Rising to the Challenge of Trip Planning

Rome. Naples. Palermo. Stromboli (the place not the food).

Sounds fabulous.  And it will be, I am sure.  But, tonight, I stare at AirBnB and Marriott and all the other sites that I know.  And then, there is the aha!  That is where I want to be! Except not really.  I want to be on the coast and in the mountains.  I want to have the view and be in city center.  I want the fancy kitchen and the close by restaurants.  And of course, the time to go to cooking school in each city.

I also want to be in the best reasonable seats at the opera in Naples and have good seats on the train from Rome.  Decisions, decisions.  It requires discipline, research, money and a little leap of faith.  Or a big one.

In a recent article in the New York Times, a young man told a tale of horror.  Nothing about his trip turned out the way he planned.  I personally have had great success with airbnb, but I understand the caution.  I have not traveled alone on these trips  This young man did.

Then there is the concern of the immigrant situation in Europe as told by many, but this article included the plight of Rome, which is where we are headed.  My heart breaks with the thought of planning a vacation, when so many are lost.  So many things to think about.

An image of contemporary Rome


And then, I remember that I won't be at work for two straight weeks.  Sixteen days total. Limited computers, lots of walking, thighs burning from stairs and laughing at how bedraggled I have become. Dragging suitcases up stairs and running through the market with the awe of a child seeing all the things new to me.  Especially the fish markets, that do not stock Florida fish...

Two weeks of no office and no confrontations, no negotiations and no bosses.  Just the opportunity of a new day every day and new experiences.

internet photo

That alone will improve my posture and improve my gait.  It will make my neck a little longer and my legs a little quicker.  I won't be driving so my left leg will re-engage.  I won't be sitting, so my core will have to work for its food.  The plus part of a late year vacation in Europe: fewer tourists, lower temperatures, fewer lines, a little less expensive.  On some trips, a little too cool. Small price to pay.

Departure day arrives and as we depart at the airport, my husband says not to worry about his new cast (he just had surgery) to have fun and to not worry.  This means, please write me and think of me.  I am sure he wants to milk this for the hunting trip to Kansas he wants to make in late November.

The long flight over is filled with older folks ( including me) but other people with white hair.  The ones that surrendered to the grey or white and joined the elderhostel crowds.  And a few very elderly Italian men traveling alone, looking lost.  One across the aisle, one such man can't figure out how to put the earplugs into the monitor or how to choose Italian on the screen. The ear buds come with the two prong insert, which is no longer needed.  I just can't stand to see him struggle, so of course I am up.

I climb over my seat mate and go to help him.  He can't hear well, so it really doesn't matter that I can't speak Italian.  I pat his arm and gently take the ear plugs and unwind them.  Then I remove the two prong insert and plug the mike in to the slot.  I hand him the ear plugs and he tells me, " gratcie, gratcie".  I am sure that is not how to spell it, but it is how it sounds.

He goes to sleep after the meal and I worry not about him for now.

The plane is packed and it is surprising how quiet it is.  even the babies know it is night and we are flying.  I think it is harder for older folks to sleep than the babies.  The fellow next to me dozed, then woke and restarted the "Godfather" and then dozed again.  How does one sleep through the "Godfather"?  Don't they shoot and kill people in that movie?  This must be a man thing.  Like sleeping through baseball and missing the grand slam.

The plane ride is ridiculously long and not the fault of the airline people.  It is just a long overnight flight sitting up, waiting to arrive in a a fabulous location.  A first world problem I am sure my children would say.

internet photo

Out to the airport in Rome, I ask my traveling friend if it feels like home. He says yes, go left. At this point, I am glad we have both agreed on the car to the apartment in Trastevere. The good news is the driver knew exactly where to go. The bad news is we arrived in rush hour traffic. Lovely ride though outskirts of Rome and we were so pleased that the flat looks just like the photo.

Exhausted on the first day, we stroll along the Tiber River walk south of the area we are staying.  The weather is wet and drizzles are on my coat.  I worry more about footing on the slick cobblestone pavement of the roads than about my damp hair or the wet coat.

We decide to turn back and my hair is increasingly curly from the rain.  We stop at a tourist restaurant to eat because my travel partner says he ate there before and it was good.  I said it is a tourist restaurant.  He says, "it's great"!  I say, he has this and only this day to choose where we eat.

There is more to tell, but it will be tomorrow.

Rising to the Occasion of Guernica

Today we planned on getting up early and heading to the Centro De Arte Reina Sofia.  I rose by 9:00 a.m. and waited for Charles, which took two more hours.  So, out of the apartment by 12:30, we proceeded to the metro for the first time.

It was surprisingly the same as the others in France, so we were able to figure it out.  It was actually easier to navigate than we anticipated.  The hardest part was figuring out how to pay as half the machines were down and the other half would not accept my credit card.  We finally found the one that takes coins and put them in and "voilà" or "aquí estás".  Off to the races or the musee in our case.

The metro was surprisingly clean as is most of Madrid.  There are workers everywhere sweeping and blowing.  And they need to be as it is a busy big city!  So up out of the metro we come and we stand before the Renfe train station.  It is big and beautiful and very busy.

Department of Agriculture

Just around the corner is the musee Reina Sofia.  Very modern and old at the same time, the building was an old center that was made into a gallery.  Then added on a very modern building of red and steel to house special collections, stores, libraries and a restaurant.

Seeing Picasso, Dali and Miro up close is very different than studying the books.  The history of the era is alive in the photos and paintings and sculptures.  Some of the drawings depicted pain so real, I had to walk away.  Hitler and Franco devastation in art form.  There is a long political history of the use of art to put forth political ideas, but I am way too ignorant of both art and history to espouse upon it here.  We stayed for three hours in the musee and walked many corridors.

We emerged and Charles wanted to check out the inside of the train station before returning to the apartment.  We strolled through and identified that we wanted to take a taxi so as not to have to drag bags up and down the stairwells.

We decided to go to the Plaza de Espana so that Charles could see the Don Quijote and Sancho Panza statutes on the Torre.  The trip was for not, as the Torre Madrid was surrounded by Navidad stalls and you could not even approach near the Torre.

Awe the map!

We realized how close we were to the apartment and walked back arm in arm.  The day did not grow colder as usual.  It stayed fairly moderate.  And except for locking the neighbor out (we share a locked hallway) the night was calm.  I miss my phone though....

You Really Can Go Back: Rising to Meet the Past

I had a whirlwind trip from Tallahassee to Los Angeles Ca this weekend.  In four days I traveled over 6000 miles and 40 years.

I had the wonderful opportunity to travel back to eighth grade and spend time with my best friend from that year.  It was a glorious trip back and even more amazing:  I think she still likes me.

I had a business meeting with a very important client in the area, and after all the work (another column), I caught a train (my first real train ride) from L.A. to Fullerton.  I boarded a train with all walks of life teaming around, business to families, rich and poor, commuters to tourists.  The woman next me had killer shoes of light tan swede, with stacked golden brown heels.  The train attendant came through offering wine and Pepsi and sandwiches.  He looked sort of like a Steward on an airplane.  But the rhythm was all changed.  It was different in that he had to balance side to side, instead of the up and down turbulence on planes.

My seat was leather with the polished look that only hundreds of butts can bring.  I have seen that look in saddles many a time. And I can tell you it is more comfortable than a new seat or a new saddle.  The armrests were wood, and seemed to represent the time when the motto was, "go west young man". The general chat on the train was time: when you get on, when you get off, how long till this stop, how long till boarding. Time, because the train isn't going to wait on you.... I enjoyed the train as any child enjoys the first ocean dip.  I half way expected everyone to know that it was my first real trip on a train.  Thank you Amtrak http://tinyurl.com/5uvsg !
The short ride was over and at the station was my friend, with the same beautiful smile she wore 40 years ago, same gorgeous blue eyes. I was so happy to see her, but just a tad scared. What if she doesn't like me now? Nah, she has to like me, I came all this way!!!!
When I arrived, the little point where you unload and depart is two sided, with the track in the middle.  Unless you know this, you will be on the other side of the track!  Now I know what that means.  Literally, you must go over the tracks, on a metal bridge, to get to the other side.
And there in all her glory of the past, was my best friend from my 13th year.  I have no idea why, but I called her Buh. 
She was as stunning as the day I met her and her blue eyes, still shining, met me with a slightly crinkled smile and a warm welcome.  This will be the fourth time in forty years that we have seen each other.  I would know her anywhere.  Time and life does not dim what the eye has already deemed beautiful in youth.
We drove to her home in Yorba Linda and talked of scenery on the way and where we went to school and where the house is and where I kept my horse. We talked of the neighborhood and the prices of homes and the tenor of the community. And when we arrived at her house (in the same neighborhood where we were friends 40 years ago) we did what old friends do best. We talked, and talked, and talked.
We tried to talk about what made us special, and we don't know.  The tirades of emotional teens with dysfunctional families?  The aloneness we felt together?  The long rides on my horse, bareback in the foothills of Yorba Linda, just talking and talking and talking?  We had one school year together, then I moved to Florida.  3000 miles between us and the US mail.  No cell phones.  No internet. No Facebook or GooglePlus.

No, we had ink, paper, postage and time.  We went on different paths.  She married early and had babies in her twenties.  I went to school and work, had babies in my thirties.  Her babies left, and she went to school and got her PhD.  My babies are about to leave, and I will.... that's another column too.

We had a night together, an evening of chatting, just talking.  You don't really transverse forty years.  But at 54, you know what is important to know.  You know her childrens' names and the number of grandchildren.  You know her husband's work and how it shapes their lives.  You know her grandmother lived to be 106 and she could too.  You know who she voted for, what her main political perspective is and what she wants for her family.

You know too, that though we will never know each other the way we would have if we had lived in the same town, that we still know each other enough.  That she is special and kind, and considerate, and fun.  That she is a great cook, can garden and doesn't want a big house to care for.

You know that you were right back then, she was wonderful then, and she is still wonderful.  I am very lucky.  Very lucky indeed.