail. One of my favorites is a model of the United States battleship USS Maine. You will recall it was sunk in Havana Harbor, a prelude to the Spanish-American War.  The models depict the transition from sail to steam as a means of locomotion for watercraft.   Some weapons depicted are rifles and pistols, not only of Spanish origin but other countries as well.  Some of the long guns of the north Africans were ornately decorated.  The inlaid stocks of fifteenth century pistols were quite elaborately inlaid with mother-of-pearl and semi-precious stones. Of course there are cannon, quite a few cannon.  One display depicts a cannon and the cannoneer's hammock hung within a few feet of his gun. I would be remiss if I did not mention the fine collection of figureheads mounted high on one wall overlooking one of the rooms full of models.  The carved wooden figures graced the prows of the ships of the great Spanish Armada was well as merchant ships. There is a section of a full scale model of a mast of one of the great sailing ships. It gives you an idea of the size of these great vessels.  And paintings illustrate the great ships at sea.

We found this to be a great place to visit in Madrid. You could almost feel as though you were a part of the age of discovery. Indeed, the great Spanish missions of the American southwest would not have been except for some of the men whose portraits adorn these walls.  Mel Fisher would never had found the sunken galleon, Atocha, had the Spaniards had not built those great ships to bring back the treasures  of the Americas. And the stories and myths of the pirates of the Caribbean would not exist with no treasure laden galleons to plunder. I would have never camped with the Boy Scouts in the Horspasture area of Pickens County, SC, had the Cherokee Indians not stolen Spanish horses and hidden them there.   Yes, we could feel the connection to history there and the Spanish Navy does a great job of presenting it.

Mock-up of gun port

Navigation Instrument

Mock-up of captains cabin

Around the Old English District

Do you remember “The Saint”? The British television series aired between 1962 and 1969 and starred Roger Moore prior to his run as 007. The show had an interesting title sequence in which there was and animated stick figure with a halo. Recently, I saw that figure again but not on TV, but as a tattoo. It was on the forearm of the man handing me his business card. He was about six feet tall and a two hundred pounds with a mustache and three day old beard.  The beard and mustache were flecked with gray and a battered baseball cap was pulled down low but his sparkling blue eyes were visible. I detected the sound of the British Isles in his voice as he spoke and I queried him about his homeland. “Twenty-seven years I’ve been here, off and on,” he said, “but born south of London.” 

“Doing this?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” he said, “I’ve only been doing this about four years. I was a pipeline welder in Canada as well as here”

We talked a bit about the similarities in the two occupations, welding and making pottery, such as eye-hand coordination. He showed be his pieces for sale and  I was curious about the almost exclusive use of earth tones.  He said he hadn't notice his use af earth  tones but the colors felt "right". We talked about how it could be very difficult to create the primitive look. I mentioned that Picaso had once said that it had taken him a lifetime to learn to paint as a child. We exchanged notes on our visits to the Louvre, the Prado, and the Tate. He did beautiful work and I did buy a piece, a vase with an oriental motif before saying “good-bye” to the Saintly Potter at The Rock Hill Pottery Center in the old Post Office and Courthouse building.

There was more to see in Rock Hill, this town of 71,000 plus , a short distance from the Charlotte, NC, metropolitan area. Like many small towns Rock hill has undergone a local facelift in the downtown area. There are new store fronts and interesting shops, restaurants and galleries.  There is also a telephone museum, the Comporium Museum. It's right off main street and offers an interesting look into telephone communications from the early 1900's to the present.  Many antique telephones are on display as well as a look at behind the scenes equipment usually never seen by the public. There are a lot of "hands-on" displays which are great fun as well as instructional. The technical displays were right up my ally but what really caught my attention was the truck. It was an 1927 Mack truck used for setting telephone poles and pulling wire and cable.  It had solid rubber tires and originally had gas headlights. Top speed on this truck was 11mph, so it took over twenty hours to drive it from Atlanta to Rock Hill. This truck was in service until the 1970's and was in the television mini-series, Chiefs, filmed in nearby Chester during the early 1980's. A friendly helpful guide made this visit to the Comporium Telephone very enjoyable. 

We had a bit of lunch at an"Irish" pub. The chips with my fish and chips were potato chips!  There  is a first time for everything. The fish was no north Atlantic cod either, but was good. It's funny how a Guiness can take the edge off any disappointment. 

Our next stop was a natural history museum, The Museum of York County.  I had visited the museum long ago but Claudette hadn't been there.  It's really nice with different displays of mounted specimens of animals and plants. There is also a display depicting the local area in prehistoric times as well as modern times. All displays have audio visual effects and some have interactive features. There is an extraordinary display of African animals including an elephant and cape buffalo. In fact there are over 500 mounted animals on display including African and domestic. As an avid artist, it's great to be able to draw pictures of animals without their moving. (The Phoenix Zoo presented a big problem, the animals kept moving!) I like the "hands-on" part of this museum.  As you hold a replica of a sabre-toothed tiger skull you can appreciate exactly how dangerous this animal was. Did you know that the sabre-toothed tiger wasn't really a cat? You learn the most interesting things in museums.  We enjoyed the Museum of York County and I know I will return one day to fill a sketchbook full of drawings of African wildlife.

Blood and Taters

"Potatoes?" she asked.

"Yes, sweet potatoes.  The British were foraging for sweet potatoes because they had no bread," I said.

We were at the Eutaw Springs Battlefield Historic site in Orangeburg County, South Carolina.

"So, what does foraging for sweet potatoes have to do with one of the bloodiest battles of the American Revolution?" Claudette asked quizzically. I decided that it was a good time to impress her with my knowledge of American history.

"0n the morning of September, 8, 1781, about 2300 British soldiers were in this area, and a small party of them were here foraging for sweet potatoes, when they were discovered by a patrol of American patriots.  The British forces were commanded by Lt. Col. Alexander Stewart. About seven miles away was the American general, Nathanial Greene, with about two thousand troops. The bulk of his forces were Continentals from North Carolina, Virginia, and Delaware.  Continentals were the trained soldiers, you know. The balance were militia, farmers, and such; some were from the local area, some from the upcountry.  Many of the soldiers were barefoot and without shirts. Of course, it was early September, and  the temperatures were probably in the 90's, so nobody was freezing at night. But they were a somewhat rag tag bunch. Greene had all the partisan generals as well; Andrew Pickens from the upcountry, Thomas Sumter of the Piedmont, and Francis Marion,"The Swamp Fox', form the Santee hills and swamps," I said in my best authoritative tone. We walked through the iron gate hung between brick columns toward the first historical marker which  gave a brief account of the battle.  The next marker we looked at was in full color with a map.

"See," I said, "this shows how the troops were deployed." 

"I'm afraid that I don't understand," she said, somewhat perplexed.

"Well, it went sorta like this. The  Americans formed a line with the militia in the front and the Continentals behind them. The redcoats attacked the middle of the line and began to break through, but the Continentals  reinforced the line and pushed the British back. Again the British sent in more men and pushed the Americans back. Then Greene ordered the Virginia and Maryland regulars into the front line and halted the redcoat charge.  It was a violent battle and many accounts of the battle say that "the blood was ankle deep". After four hours of vicious fighting both sides seemed to have had enough.  The British retreated and the American swarmed into their camp. Believing that they were victorious the Americans plundered the British camp. The patriots found and consumed considerable quantities of rum in their enemy's camp which rendered them somewhat ineffective. But the British had retreated," I explained as we walked along.

"Why is there this big marker for a British soldier here?" she asked.

"That's a good question.  Why is there a British officer buried at this historic American Battle field? I think he was their hero."

"Hero?" she queried.

"You see when all the fighting was going on here, a few hundred yards away Major John Marjoribanks was in command of a battalion of British soldiers at a two-story brick house.  His troops held off the Americans at the house, but he was wounded. The next day when Stewart decided that the land was not worth defending, and his troops began their march to Charleston, they didn't bury their dead!  September the ninth was a rainy day, and Greene decided not to pursue. Marjoribanks died in route and was buried by the side of the road. In the 1940's when Lake Moultrie was built his grave was moved here."

"I had never heard of the battle of Eutaw Springs before," she said.

"Hey, Greene even received a gold medal for his efforts here. There are eight scenes from U.S. history depicted on the bronze doors of the United States House of Representatives and the presentation of this medal to Greene is one of them."

We got back in our car and were off to visit the grave site of General Francis Marion, "The Swamp Fox".

A European Atlantic Beach

“This is unlike other Portuguese towns,” commented Claudette as I drove the Opal downhill toward the sea.

“It’s not medieval like most of the others,” I added. We were in Nazare, a town of over fourteen thousand on the west coast of the country. The road dead-ended at the beach with a broad street parallel to the shoreline. The Atlantic was a beautiful blue on this cloudless day with a temperature in the eighties. There is a lot of surf here. According to the Guardian newspaper a surfer once rode a ninety foot wave here. But there are no surfers out today. We parked the car and got out for a walk along the beach, or rather the sidewalk along the beach. The sidewalk here is as it is in most of Portugal, made of what appears to be black and white shards of ceramic material laid in a pattern. There was an old but brightly painted fishing boat there on the white sand of the beautiful crescent shaped beach of approximately one mile in length. We immediately noticed some fish nets which appeared to be drying on some posts on the beach. Upon closer observation we found that the nets were used to dry fish. There were a few dried fish on one of the nets, and nearby was a woman who appeared to be in her late fifties dressed in a long skirt with long sleeved blouse and a kerchief about her head.  She was cleaning fish. They were sardines, about eight inches long. With rapid deft moves she scraped the fish and removed the entrails. By rapid, I mean that she could clean about a dozen fish per minute. On the other side of the street were a variety of eateries and shops selling touristy items. By the time we had almost reached the marina we realized that we had not passed our hotel which was on Praca Sousa Oliveira.

After a leisurely stroll in the opposite direction we found Hotel Mar Bravo. But, alas, it was too early to check in. We wandered through the narrow streets looking in all the various little shops and found a laundry. However, it seemed a bit expensive. Since we travel with only a carry-on bag laundry becomes a necessity when we stay over a week. We will be doing laundry in the hotel room tonight.

Nazare is divided in two parts: Praia (along the beach) and Sítio (an old town, on top of a cliff). At the opposite end of the beach from the marina a rocky promontory rises with Sitio on the top. We knew that there would be a spectacular view of the beach from atop the cliff. As we walked the narrow streets in the direction of the cliff, we saw the signs for the funicular. We bought a round trip ticket before entering the very modern rail car. The steep climb to the top of the cliff was at least 35 degrees, and we stopped once half-way up to allow the other car to pass on the way down. After leaving the station we were only a few yards from the panoramic view of the beach far below. It was indeed breath-taking. There was a fruit and nut vendor close by. We bought cashews and figs from an old woman who could have passed for the witch in a Hansel and Gretel story. She was dressed in the traditional black of a Portuguese widow. We saw a number of these women either selling things or holding signs announcing rooms for rent. Back at the base of the cliff we found a restaurant for lunch. We ate outside under a canopy in this eatery operated by a rather plump lady insistent on barking orders to the kitchen and wait staff. I had grilled sardines with vegetables and it was good. Claudette did not care to order fish. She has a thing about fish with their heads on and, also, the cooks on the Iberian peninsula cook their fish rare; not like sushi, but close. Between me and the street was a large container of cockles. It was great table side entertainment watching the little bivalves move around in the water.

We finally checked into the Hotel Mar Bravo. It was a beautiful modern facility with large murals and a large amount of glass and chrome in the lobby. Our room was on the third floor overlooking the plaza. Next to our room was a large common room with a computer terminal and large sofas, chairs and magazines and newspapers to read. Our Portuguese isn't very good, so we just surfed the Internet and checked e-mail. However, the room’s best feature was the view, through huge windows, of the beach. Sunset from this viewpoint will never be forgotten.

We walked around the plaza that evening and had an ice cream while doing some people-watching before turning in. The morning would find us on the way to Lisbon.

Thursday 9/29/2011

What? No Bull?

“You missed it!” she said.

“What?” I said.

“You missed the turn,” she said.

“Did I?” I said.

“You did.” She said.

“So...” I said.

“We’ll have to go around a gain,” she said.

“I didn’t see the road number.” I said.

“There was no road number,” she said.

“Then how do you know we missed the road?” I said.

“Because the sign said “Pamplona”” she said.

“And...” I said.

“That’s where we’re going.” she said.

“I didn’t know,” I said.

“I’m sure it is,” she said, and I was glad to hear it in the midst of the dialogue beginning to sound like a Robert B. Parker novel.  It had been a long drive from, although Spanish tollways are excellent highways. I was tired. We found Hotel Pamplona with relative ease, parked the car in hotel parking, and planned our visit. 

Pamplona is one of the cities on El Camino de Santiago, the Way of Saint James, and has existed for over a thousand years. Legend has it that the body of Saint James was carried from Jerusalem to the coast of northern Spain and buried at Santiago de Compostela.  The route is marked by an image of a blue seashell. But this was not why we were here. We came hoping to join in the Fiesta de San Fermin. The festival is held twice a year with the more famous one in July. This would be the mini-festival.  The July festival attracts more that a million people. But, then, that is when the bulls run through the streets with people, an event reserved for those lacking in some mental facilities.  Our friend Brian ran with the bulls. The event is also chronicled is Ernest Hemmingway’s The Sun Also Rises. But, alas, we would see no bulls run. However, we would join the festival the following day. 

Pamplona, like many old cities, is build on a river and has a wall surrounding it it.  The Hotel Pamplona was not within that wall, so we walked from the hotel, crossed the river, and walked up to the walled old city. It was only about ten o’clock in the morning when we entered the medieval city. I reminded Claudette  about the early hour and that I did not think that festivals began that early.  And then a young man with a trumpet walked past us on the narrow street. As we walked along more people  were going in the same direction. Now we were sure we had found the festival. We knew that the festival parade would follow the same route that the bulls ran in July but had not a clue what that route was. We continued to walk, and our pace quickened.  We heard horns and drums and people, many people.  We could tell that we were joining a parade.  But what kind? Did we really care?

The crowd had many families with youngsters on adult shoulders and some mommies pushing strollers with little tykes. The street is only about twelve feet wide including some of the tables of the sidewalk cafes. We continued to move faster trying to get to the head of the parade.  Then we saw them: thirteen foot tall giants.  Obviously there was a man underneath providing motivation for the giant king. Further up the street I saw kings and queens all dancing and swaying with the music.  We had stumbled onto the parade of “the giants and big heads”, a tradition for over one hundred and fifty years. Each royal pair represents either Europe, Asia, Africa, or America. We had to hurry on and get in front of the parade which had grown to nearly one thousand people by now. We ducked into a cafe for a restroom break and a quick cafe con leche.  We watched as the happy revelers went by and noticed that street vendors were out selling balloons kid stuff. Also, another band unattached to a giant and led by people carrying a banner had joined the parade.  We got back in the melee, enjoying the throngs of happy people and I was constantly checking to see that I had no strange hands in my pockets.  The parade goes downhill since it ends at the bullring. In july the bulls run from the bull holding pens to the bullring. But no bull today!  A few blocks from the bull ring is a large, life size sculpture of the running of the bulls. Ernest Hemmingway, as well as the sculptor, are depicted in the work of art. Shortly after viewing the statue we had an amusing encounter with a Spanish automated toilet.  Once again the lack of native language was our undoing.  But why would you need instructions to use a toilet?  Some of us do.  This was a self-cleaning unit. If you did not get out of the small structure within a certain number of minutes of flushing the door would lock, the light would go out and the floor would be sprayed with a cleaning liquid. Fortunately, this cleaning liquid does not stain ones clothes.  Later we found a plaza where many of the parade participants were singing while accompanied by guitars. We took the funicular back down to the riverbank near the bridge and walked back to our hotel. It had been a most enjoyable day. We walked around the area about our hotel but did not find a place we thought we would like to eat at and decided to eat at the hotel. It turned out to be good food and a good value. We turned in early.(In Spain that means before midnight.) It had been a great day of automated toilets and giants!

Down by the River in Basque Country

The Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao,Spain

My most vivid memory of Bilbao, Spain is of a Basque driver screaming at me.  I’m sure they were obscenities with no doubt some reference to my mother.  But my lack of knowledge of the native language left me unscathed,  although perhaps deserving of the outrage. I DID cut him off at an intersection, but I didn’t hit anybody. In my own defense I find it difficult to understand street signs and directions in Basque cities such as Bilbao. 

Soon we were on a street by the river, and in front of us was the reason for our being here.  The Guggenheim Museum  was in full view.  Canadian architect Frank Gehry’s masterpiece emerges from the bank of the Nervion River, the titanium finish glistening in the afternoon sun like the sails of a silver sailing ship.  We crossed the river on the Princes of Spain Bridge and almost immediately found ourselves in the huge underground parking garage beside the museum. We took the elevator from the spacious parking garage to street level to walk a few hundred feet to the museum.  

The Puppy

Near the entrance is the “Puppy”: a 39 foot sculpture of a dog covered with 70,000 blooming flowers! Created by American Jeff Koons, the fifteen ton creation has been in San Francisco, Paris, Sydney, and Arolsen, Germany, before finding a permanent home in Bilbao.

One of the first things you notice upon entering the lobby of the museum is that everything is curved; there are few flat surfaces except for the floor. There are nineteen galleries and a permanent collection of modern and contemporary art from the mid-twentieth century to the present. I was surprised to see a small (one meter square) painting by American artist Jackson Pollack,  I did not realize he ever painted canvas that small in his “drip” style. 

We had seen New York’s Guggenheim collection in a museum designed by another famous architect, Frank Lloyd Wright. Gehry’s museum is much like being in a multilevel maze of titanium, limestone, and glass. It’s quite exciting and encourages discovery. No photography was allowed inside the museum, and I followed this rule, I must say due to the encouragement of my travel mate. There are large terraces from which to view the river and river walk nearby.  Here I saw a most unusual thing. There was a wheelchair with half a male manikin (from the waist down, fully clothed) in it. “Pushing” the chair was the upper part of the manikin.  It was eerie and created quite a stir.  We looked for the person controlling it via radio but could not find him in the crowd. 

Back inside the museum we ate a sandwich at one of the museum’s cafes.  The food was good but over-priced. On our walk back to the garage we could not restrain ourselves from taking a look over our shoulders at the “flowering pooch of Bilbao”. I also realized that I had been in a museum in which the structure was more exciting than the art it housed.

Cathedral de Santiago

 After touring some of the city streets and numerous traffic circles we found the Hotel Arriaga overlooking the river Nervion.  It was almost directly across the street from the opera house and down the street from a cathedral, the Church of San Anton.  I double parked while Claudette went in and found where hotel parking was.  It was underground as usual, and I started down the ramp after the garage type door went up and I saw a slim dark-haired woman motioning to me to follow her. I squeezed the Opal into a spot near the wall after letting Claudette exit the car first. (Otherwise, she would not have been able to get out of the car.) The lady, whom Claudette explained was the innkeeper, indicated that we were to follow her. We barely managed to get ourselves and luggage into the lilliputian elevator while the innkeeper explained in accented staccato English that she must operate the elevator.  We were not allowed at the controls. The room was like something out of the 1930’s, but comfortable. We stowed our gear and hit the streets to check out Bilbao’s old city.

Walking down the street  outside the hotel we could see a cathedral bathed in the late afternoon sun.  The yellow limestone had a golden glow.  We entered the first street to the right and found ourselves in the fourteenth century old city. The old buildings now have modern shops of high fashion and expensive jewelry. Foot traffic is fairly sparse but will increase as the clock approaches the nine o’clock hour. We window shopped a bit before finding an old restaurant for a bite to eat.  

The Bilbao Athletic Club had some of the older residents  dining.  There was a counter down one side with a display case full of enticing tapas.  The walls were decorated with soccer jerseys, posters, faded photographs of soccer teams of the years gone by, and a glass case full of autographed soccer balls and trophies. The counterman was quite chatty with fairly good English, and an old fellow suggested we buy a certain tapas. “Bueno, bueno!”, he said as he pointed at certain dishes. Then we bought a selection of tapas but noticed that he bought something different.   We took our food to one of the about ten tables. It is cheaper to buy your food at the counter than from a table. We enjoyed our food and soon joined the growing crowd in the streets.  We walked  by Cathedral de Santiago. Bilbao is on El Camino de Santiago, the route of pilgrims following the path of Saint James. 

After a good nights sleep and a quick breakfast we were on the road again.

It's More Than Ham

We ducked into a small eatery near Plaza Mayor in Madrid for a quick bite.  Tapas would be our choice.  Tapas are small servings of food something akin to an hors d’oeuvre but larger.  Like most restaurants, the place was small with a lunch counter and a few small tables. What caught my attention was a large number of hams hanging from the ceiling. There were   at least twenty-five hams with small cups attached to the large end of the ham to catch any drainage from the meat.  On the counter Is a curious device  in which a ham is secured.  The device allows a man to cut thin slivers of the meat in the direction of the grain.  The man carving the ham noticed my curious stare and offered me a sample of the meat. The thin meat was very tasty but slightly chewy. And a bit salty for me. This was the famous jamon, Spanish ham.

Having grown up on a farm I was familiar with salt cured meat but it was different from this.  As a farm boy we would simply rub the fresh butchered ham with salt until it would absorb no more, then hang the ham in the smokehouse until we would slice off some for cooking. The meat was extremely salty and hard as a rock when fried but was good with grits and eggs for breakfast. Spanish ham is salt cured as well and is sold in different grades. The determining factors are the process, the breed of hog and the diet of the swine.  The meat is cured by covering it with a specific amount of salt for a given time then the ham is washed and hung to dry. It can be air dried for one year to forty-eight months. An expert determines when the jamon is ready to eat by taking a core sample of the meat. Different breeds of pigs are used, but the most preferred are the black ones. The most expensive jamon, approximately $95 per lb., comes from black pigs fed a diet of acorns foraged from forests of oak trees. 

We found that, except on the coast of Spain, jamon was always the featured meat in restaurants. I never sampled the expensive jamon but can vouch for the less expensive with tomatoes, olive oil, and herbs on toasted bread. It was delicious! In Madrid we did visit Museo de Jamon. The museum had a great bag lunch of a sandwich, soda and a piece of fruit for only two euros!

A Letter From Bubba

Just the other day I received a letter from and old friend.  We were in high school together and I had not heard from him in quite a while.



Dear Tony,

As you know me and Sonny are over here in Spain. We heard that these Spanish people really like roasted baby pigs. We’s pig farmers you know and we’re trying to get a better price for our porkers. You ‘member Sonny, doncha? He’s Mr. Jabe Mulinax’s oldest boy. He’s a big ‘un and that’s really good aroun a farm. An’ smart too. Finished high school and all. We’s here in Cordoba, Spain and las night Sonny said we should learn somethin’ about culture.

He said we was gonna see some flamingo dancin’. I’ve heared of a lot of things like racin’ pigs and such but never no birds dancin’! Anyway, it was dark when went out to this place that was kinda like a hole in the wall, a real cave. We had this table right next to this little stage. This young fella brought us a bottle of wine. I ain’t much of a wine drinker, I’m a beer man myself. This stuff tasted a lot like pine rosin, but I drunk it anyway. They had a bunch of straight chairs on the stage and the folks went up an sat down. One fella didn’t have a chair so he set on a big wooden box. There was this guitar player that looked a lot like that actor Antonio Bandaras. He commenced to try to tear the strings off that guitar when he played. The fella on the box started beating on it like it was a drum. This skinny fella dressed in black with long hair and cowboy boots got up and started to dance. He was stompin’ like he was trying to put out a fire. And the man on the box started hollerin’ like maybe he was in pain or like maybe somebody had run over his coon dog. The dancin’ man spun around and shook his head and me an’ Sonny got a shower of Spanish sweat. It was kinda like when your dog shakes hisself after he’s been the creek. Smelled a little better though. Everybody cheered when the dancin’ man set down. Then this pretty little girl got up to dance. She was about twenty-five and real easy on the eyes. She was dressed in this long frilly dress and commenced to dance while the guitar player played, the same fella hollered and the other fella clapped in a rhythm with the music. She done the same kinda of dancin’ that the man done but was a whole lot better to look at. They carried on like this for about a hour. Sonny, he’s right smart, y’know, said they was gypsies. My grandma was scared of gypsies. She said they would steal yo’ babies.

The show was over and we left. I never did see no birds. The dancin’ girl was by the front door when we left smoking a Chesterfield cigarette. And she smiled at me.

We’ll be tryin’ to sell more pigs tomorrow.



Your ole buddy

Bubba



P s say “Hello” to Claudette for me.

 
 

A Sunday Afternoon in Madrid

Hemingway said that bullfighting was one of the three true sports. But before reading Hemingway I had fought the bull in my backyard as a small boy. I had only that ratty towel from the bathroom to use for a cape but I could hear the crowds yelling, “Ole!”, as I fought the ferocious beast. But now I was in Spain, where bullfighting began and I was to see the real thing.

We got off the Metro at the last stop to see the Madrid bullring within view. There was a crowd waiting for the gates to open the bullring whose architectural details were Moorish. There were the usual vendors selling t-shirts and posters and stuff to eat and drink. Plaza Toros de Las Ventas is the most prestigious bullring in the world. Completed in 1929, the ring is almost 197 feet in diameter and has seating for twenty-five thousand. Claudette bought our tickets online and our seats are on the very first row or about six feet from the ring. I think it’s great but don’t mention to her that I’ve seen a bull jump the wall into the front row of seats in a YouTube video. I had done a bit of research and knew that we would see three matadors kill six bulls during the evening.

The bullfight begins with a great fanfare with the band playing as the matadors and their teams enter the bullring. I half way expected to hear the Tijuana Brass version of the “Lonely Bull”. The matadors enter the ring first in their glittering suits of gold braid and sequins reminiscent of a rhinestone cowboy. Each matador, bullfighter, has a team of assistants to aid him. They include picadors, men on horseback, a sword handler, and other men some dressed like matadors. All ten men are paid by the matador.

The crowd cheers as the matadors enter. The most senior matador is on the right as they face the place of honor in the stands. This is reserved seating for the king, mayor or whatever official to whom the fight is dedicated. Soon only four assistants in the brightly colored matador costumes are left in the ring. From our right the bull enters the ring. He is big and black and weighs about fifteen hundred pounds. He charges each of the men. In front of us the assistants jump behind the fence as the bull charges. We feel the splinters from the fence as the bull hits it. He snorts, paws the earth and charges again. One of the other assistants attracts his attention and he charges him. Other assistants attract the bull to charge them as they wave their brightly colored capes in front of the bull. A picador enters the ring riding a horse which is blindfolded. The horse has heavy padding to protect it from the horns of the bull. The bull immediately charges the horse and lifts the horse and rider off the ground. The lady next to me covers her eyes. The picador stabs the bull in the shoulder with his lance. This is the beginning of the end for the bull as he begins to bleed. The matadors attract the bull away from the picador and stab him with short barbed spears. The bull knocks one of the assistants to the ground and attempts to gore him. The crowd screams. He narrowly escapes as the other men attract the bull away and he crawls behind the protective wall.  The Spanish really love their matadors.  In one instance when a favorite matador was gored to death by a bull, they killed the bull and then, they killed the bull's mother. She was giving birth to "killer" bulls they said.

The bull’s movements begin to slow. His charges are no longer vigorous. Now the assistants have left the ring and there is only the matador with the bull. He continues to tempt the bull into charging with the movement of his cape. The crowd shouts, “Ole!” with each of his ballet like moves inches from the deadly horns. At one point he turns his back on the bull who is staring at his back. He confidently walks to the side of the ring near us and selects a sword from his sword handler. Walking back into the ring he tempts the bull to come in very close with his head near the ground. The matador thrusts the sword into the between the shoulders of the bull. The thrust is deadly for the bull and he falls instantly to the ground. The matador doffs his hat and bows to the cheers of the crowd. The crowd also cheers for the bull that has fought a good fight as he is dragged from the ring by a team of three mules.

We watched three more bulls killed. One of the bulls would not fight and booed from the ring. I found out later much to my chagrin that the great fighters fought in the spring. Maybe, the next time I’ll be here in the spring.

The Hug...

“Can I give you a hug?” he asked. “It’s part of my initiation.”

Claudette said, “Yes!” And the somewhat rotund University of Coimbra student responded. The upperclassmen in their long cloaks laughed as I mimicked punching him out!

We were walking to the Coimbra market to get some sausage and cheese for our road picnics when the students approached us. We had only been in this Portuguese city of some one hundred thousand on the Mondego River for a few hours and had seen some of the student hi-jinxs in front of the Monastery de Santa Cruz. The Monastery is a national monument since the first two kings of Portugal are buried in it. We had been relaxing with our 1.5 € beers while watching the university upperclassmen instruct the yellow t-shirt clad freshmen on how to dance in a fountain. The 1.5 € beer was, of course, advertised as one euro but by the time it was delivered to our table it was 1.5. Something was lost in translation, I think.

At the market we bought our sausage and cheese, and then continued to the elevator which would take us to the top of the mountain. We were curious about the fee, but a student was quick to tell us that it was a free ride for old people. We smiled politely and thanked him. We got a great view of the city as the elevator soared upward. The lift shaft and car are of Plexiglas. At the top we were greeted by…cats, five furry felines. Not thrown away looking cats but well fed looking cats with their own food dish. Naturally, I had to take a quick photo of the cat person I’m married to with the cats.

We continued our walk onto the University of Coimbra campus past the anti-capitalism graffiti to the central campus where they were having a fair of some sort with many booths promoting various activities. We were accosted by some pretty female pharmacy students attempting to sell us ballpoint pens which resembled hypodermic needles. They were decked out in the black uniform suits with white shirts and ties and the ankle length black capes. Their English was excellent, and I have difficulty resisting a pretty face. So…yes, I have another pen. Will U. S. Customs have a problem with it? I don’t know. On our ride back to the lower town via elevator one of the passengers was blind, and the lift operator and passengers alike helped him out. It was good to see those fortunate looking out for the less fortunate.

Once back in the lower town we went about trying to find the location of the fado performance. Claudette approached a young man who asked, “French or English?” She answered “English” and he told her the performance called “A Capella” was held in an old church on a lane which was barred to traffic. On the way back to Hotel Dona Inez Coimbra we passed Sao Tiajo church, a small twelfth century Romanesque structure. The simplicity was interesting, particularly after seeing so many elaborately decorated cathedrals.

Once at our hotel the desk clerk got us tickets for the performance and arranged for a cab to pick us up. We took a nap and had a bite to eat before going to the performance. Nothing happens before eight or nine on the Iberian Peninsula. We simply told the cabbie “a capella” and off we went. About halfway up the mountain we drove down a narrow lane and walked a few yards to the small church. It was below street level accessed by stone steps to a courtyard set up for outdoor dining. Although we were early, we were invited in to a table in the front of the performance area. A DVD was playing and projected on the wall. This was our first introduction to fado. The performer featured was Mariza, whose video is below.

After the video a waiter brought us a pitcher of vino verde as it was time for the performance to begin. A guitarist sat in a chair about eight feet in front of us and began to play. I’m thinking,” What kind of a capella performance is this? With music?” He was joined by another musician who was playing what we found out to be was a Portuguese guitar. It has twelve strings and the appearance of a medieval lute. The sound of the music was very interesting and had sort of a “gypsy” sound. A rather good-looking fellow in a dark suit and white shirt sans necktie appeared and spoke to the audience in English, Spanish, and Portuguese about the origins of Fado de Coimbrs and of how the singing had originated from local townsfolk before being adopted by the students of the university. He said that the Portuguese word “saudade” best describes the music and there is no English equivalent. An audience member said it meant “nostalgic”. The guitarists began to play, and his baritone voice filled the chapel with a mournful song. After several songs and a break in which the singer visited the tables and talked with the audience members, the performance continued with the singer teaching us the chorus of one of the songs. We raised our glasses of vino verde and sang a sad Portuguese song in a twelfth century church with the audience. It was great fun. The singer, still shrouded in a student’s long cape, introduced the musicians and the show was over. Outside the chapel the performers chatted with the audience members of which there were about thirty.

We climbed the steps to the street and walked to a waiting cab. The driver was a surly, wiry young man with a shock of jet black hair who seemed anxious to get our business. He slammed the Skoda into reverse gear and backed rapidly out of the street. Claudette cringed. Then we went down a street crowded with students narrowly missing some of them

“Hey, you’re going the wrong way!” she says to the driver. Tires screech and the direction we are traveling is reversed. Upon reaching the hotel, Claudette complains that the fare is more than the price we paid to go to the performance by cab. I convinced her that we would not win an argument against the cab’s meter and paid the cabby. We would have been easily ripped off had we not known where we were. But tomorrow we would be in our rented Opal and leaving Coimbra after a, for the most part, fun filled visit. I took some photos and did some pretty good sketches in Coimbra.



Oh, yes, by the way, I found out that “a capella” means “the Chapel” in Portuguese.

 

A nice little beach on the Mediterranean

Cadaquez:
We went for a walk along the street by the beach, some on the sidewalk and some in the street. It was one-lane with the Mediterranean Sea on our left and various restaurants, hotels and other buildings on the right. The motorscooters and cars were behind us but you could easily hear them over the noisy seagulls and waves lapping the sand. We found a restaurant we liked, Rosa's and ordered some bocadillos, sandwiches. Mine was ham and cheese although they use a different word than jamon for ham in Catalunya. Claudette had a sausage sandwich and the price was right. Cafe con leche was or choice of after dinner drink. The daylight faded into twilight as we watched the boats bob at anchorage and couples in the sand geot dangerously close to one another.
I have found the one true reason to visit Spain.

Cité de l'Automobile

The entrance to the hotel parking lot was through a covered alleyway. We knew the hotel had off street parking but were not prepared for the gated entry with a keypad. As a fan of automobiles I was delighted to see a Ferrari in the parking lot. After all, our purpose for being in Mulhouse, France, was to see one of the most prestigious automobile collections in the world. The hotel was really nice although the desk clerk was rather snooty. Mulhouse was different from most French cities we had visited in that it was more Germanic and this was quite noticeable in the names of streets and businesses. Indeed it had been a part of Germany several times in its history.

We caught the bright yellow tram after purchasing a ticket at the ticket kiosk for our trip to the museum which is located in the industrial part of the city in a former textile manufacturing facility. The museum is of 19th century architecture and covers about 200,000 square feet or a little bigger than a Wal-Mart Super Store but on three levels and is well laid out with automobiles grouped in several categories. The automobile collection was started by Fritz Schlumpf, the textile magnate to whom the building belonged. However, due to the demise of French textiles the collection eventually became the property of the French government. Hence it is known as  Cité de l'Automobile, the French National Automobile Museum. Schlumpf was an avid fan of Bugatti automobiles and had an extensive collection. Here you can see Bugattis from the very earliest to the latest Veyron. Of the 500 cars in the collection, ninety-seven brands are represented, but one hundred twenty-three are Bugattis. Some of the other brands are Hispano-Suiza, Ferrari, Rolls-Royce, Maserati, Maybach, Mercedes, and Porshe of the 400 cars on display. There are 1one hundred twenty on reserve and twenty on loan to museums throughout the world. 

The displays are meticulous. There are cut-a-way displays of vintage Bugattis and displays of engines with explanatory videos. There are the early one cylinder engines as well as the later V-10 Peugeot and W-16 Veyron engines. In the display of the Bugatti Royale the wooden forms upon which the sheet metal was formed are on display. Formula 1 racers are displayed with a giant photograph of a raceway crowd in the background. Other racing cars such as Grand Prix and rally cars are also displayed. Many of the cars are grouped according to year of manufacture. The Bugatti Veyron, the world’s fastest production automobile, has a place of honor. Another interesting inter-active display allows you to sit in a Citroen sedan while it is rotated on its axis imitating a rollover crash. It was inoperative when we were there, but then I’ve done the rollover before in a Ford on the highway. Some history need not be repeated.

It is very interesting to observe the evolution of the automobile through the displays. Here you can see how the primitive three-wheel vehicle evolved into the modern sedan. The museum is very quiet and comfortable, more like an art gallery than a place of greasy mechanical things. (They are not greasy, everything is pristine.)There are some truly historic automobiles such as the Bugatti Royale, Mercedes-Benz SSK and Colin Chapman’s F-1 Lotus. Chapman’s design changed Formula One racing radically. Notably missing is the Ford GT-40, the car that beat Ferrari at La Mans and 1932 Alpha-Romero racer which dethroned Bugatti as a consistent winner. Young Enzo Ferrari was a driver for Alpha-Romero in the early days. Regrettably, I saw only one American brand and it was a Harley-Davidson motorcycle.

The French National Automobile Museum was another one of those places I could have spent a couple of days or more. But we had to move on and find the place where my uncle had died in France during “the war to end all wars”.

_____________________________ Additional Information French Auto Museum Mulhouse, France Bugatti My video of the museum ___________________________

Labor Day Delight

Labor Day just was. One thing I always enjoy food wise on Labor Day is hash. Now, according to Webster, Noah or a reasonable substitute, hash is a dish of diced or chopped meat and often vegetables, as of leftover corned beef or veal and potatoes, sautéed in a frying pan or of meat, potatoes, and carrots cooked together in gravy. However, the definition according to the folks I grew up with in the Piedmont area of South Carolina this is not quite the same. My ancestors are of strong Scots-Irish stock and make hash a different way. We do not use leftover meat but fresh from the butcher pork and beef. Usually the only vegetables added are white potatoes what we called Irish potatoes and onions.


The cooking process is different as well. A cast iron wash pot is used, one or more depending on how much hash is to be cooked. It is a long and time consuming process usually about twelve hours or more. It all begins with the selection of meat. Cap’n jack said always use a combination of beef and pork. He, my father, preferred one quarter beef to three quarters pork. Boston butt for the pork, and I don’t know why the shoulder of a hog is called a butt except maybe the people of Boston have some kind of anatomical identity problem. The meat is put into the pot and the fire started and the usual firewood is seasoned hickory or oak. Then begins the long night of keeping the fire burning and stirring the meat so it doesn’t burn. The meat is cooked until it falls apart. Some people actually pull the meat apart and some perform the ultimate desecration of the meat by grinding it. Potatoes in half-inch cubes are added with chopped onions in this late cooking process. As dawn approaches all the hunting and fishing stories have all been told and some of the fellas have taken a little drink from a half pint bottle of spirits to better to welcome the new day. It was also time for the final seasoning of the hash. I’ve seen all sorts of things added, vinegar, butter, hot sauce, red and black pepper, salt, and various spices. Seasoning hash is a very personal thing. My preferences are salt, pepper, vinegar, sage, red and black pepper.

When I was growing up this was always a dish for a celebration, a holiday, a family reunion, or a big meal at the Lodge hall. It was usually served in small cardboard trays with sweet pickles and sliced white bread with plenty of sweet iced tea to wash it down. Maybe it’s a Southern thing?