France – Morocco – Spain with Muriel & Don

The trip was planned by Muriel and Don Stauffer and me the last night of our 1994 trip to the south of France. The intervening year brought an increasingly happy flurry of faxes back and forth as we settled on details.

I bought Arabic language tapes long before the trip with happy plans to learn basic conversation. The unaccustomed sounds of the language and the complete impossibility of relating words to anything I already knew quickly lowered my sights to just learning basic polite phrases.

In July, my leisurely daily study time evaporated with the arrival of the new puppy, Missy. My Spanish had not improved noticeably. My Arabic was stuck at “good morning” (statement and reply), “yes,” and “no.”

 

From file written August 13, 1995

I received a mid-week fax from Don and Muriel and guffawed heartily so that Alex asked what was wrong with me. I handed him the message and asked him to read the first paragraph.

It has just been brought to our attention rather forcefully and irrevocably that we are over the hill! Today Debby (secretary) has been reconfirming automobile reservations and tidying up the itinerary. She was informed by Hertz for the first time that Morocco does not permit rental of autos to anyone over 65. It’s hell to grow old; we just knew it!

Don’s first alternative suggestion (desperation) for our trip from Casablanca to Fez via Rabat was a non-starter as far as I am concerned. It involved hauling our luggage onto a train from Casablanca to Rabat, coping with it during sightseeing, then hauling it onto another train to Fez. We are looking into the possibility of a car and driver. Otherwise, we can get either plane or train from Casablanca to Fez and will miss exploring Rabat. Tant pis [French for too bad].

The real problem is getting from Fez to Tangier to catch the ferry to Gibraltar. I am hoping we can get a car and driver. The alternatives are so complicated and time-consuming that we might have to leave Fez a day early. I hope we don’t.

Travel is so simple with a car.

 

Both Muriel and I have been in a frenzy trying to work out wardrobes for the trip. I talked to her yesterday, re our Morocco revisions. Her packing is complicated by their attending a wedding just before they catch the plane to Paris, plus a couple of receptions at the Madrid conference. I told her to wear one of her reception gowns at the wedding and she said she probably would have to.

We both are concerned about weight because we will have to carry luggage on the train portions of our travel. We agreed that no one is trying to impress anyone else. We can wear the same things every day, if necessary. However, you know that regardless of my best intentions, my suitcase becomes a magnet for everything that will fit into it. Fortunately, my replacement weekender has wheels and the garment bag has a shoulder strap. All I need now is a Guardian Angel to remove a third of the things I try to pack.

Tuesday, 29 August

I went ahead of the Stauffers so I could visit CGM, the shipping line we have represented for years. Air France schedules “forced” on me an extra day in Paris. A last-minute boggle in my reservations resulted in my connecting with Air France in Houston rather than in Miami.

It was a normal TACA flight to Houston. That was unfortunate. In the first place, although my ticket said Le Club, the computer did not. The distressed young counter agent enlisted the help of his supervisor, telephoned Mexico City, and straightened out the problem quickly.

I decided to take advantage of my new membership in Priority Pass to wait in their lounge. It involved a brisk, lengthy hike to another terminal, but the luxury was worth it. I made myself a glass of iced coffee, sank into a deep, comfortable chair, read, and felt pampered until time to go to the boarding gate. It was then I noticed the polite note printed on the bottom of my boarding pass inviting me to use the Air France lounge. My inattention cost the $20 Priority Pass fee, but I enjoyed seeing their elegant lounge.

To my disappointment, Air France was flying one of the old 707’s, far less comfortable than the Airbus I had enjoyed on my 1994 trip. However, traveling on a free ticket I could not let myself complain, even mentally.

The flight was pleasant; the food, as usual, superb. My seat companion was a pleasant young man with some experience in airlines. Thanks to the ridiculous-looking neck collar Carli gave me, I actually had a certain amount of real sleep on the flight.

I awoke at one point, miserable to find it impossible to go back to sleep. Gradually the presence of light intruded on my concentration. Wondering where it came from, I raised the shade on my window to discover dawn. On the other aisle, the stewardess was beginning to serve breakfast. Infinite relief that the flight was near its end.

Wednesday, 30 August

Formalities were brief at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris. A comfortable taxi ride took me to the Hotel Saint Ferdinand. I had decided to try one of the hotels Air France uses for their complimentary nights for excursion passengers. It was pleasantly located just off Place Saint-Ferdinand, a block from Place Maillot. A variety of restaurants and shops were within close distance. The hotel itself was bright and gracious. My room was larger than the ones in the Tilsitt Étoile (where we had stayed last year) but not nearly as charming.

I unpacked, walked around the neighborhood briefly, made a hair appointment for the next morning, then took a nap. I had supper at the brasserie on the corner. The decor was ordinary but the service was attentive and the food, quite good.

Thursday, 31 August

After an early hair appointment, I took a taxi to the Marais Quarter. When I mentioned in a pre-trip fax that I had not decided what to do with my free day in Paris, Don suggested the Marais as one of Muriel’s favorite areas of Paris. In the 17th century the nobility and courtiers began building mansions around the Place Royale, now the Place des Vosges. Their hôtels, described by Michelin as “discreet, classical buildings,” became centers for artistic and intellectual salons.

I first visited the Hôtel Carnavelet, now a museum and art gallery. From there I walked through the Marais, admiring the handsome old tree-shaded buildings. My next stop was the Picasso Museum in the Hôtel Salé. Leaving there, I found a charming bistro for lunch, then took a taxi to the Rodin Museum on the other side of the Seine.

Rodin’s famous statue of “The Thinker” is the focus of a small square garden. Diagonal paths lead to the clearing where the statue looms on its pedestal. Other large pieces are displayed throughout a handsome long garden. The museum itself houses a generous collection of Rodin pieces, large and small. Somehow, even across the room, certain sculptures caught my eye. It was only on closer inspection I recognized them as some of Rodin’s most famous. They telegraphed their distinction across space.

Friday, 1 September

I spent a pleasant, productive day at the CGM offices in Suresnes. I enjoyed seeing my old friends in the main office. Christiane Spitals took me to lunch at a new Thai restaurant. It was a pleasant day both businesswise and personally.

I returned to the Saint Ferdinand to pack for the next day’s trip to Morocco.

Saturday, 2 September

My Air Inter flight was an hour late. The person with whom I had been corresponding about car-and-driver plans had promised to meet me at the Casablanca airport. As I stood in what was less a line than a mob waiting for Immigration clearance, I saw a man hold up a sign. I was too far away to read the name of the person he was looking for.

When I finally reached the desk, the Immigration official appeared baffled by my Belize address. His English was fragmented. I tried to convince him that Belize was an actual country and that it was in Central America just south of Mexico. He would not buy either contention. His eyes hardened. It was obvious that he considered me a danger to Morocco.

To my relief, an older man leaned forward over my shoulder and asked if he might be allowed to help. I thanked him, then listened as he repeated my explanation of Belize in patient English. When the Immigration official appeared unmoved, my champion hissed at him in rapid Arabic. Moments later my passport was stamped and I was waved ahead into the next room, where I joined another line.

The man with the sign reappeared. At this distance I could read my name, elaborately printed. I signaled him, to his obvious relief. A few moments later he helped me retrieve my luggage.

As we emerged from the baggage area, a charming young woman rushed forward to introduce herself as my Morocco correspondent, Fatima Zohra Khaled. I was presented to Abdulwahed, who, Fatima said, would be my driver. Within moments I had bid goodbye to the man who met me and then Fatima, Abdulwahed, and I were en route to the Hyatt Regency Casablanca.

 

The hotel was grand. It was large. Several attendants in Moorish costumes of billowing black and red eased our entrance across acres of black marble floor to the registration desk. I was greeted like a visiting potentate and not allowed to do anything as mundane as fill out my own hotel registration form. Meanwhile, Fatima disappeared briefly then reappeared with the hotel manager. He greeted me with more respect than I thought I deserved, assured me that I would be on their club floor, and showed me the special key that would allow the elevator “to stop at 8.” Fatima left after arranging to meet me an hour later.

A black-and-red-satin-clad valet used my key to whisk us to the private floor. We walked past a large salon to a nearby door, which he threw open with a flourish. The dazzle of glass and mirrors immobilized me momentarily. It was a relief when the valet carefully deposited my luggage and left with the tip paid with Dirhams (Moroccan currency) Fatima graciously had loaned me.

 

My room was a semi-suite. A large entry gave access to the separate toilet room on one side and a huge mirrored wardrobe on the other. To the right, one walked past a dog-leg bar, backed by mirrors. On the end of a curving bar was a plate filled with the most elegant small cookies.

To the right one entered a mirrored “island” room with a marble vanity and wash basin and a huge tub with a Jacuzzi. It was the next morning before I discovered that the bath could be closed off from the adjacent areas by sliding doors. Beyond the “island” was a sitting area with comfortable couch, chairs, and coffee table.

A beautiful basket of fruit awaited me on the coffee table. Beyond the lounge were twin beds with handsome damask covers. And beyond them was a wall of windows overlooking Casablanca. In memory I see heavy brocades, rich colors, mirrors on every possible vertical surface. The entire time I enjoyed my luxurious surroundings, I was vaguely confused about how to get from Point A to Point B.

 

An hour later, I went down to meet Fatima so she could get to my private floor. We returned to the salon to discuss possibilities for Air France tours to Morocco. A pretty young attendant immediately brought us a graceful silver pot of traditional mint tea. I do not particularly like tea, but I had five cups of the fragrant, light beverage over the course of a couple of hours. We were plied with plates of sweetmeats, cookies, fruits. Meanwhile, Fatima and I had a productive meeting. I don’t know whether I can sell this tour, but what we designed looks very good.

When we finished, Fatima suggested that we drive around Casablanca. Abdulwahed and the car were waiting for us. Casablanca is a large, commercial city, Morocco’s business center. The main attraction from a tourist’s point of view is the enormous mosque, completed within recent years. It is a magnificent building set in an extensive plaza. Steps down to the mosque actually are long broad spaces where the thousands of worshipers who cannot get into the mosque can bring their prayer rugs and follow the amplified service. The pale green mosque itself is a superb example of modern Moorish architecture.

Fatima made it plain she considered it monstrous that the country had spent millions on a building when the poor of the city desperately needed housing, clinics, social services.

 

We talked about having dinner together, but the late dining hour discouraged me. I invited Fatima back to my room for a drink instead. Morocco, for the most part, does not ban alcohol as many Arab countries do.

There was a knock on my door. Outside was a smiling waiter who presented me with a plate containing a small cup in which was perched an upright eggshell topped with a dark swirl of something. Baffled, I thanked him politely in Arabic and accepted the strange offering. Later I discovered the egg was filled with delectable chocolate mousse.

Fatima and I had a delightful visit. She is a bright, dedicated, intelligent young woman. Her mother, though uneducated, was a respected figure in local politics in Rabat most of her life. She insisted on Fatima’s going to college. Fatima started law school, but changed her mind for a reason I don’t think she mentioned. Fatima now is managing director of a car service and travel agency. It is obvious she has fought to get where she is. We liked each other immediately and I hope to continue the friendship.

After Fatima left, I realized I did not need to call down for a room-service dinner. I dined quite nicely on the fruit, cookies, and mousse so kindly supplied by the hotel.

I indulged in the first Jacuzzi in my experience, then retired in my Moorish palace.

Sunday, 3 September

I set my alarm for an early morning, fixed coffee with my new 220 immersion heater, and breakfasted on fruit. Somehow, no cookies were left.

Abdulwahed (Abdul for short) met me at 6:30 am for our drive to Marrakech. He was startled and delighted when I addressed him in Arabic (briefly). Some of the Arabic phrases I had learned worked their way into our conversation on the trip to Marrakech, usually greeted with friendly mutual laughter. Abdul ended half his comments with Inshallah, (God willing). I found regular use for Mish mu him (it doesn’t matter).

Abdul thought he spoke English. He did, a little. He just didn’t understand much of it. Once he knew that I spoke a little Spanish and French, he abandoned English.

Abdul wanted me to understand and appreciate Morocco. He was a fine tour guide. However, each sentence was a mish-mash of French, Spanish, and Italian (which I do not know, but rapidly learned to recognize). I found myself mixing French and Spanish comfortably in my own conversation. Our three-hour drive was a fascinating though somewhat surrealistic experience.

 

The countryside was relatively flat, golden agricultural land with mini-mountains in the distance. Villages had strips of shops with tiled walls, stacks of tires, stacks of Coke cases. Some, I was amused to see, could have been transported bodily from back roads in Mexico.

Marrakech is called “The Pink City.” As we approached, the entire horizon appeared as a rosy glow of low cubes jumbled one against the other. Abdul explained that the King decreed all buildings must be painted a light red to protect the eyes of the inhabitants from the dangerous glare of traditional white buildings.

In Marrakech, I met the first of what was to be the unifying element of our entire trip: Walls. Everywhere. City walls, fortress walls, palace walls. High, forbidding, unscaleable, thick walls pierced by irregular punctures. Abdul explained that they were holes from scaffolds and were left for ventilation. Given the thickness of the walls, the last explanation seemed dubious.

Abdul found a bright young student to act as a guide. One of the first places we went was the Ibn Youssef Medersa (Koranic school), the largest in Morocco. It was built in the 14th Century. At one time, it housed over 800 students in tiny rooms overlooking a great rectangular court with a large pool set into the white marble floor. The surrounding walls were elaborately decorated with classic Moorish muted flamboyance. Many of the minute bedrooms opening from a floor high above the court had ladders leading to holes in the ceiling. Whether the space above housed other students or was used for storage, the guide didn’t know.

We crossed the enormous square of Djemaa El Fna, crowded with people and kiosks. I saw my first snake charmer. A cobra and a viper were twisting on a large square of cloth. I would have preferred to see the cobra in a basket, but he coiled obediently at the snake charmer’s piping. Somewhat to the disgust of my young guide, I put a small coin in the hat held out by the charmer’s small son.

We walked through the souks (literally shops). It was an orderly area with shop after shop of djellabas (the long, straight garments worn by both men and women), brass-ware, leather goods, pointed-toe slippers, jewelry, etc. It looked to me like a native market cleaned up for the tourists.

We passed the walls of the Royal Palace. His Majesty, King Hassan, has a palace in each of the Imperial Cities (Marrakech, Rabat, Meknes, Fez) and heaven knows how many elsewhere. We drove down a new road, the Circuit Palmiers, past mansions of the vastly rich, some of them owned by familiar names from the world of entertainment. We stopped briefly at the Golf Club, a huge establishment of hotel and condominiums.

 

After about three hours, I paid my personable young guide and Abdul and I headed for a restaurant Abdul had suggested on our way into Marrakech, once he had determined that I wanted Moroccan food. The name, as I understood him, was Wasis. He hoped I could see a fantasia, a mock battle of Berber horsemen, but in the non-tourist season there was only an evening performance. When I saw the sign, “L’Oasis,” I realized the name meant oasis. And that is what it looked like.

We entered through a typical old mansion with punctured walls and tiled floors and emerged into a restaurant whose top and sides were a billowing silk tent held up by rock posts and brocade-wrapped columns. The dining area overlooked a large irregular pond surrounded by rough rock buildings, palm trees behind heaps of sand to represent dunes, and small tents of multi-striped fabric displaying piles of jars or carpets. My banquette seat was as soft as the multitude of cushions surrounding me.

The meal was strange and delicious. Midway through, the rains began. I felt snug enough until the weight of water poured over the edge of the tent onto the steps beside me. Undampened but startled, I gasped. Other diners laughed. Waiters arrived from all directions and bustled me to a safer table.

Glancing aimlessly at a nearby table, I saw a terrifying slim black shape rise, writhing, upright alongside one of the guests. Conditioned by my recent encounter with a cobra, I was frantically flipping mentally through rescue options when the “snake” moved and became the upright tail of a piebald cat wandering among the tables.

When we had arrived, Abdul asked me for one of my Air France business cards. To my embarrassment, I discovered when I asked for my bill that my meal was compliments-of-the-house. The tip I gave the assistant manager responsible for the largess probably was close to what I would have paid.

 

Before planning the day trip to Marrakech, I was afraid I would be overly tired when the Stauffers arrived that night. Fortunately, we finished sooner than I expected. Abdul drove home like a horse headed for the barn. I was back in my room by 6:00 pm with three hours before he would arrive to take me out to the airport to meet my friends.

In my absence, a plate of sweetmeats had been placed on my bar. A couple of those and some fruit made a pleasant supper. To finish my program of relaxation, I emptied a packet of bubble bath into my enormous pink tub with its Jacuzzi. For the first time ever, I had Hollywood-type bubbles threatening to suffocate me. It was a delicious experience.

 

Mid-evening Abdul returned to drive me out to the airport. The Stauffers were the very last people to emerge from Immigration. Meanwhile, I was paralyzed with guilt thinking Air France might have failed them in some way. Ultimately they emerged, bright, happy, rested from their day-room in Paris and we had an enthusiastic reunion.

Abdul drove us back to the hotel. The Stauffers were duly impressed by their room, identical to mine, once I assured them that the quoted price applied. We had a joyful Scotch to celebrate the beginning of our travels.

Monday, 4 September

Fatima joined us in the salon for breakfast. To my astonishment, she insisted that she was providing our car free—airport runs, Marrakech, trip to Fez. We would pay only gas and Abdul’s salary.

Our departure was too early for Don to get to a bank to change money and, after the weekend, the hotel could not accommodate him. Don was frantic. I had anticipated this and had changed extra on my arrival so had plenty of Dirhams to take us to Fez. This was little solace to my good friend.

Don sat in the front seat with Abdul. I had told him about our conversational adventure of the day before. I noticed a bemused Don in the same mix of languages during the drive.

We paused in Rabat and spent a couple of hours of sightseeing with Abdul as guide. We saw the magnificent brass doors of the Palace, enjoyed the mounted guards, and toured the incredible mausoleum that King Hassan built in honor of his father, the adored Mohammed V. The white onyx tomb rested on a lake-like floor of gleaming black marble. We watched a subdued parade of respectful Moroccans come in veneration for the late king who did so much to develop their country.

On to Meknes, another of the Imperial Cities. For the record, I have always mispronounced both names. Correctly it is RA-bat and Mek-NES. I had thought that Meknes was on the main road so when Abdul turned off the main road, I quietly cursed myself for promoting a side-trip. However, we followed a fascinating series of great old walls and were delivered to a charming restaurant for lunch. It was traditional Moorish style—carved cedarwood ceiling, pierced plasterwork below that, then mosaics to the floor. We lounged against soft cushions and were pleased to succeed in having a light lunch by ordering one “Menu Marocain” with three plates.

On to Fez and farewell to our friend Abdulwahed.

 

We checked into the Palais Jamais and were received as visiting dignitaries. I do not know how much of this was due to my requesting reservations as an Air France General Sales Agent or how much represented the sparsity of guests at the end of their tourist season.

Our rooms were gracious in size, Moorish in decoration, and had balconies overlooking the Medina, the old city of Fez. The Stauffers adjourned for a late afternoon rest while I went to look up the young lady Fatima had called about getting a guide for us.

An attractive young businesswoman greeted me warmly and asked if I would like to see something of the hotel. I was delighted. She took me to what must have been their presidential suite (assuming The Royals do not stay in hotels when they have their own digs in a nearby palace). The entrance hall passed a small kitchen, adequate for the modest ministrations of a staff chef and well-separated from the living quarters. The first room was a music-room-cum-office with elegant, large carved desk and small grand piano. Down three steps was a gracious lounge furnished with brocade-covered furniture and elegant antiques. Windows framed by heavy draperies and swags overlooked the gardens below. A door on the left led to a huge master bedroom and bath, gleaming with gold satin. A door on the right led to a slightly smaller second bedroom, furnished with its own sitting area, television, and bath like the larger bedroom. The decor, with its variety of materials and patterns and colors, should have been distressingly busy, but somehow it wasn’t.

We returned to the lobby and I was introduced to our guide Mohammed (“Just call me Mo-Mo”). He was a tall Berber, somewhat Americanized in manner. I reported to Muriel and Don later that he was awfully full of himself. I was not sure we hadn’t made a mistake. However, with two helpful Moroccans involved in securing Mo-Mo’s services for us, I felt we had no other option.

 

We celebrated our arrival in Fez with Happy Hour on the Stauffer’s balcony, watching daylight dim over the Medina and the lights come on through the old city and up on the hills beyond the walls. The competing calls to prayer of muezzins in the Medina’s dozens of minarets were an exotic serenade.

We decided to have dinner in the hotel since we knew nothing about the area around us. It was a fortunate choice. The dining rooms were delightfully Moorish in style. Musicians in a small band nodded and smiled as we entered past them. It was down three steps to the main dining room then up three more into an alcove with four tables.

We were seated among the cushions and attended instantly by a hovering Maître d’ and costumed waiter. The food was elegant; the service, impeccable.

The band changed tempo. Don leaned out, looking into the main room and announced with satisfaction, “We have a belly-dancer.”

Before long, the dancer swung into our area in a billow of veiling and frenzy of fringe. She was an attractive, well-padded young woman who gyrated enthusiastically and sensually without ever crossing the line into seaminess. Her fixed professional smile broke regularly in openly friendly glances. We all were completely charmed. The dancer invited Don to join her, but smiled in acceptance of his refusal as she whirled away.

Tuesday, 5 September

Mo-Mo met us at 9 o’clock in the morning. He led us across the stone-paved area in front of the hotel and into a passage between buildings. A quick turn to the right and another to the left deposited us in what felt like the heart of the Medina.

Donkeys pushed past us in both directions, ladened with twin bulging panniers of wool. Almost immediately we reached the Wool Souk. Great heaps of pungent raw wool—white, cream, rust, or brown in color—surrounded the small plaza. Next to them in the shade of an arcade, buyers and sellers in djellabas negotiated prices in often-excited Arabic.

Streets wound past the souks in careless curves upward and downward with no visible pattern. Uneven cobbles, the shallow troughs of drains, and unexpected steps made walking hazardous. People were everywhere, pushing through the narrow passageways on their daily errands.

Jeans and T-shirts have found their way into the centuries-old Medina, but the djellaba is the usual dress. It is a long straight garment with long, straight sleeves and a front zipper. Many have hoods thrown back. The Fez women brighten the dim streets with their rainbow colors of orange, yellow, red, green, aqua. Many of the men’s more neutral djellabas have a faint pin-stripe of a darker shade of beige or gray, or of white. Often soft, cotton pants of the same material show for a few inches below the hem.

I felt someone shove me firmly, but not rudely, and turned back to see who it was. Behind me was a tiny little old woman in the usual djellaba. She could not have come up to my shoulder blade and looked at least 110 years old. I was able to remember “Excuse me” from my Arabic tapes. Her eyes showed surprise, possibly pleasure, but the determination in her face never changed as she pushed past me and disappeared into the crowd.

I expected the area of the souks to smell as rank as some Mexican mercados (markets). Instead, there was a heady aroma of spices. Crowded as the streets were, they were relatively clean. The scent was just what Araby should be, and undefinable.

 

The major and constant hazard in the Medina was the donkeys. Placid, patient beasts, each carried a pair of heavily-loaded panniers or balanced a top-heavy load lashed into place. They moved at a brisk clip along the tricky passageways. Behind them, their drivers kept up a steady cry “Balak, balak,” warning people to get out of the way. The refrain was not something to be ignored. By the time it registered, we were seconds away from forming part of the pavement. We pressed our backs against dingy walls, praying that there was room for the donkey to pass.

Sometimes even that didn’t work. Muriel and I heard the usual cry when we were in an especially narrow passage. As the donkey clopped steadily upward toward us, we stepped quickly into a shop doorway to huddle on the threshold as it passed. A little farther up the passageway, Don was not as lucky. The donkey lurched as it passed him. Its basket mashed Don’s wrist against the stone wall. Don momentarily thought his wrist had been broken. Fortunately it was not, but he had a painful bruise.

 

Before starting out that morning, Don asked Mo-Mo about photographing. We all knew that many Arabs think a photograph steals part of their souls. Mo-Mo assured him that there were no restrictions whatever. Morocco has tried to educate people to the economic value of the tourist industry.

Don used his camcorder constantly. During the morning, he looked up the curving passageway behind him and saw a donkey approaching, its baskets overflowing with garbage. Roped to it was a second donkey, then a third. Don focused on the colorful progression. As the last donkey came into view the wizened little driver noticed Don and exploded in fury. He screamed. He waved his arms and his stick threateningly. Mo-Mo rushed back past Don to intercept the irate Arab. He herded him on down the street, past Don and his two paralyzed female companions.

A crowd gathered. I thought, “Here goes! We meet our end in a riot in the souks of Fez.” Muriel gasped in horror that Mo-Mo and the garbage man were about to trade blows. Before a real fight could begin, two men in Western dress stepped out of a nearby doorway and spoke quickly to Mo-Mo. The plainclothes policemen grabbed the still-raging garbage man, one by each arm, and hustled him off.

We huddled, wide-eyed, until Mo-Mo hurried back to us, apologizing elaborately for the “insult to tourists.” It was an Alphonse-and-Gaston situation: Mo-Mo apologized to us and Don apologized to him for photographing the donkeys and incensing the poor garbage man. In the confusion of the moment, we never saw what happened to his three innocent donkeys.

 

We visited mosques, a medersa (Koranic school), and a bakery where people from the neighborhood brought their home-kneaded loaves to be baked in ancient open ovens. We saw water fountains and a hamman (“Turkish” bath).

The Bou Inania Medersa is considered the finest of all the Moroccan medersas. It was built in 1355 as a lodging house for students. The court is breathtakingly lovely. The traditional ceiling of finely carved cedarwood tops a gallery of delicate stucco. Lacy plasterwork frames the entrances to the tiny cell-like students’ rooms. Below, delicate mosaic in muted colors covers the columns that support the elegant wooden grills leading to lecture rooms. In the center of the court is a small ablutions fountain fed by water from the River Fez.

Mo-Mo explained to me that he intended to show us the famous old buildings in the Medina during the morning and to take us to the souks in the afternoon. I rather regretted the decision as we passed stall after stall with rainbows of djellabas, stalls with leather or brass or gold or embroidered slippers with pointed toes.

 

I had told Mo-Mo when I first met him, and reminded him again that morning, that we liked to stop around 11 o’clock for a drink. Eleven came and went. Don got itchy. 11:15 came and 11:30 approached before he spoke to Mo-Mo himself about our traditional “cerveza stop.”

“Right now,” Mo-Mo replied as he led us down a curving passage. Don and Muriel dug their heels in like cartoon characters, and gasped in unison, “That’s a rug shop!”

“That’s where you’ll have your drink,” Mo-Mo said soothingly. Don, who was not to be soothed and who had been shanghaied into a rug shop in China, protested unavailingly. Within moments we were in the rug shop, being greeted effusively by the owner. We were ushered into a large room hung ceiling to floor with Oriental rugs, and were settled among soft cushions in an alcove overlooking a great bare floor.

The Rug Man offered mint tea or lemonade. I would have been happy with mint tea but Don was adamant. He turned to the hovering Mo-Mo and said, “We told you in advance we wanted to stop for a beer at 11 o’clock.”

“It is illegal to sell alcohol in the Medina.”

“We don’t want to see rugs. We want a beer. Please take us somewhere where we can get one.”

There was a whispered conference between Mo-Mo and two of the rug men. Mo-Mo turned around and said that they were sending out for beer.

I entered the picture. “Please don’t. We don’t want a beer here if it is illegal. We just want to leave.”

They didn’t handcuff us and they didn’t immobilize us in a roll of carpets but there was no way we could escape. Two young Arabs began flinging rug after rug out onto the floor in front of us.

After only a few moments, a young boy scurried back with a damp brown paper bag. Three tins of beer were ceremoniously presented to us. I wanted to sink through the floor. On the other hand, the Stauffers weren’t speaking to me or anyone else, so I decided the best I could do was paper over the gaping hole in cultural rapport.

I got up and began looking at the rugs as if I cared. Two Berber rugs took my eye. They were not fine in quality, but were handsome designs in colors that would go in my house. Each time I demurred, the price came down by 200 dh (Dirhams).

Muriel noticed a rug hanging on the wall and decided that the colors would do perfectly for her kitchen if they had the right size and shape. Another pile of rugs materialized in front of us, none of them correct, and most wildly unlike what Muriel wanted.

We finished our beer with little pleasure. I explained that I could not make an immediate decision on the Berber rugs, partly because of the problem of shipping and duty.

“Oh,” exclaimed the rug man, “You don’t pay duty on Moroccan rugs.”

I tried to explain that the U.S. duty-free treatment of goods from an underdeveloped country did not apply to Belize, which was itself underdeveloped. He either could not understand or, more likely, did not believe me. No matter. I announced firmly that I had to think about the rug overnight, collected the Stauffers, signaled to Mo-Mo and glided out of the clutches of the affable Rug Man. Mo-Mo guided three seething tourists back into the twisting streets of the Medina.

 

As 1:30 approached, Don told Mo-Mo that we wanted to stop for lunch and reminded him pointedly that we would like wine with lunch. Perfectly clear. We were escorted to a building at the edge of the Medina. An unprepossessing door led to a Moorish nightmare of a restaurant. There were no other guests. We were attended ceremoniously. Don asked Mo-Mo about his own lunch and was told that the restaurant would provide it.

“They’ll add it to our bill, of course,” Don remarked. It didn’t matter, Don would have given Mo-Mo money for lunch.

Don’s order for a bottle of wine was accepted without question. The waiter returned with a pitcher. Don said he wanted the wine in a bottle. The waiter replied that it was illegal to have a bottle of wine on the table. Don gave up and the wine was poured.

We were able to share a Moroccan salad—an attractive plate with geometrically isolated sections of two types of olives, a nicely-seasoned eggplant “mess,” and a mixture of chopped tomatoes, onions, and cucumber in a savory olive oil dressing. As for our entrées, they were inedible. Literally. We could not get a knife, let alone a tooth, through either the Stauffers’ shish-kebabs or my chicken. We hoped that Mo-Mo enjoyed the commission we knew he collected on delivering us to the restaurant.

 

The day continued to deteriorate. Through no fault of our own or of Fatima’s, we had ended up with one of the guides the books caution you against. Mo-Mo rushed us past souks where we wanted to stop. He promised a far better gold shop as we passed the gold section where I wanted to look, whether or not I bought anything. We never saw another one. Don wanted good leather products. Mo-Mo kept showing us stiff, cheap things. We never did find a good leather souk with the lovely soft Moroccan leather, tooled in gold or plain. We ended up buying what we wanted in the gift shop of the Palais Jamais later that afternoon.

I hoped to get one or more inexpensive djellabas to wear at home at night. We never were permitted to stop at one of the stalls where I could have found one at a moderate price. In desperation I finally paid far more than I wanted for a caftan that I suspected (correctly) was the wrong length.

However, that shop was where I found an exotic birthday present for María. While I was looking at caftans, Muriel picked up a softly draped garment of Royal Purple with elaborate gold embroidery. She said she had a similar “Sindibad,” aqua in color, that she had worn successfully several times. It was a weird contraption. One end of a great length of silky jersey had an embroidered band that tied over the bust, just under the arms. The material then was passed down between the legs and up the back until arms could be slipped into the gold-embroidered bolero top at its other end. The material draped down to below-calf length, its fullness and the draping concealing the openings along both sides. An embroidered cummerbund held all together.

I knew the color would be striking on María, but was a little dubious about the Sindibad’s being too exotic for Belize. As I pondered, a group of young people from England entered the shop. I approached one of the girls, carrying the Sindibad. I explained that I was thinking of buying it for my daughter-in-law and asked if she would mind modeling it. Her face made it plain that she considered me a mildly addled but harmless elderly American. She grinned and let the faintly embarrassed Muriel and me help her into the complicated garment. Business in the shop came to a standstill as everyone, including the bemused proprietor, stopped to watch the performance. I stood back, took a good look at my smiling model, jewel-toned jersey draped over T-shirt and shorts, gave a firmly affirmative nod, and said, “I’ll take it.”

María was delighted with her Arabian-Nights dress and said it was insurance that Alex would take her to at least one glamorous holiday party this Christmas.

Mo-Mo was somewhat mollified by our actually purchasing things in one of his commission shops, so he let us stop a couple of places we picked out.

We returned to the hotel, where we met our driver, Haji. He drove us to the pottery factory. Fez is famous for its blue pottery. We watched the entire process from shaping to glazing to kiln drying. Then, naturally, we were led to a large display room. The pottery was very soft, not good quality, but I wanted a small piece to send Carli because of its traditional “Fez Blue” color. I had priced a piece at one of Mo-Mo’s shops in the Medina. They asked an unrealistic 250 dh. I got a far prettier piece at the factory for 60 dh.

 

On our return, Don asked Mo-Mo about a restaurant that had been suggested to us for dinner. Mo-Mo said it was excellent, but that we needed reservations. He whisked us back up the passageway toward the Medina to it.

The restaurant was large and pleasantly Moorish in decor. We booked reservations for 8:30 with the manager. Muriel asked to see a menu. The manager huffed and puffed, then said all the menus were locked up and the secretary had left. Muriel considered that highly suspect.

She was right. We returned that evening, entered a room empty except for a band and ourselves, were seated ceremoniously, and were presented with menus. Each offering had a pristine new little label pasted over the printed price showing an amount far inflated above what we knew was usual.

“They changed the prices just for us,” Muriel gasped.

“Let’s go,” we chimed together.

To the horror of the manager, we said cool goodbyes and walked out.

We returned to the restaurant at the Palais Jamais and were greeted as old friends by the Maître d’, the waiters, the band, and even the belly dancer. We had another excellent Moroccan dinner in elegant surroundings at a third less than the other restaurant thought they could get away with charging us. The next day when Mo-Mo asked how we had enjoyed our dinner, he was visibly furious at learning that we had walked out, taking his expected commission with us.

Wednesday, 6 September

Mo-Mo set our sightseeing departure hour at 9:00. We waited a fuming thirty minutes outside the hotel with our driver Haji. Fortunately Haji was an affable soul who was just as distressed as we at Mo-Mo’s delinquency. Our guide finally showed up at 9:30, explaining that he had misunderstood the time. Given that he himself had set it, we were not overly impressed. We assumed he finally had figured out we were not the Last of the Big Spenders.

We set out by car to drive around the impressive walls of the Medina. The incredibly large, triple brass doors of the Royal Palace were spectacular. Outside the courtyard, the mounted guard in billowing garb were equally so.

Leather-work is a major Moroccan industry. The tannery exists as it must have been centuries ago. We were led through a cobbled street running with a liquid that might have had something to do with the donkeys, but equally might have been dye. We climbed steep, irregular stone steps to a large, flat rooftop. The smell was pungent, acidic. We looked down into a couple of acres of stone vats. Men dipped skins up and down in the colors and finally draped them over the sides of the vats to drain. Rooftops of surrounding buildings were spread with dozens of skins drying in the sun. I felt that I had slipped backward to a time when the years had only three digits.

We left the tannery through the usual shop. I stopped to look at the display of hassocks. I wanted one for Alex and María. They were not the quality I expected, but I had no faith that Mo-Mo would let me see any others. I bought one. It was only when I was stuffing it before wrapping for Christmas that I opened it up and found the stains, poor stitching, and scars in the leather I had failed to discover earlier.

Mo-Mo asked me if I had decided to buy one of the rugs I had seen the day before. I explained carefully that I could not buy one because of shipping and duty problems. I was firm and he accepted my decision (regretfully).

Haji deposited us at a Bab (entrance) on the opposite side of the Medina. We stopped at one of the brass shops and watched designs being incised into the gleaming pieces. A man squatted on the dirt showing a young boy how to mark designs on flat pieces of brass using a compass. The boy misjudged his guide points, and the man corrected him gently. As we left, walking past the brass souks, Muriel spotted a charming brass camel. She bargained with the owner until she reached the price they both expected. At that point I announced that I would buy one, too.

 

Just before they had left for Morocco, Don and Muriel completed a week assisting at their Church Bible Camp. Don was the story teller. He thought a djellaba would be a perfect costume for next year’s camp. The shop Mo-Mo selected quoted us$100 for a white djellaba for Don. He laughed. The man pointed out the fine material. Don said he wanted it to wear once. The price came down slightly.

Meanwhile, in a back room I had found something small that I wanted as a gift. The price was far too high, so I told the young man that I could only pay X-Dirhams for that particular gift. He dashed back to confer with Don’s man and returned with a new price, still too high. I thanked him politely and returned to watch Don’s negotiations. My young man whispered again to Don’s man. The owner left Don and led me back to my would-be purchase, extolling its quality. I agreed with him and said it was too bad that it was more expensive than I could pay. He scowled almost threateningly and growled, “Give money!” as he flounced from the room. I quickly paid the young man my chosen price and received my package.

Don, meanwhile, had given up. He told the owner that he was sorry he could not buy such a fine garment but he needed something inexpensive. He said goodbye, collected Muriel and me, and started out the door. I don’t know exactly what happened, perhaps a passing whirlwind, but instants later we all were back in the shop and the man was growling, “Give money!” to Don. Don looked at him blankly. I grabbed Don’s arm and hissed, “He has accepted your price. Pay him and let’s get out of here.” With a happy smile, Don completed the purchase and left with a fine set of djellaba and matching pants to wear as storyteller next year.

 

As we walked up a passageway between blank walls, yesterday’s Rug Man materialized among us, hopping up and down with excitement and asking me if I remembered him. I did not consider it diplomatic to tell him how well. In answer to his question about my decision, I explained plainly that I could not buy a rug. By this time the price had been reduced from the initial us$1,750 to us$700. If he had offered that the day before, I might have bought one of the Berber rugs. The Rug Man begged us to return to his shop for a beer. Horrifying thought. I demurred. He asked me to reconsider the rug. Mo-Mo barked at him in Arabic and the Rug Man vanished so quickly it was hard to realize he ever had been there.

 

It was about 11 o’clock as Mo-Mo led us back to the hotel. It was the moment of parting, with relief on both sides. Don had inquired about standard guide rates, as I had, so he had an idea what to pay Mo-Mo. When Don asked, Mo-Mo gave the standard Moroccan reply: “Just make me happy.” I never asked what Don gave him, but assume he did not make Mo-Mo quite as happy as he expected.

In the beginning, Mo-Mo was told by someone in the Palais Jamais that I was the Air France agent for Belize. He extolled his brother’s New Jersey travel agency to me constantly. Mo-Mo explained that he guided his brother’s groups plus select other tourists. (I regretted that we were among the select.) Mo-Mo wanted me to work through them on a Moroccan tour. He obviously had no idea how he had alienated all of us. I had to wait while he went to his car to get a package of brochures for me. They were impressive, but I was so annoyed with our guide that I tossed them in the waste basket after a cursory reading. I wished later I had kept them for reference.

 

Haji drove us to a beautiful modern hotel beyond the city walls on a mountainside overlooking the Medina. We had the-pause-that-refreshes. I used my Air France card as an introduction and we were able to see a couple of sample rooms. The public rooms and restaurant had a spectacular view. However, I thought the bedrooms were fairly ordinary, not nearly as attractive as the ones in the Palais Jamais.

After lunch, Haji drove us to the nearby town of Bahlil, a community of troglodytes (my first opportunity to use that wonderful appellation for cave dwellers). It was settled centuries ago by Christians fleeing persecution. Over the years, the persecution stopped and the inhabitants gradually became Moslem. However, they continued to live in their caves. Gradually rooms were built at most of the cave entrances, making the town look like the usual cluster of blocky white houses clinging to the mountainside. Most of the doors and window frames were painted blue in a show of political preference.

Our Bahlil guide was a dear little grasshopper of a man named Mohammed Chraibi, who spoke rudimentary but enthusiastic English. He led us along the mountainside pathway and up stone stairs. We passed a group of half a dozen women in colorful Berber dress, seated on the steps making buttons. They had contracts for hundreds of the tiny embroidered buttons used to secure “frog” closings on garments.

Mohammed led us up steep stone steps to his home. We ducked through a low doorway into a tiny kitchen. Down two steps was the main area of the house, a cave lined with six beds. A small bookcase was the only other furniture.

The beds were solid wooden ones with good mattresses. Neatly-boxed dark blue covers and cushions made them into divans. We all sat on the first bed while Mohammed proudly showed us albums of pictures of tourist groups he had led. Obviously many people wrote back to him, sent presents, and helped him in various ways.

Mohammed said he would take us to his office, though he did not usually show it to people. (Good line.) Disconcertingly, he insisted on holding my hand as we skipped up and down the many steps from one mountain ridge to the nearby one. He chanted, “One, two, three, four,” over and over but was quite disinterested in proceeding to “five.” Finally, we were faced with a wall, an opening above head height, and a ladder-like series of steps. I half-climbed, half-crawled upward, grateful for Mohammed’s steadying hand. I think I remember his boosting me with a final strong shove in a convenient but delicate location.

We entered a small cave. The floor was almost completely covered with books. The only furniture was a tiny bookcase. A small, bright oriental rug was near the end of the cave. Mohammed called us forward. I kicked off my shoes quickly. He protested that it was not necessary, but I was not about to step on his rug while shod. We crowded into the tiny cave as Mohammed proudly displayed his books and magazines in French, Spanish, and English. We were touched at his fever to educate himself. He was especially pleased at a Koran with a German translation.

As we walked back to the car, Mohammed picked long stems of fragrant mint and gallantly handed one to each of us. We drove off sniffing happily at the pungent herb.

 

After leaving Bahlil, Haji drove us to a picturesque waterfall. Muriel took out her pad and began sketching, to Haji’s obvious amazement.

We could not explore nearby Salol because all the streets were blocked by police due to the imminent arrival of a Minister of Government. We were stalled for at least thirty minutes waiting for his cavalcade to scream past. Haji said this was a routine occurrence.

We returned to the Palais Jamais to freshen up. We gathered for our last Happy Hour on the balcony overlooking the Medina, listening to the familiar cacophony from multitudinous minarets.

We had no interest in exploring Fez restaurants after our previous experiences. We returned to our familiar hotel restaurant for a final Moorish meal, served by attentive waiters who greeted us as old friends, and entertained by our favorite belly dancer. She invited Muriel to dance with her and Muriel joined her briefly on the tiny floor. Muriel moved gracefully in what might be described as a New England translation of the Oriental dance.

 

Thursday, 7 September

We left early with Haji for the drive to Tangier. We passed undulating fields of wheat stubble on dune-like hills, gold and pale olive shades under the sun. Drought had devastated crops throughout much of Morocco. Farms were tiny oases of square white buildings. Alongside the highway, tree trunks were painted white as a guide to night drivers. We reached an area of low mountains with vistas across broad valleys.

Halfway along our journey the soil turned brassy. Large woods of cork trees showed scars from the harvesting of their bark. The cork itself was piled in long, neat rectangular stacks. Concrete canals carried water from rivers to irrigate farmlands. The effort’s success showed in the increasing green of the fields. Haji said the area produced sugar and citrus. We passed a tea factory.

Larache was a beautiful small city of lovely homes. There was much new construction. Homes were white with blue doors and window frames, indicating owners’ political preferences.

At 11:00 we stopped at a neat-appearing roadside building. Haji immediately disappeared to the “facilities.” In my best Arabic I asked if they served beer. I was able to understand the negative reply, to thank the young man, and to add my favorite phrase “Mish mu him.”

I decided to use the facilities myself while I had the chance. They were the usual central room with wash basin and separate doors off it marked for men and women. I emerged from my cubicle to find I was locked in the washroom. Faced with being stranded in the hinterland of Morocco, I called out and pounded on the door. The door was opened by an amused Haji. Another man had used the men’s cubicle after him and, not realizing that I was sequestered nearby, locked the common washroom behind himself.

 

When we were on our way again, Don proudly produced the single beer he had removed from his mini-bar before leaving the hotel. He passed it around as a loving cup. Muriel and I returned it to him after two revivifying sips.

We passed a salt operation with settling tanks, drying platforms, and great piles of salt.

At one of the regular Moroccan road blocks, the police waved most cars through, but pulled out of line drivers who seemed too tired for safety. These they sent to a rehabilitation post about 100 yards away where there were facilities for the overworked drivers to sleep for a few hours.

Watching life along the highway, Muriel remarked, “This could be Mexico—donkeys everywhere.”

One clean little city succeeded the other, each with well-painted walls and cubist homes in pastel colors. Along the roadside sat colorful piles of fruit or pottery. Vendors sheltered from the sun in flimsy tents nearby.

As we paralleled the coast, we could see the Riff mountains rising high beyond green valleys and low hills. Haji stopped the car alongside the vast beach so we could photograph the saddled camels patiently waiting for tourists. My best chance to ride a camel vanished in the greater need to reach Tangier in time for our ferry.

To our right, on a plain not far from the highway, was the slim silver forest of the antennae of the Voice of America station. To the left, the water in lagoons along the beach was a rich aqua. Outside them, the azure sea rolled ashore in long waves topped by foaming crests.

We arrived at Tangier in good time, in light rain. Haji delivered us to the port. We said our adieus to our convivial driver. Our baggage was moved inside and piled near a table in the café. We just had settled near the mountain of suitcases when Haji reappeared. He had found a missing part for Don’s camera on the floor of his car and dashed back through the rain to return it.

 

Muriel and I already had turned our few remaining Dirhams over to Don. To our horror we discovered that our Moroccan money would cover only three beers and one sandwich. At that point the slight, bright-eyed Moroccan waiter assured Don that he could use US dollars. With relief we all ordered steak sandwiches. They arrived in unfamiliar guise: meat, a salad of tomato-lettuce-olives, and French fries, all tucked together into a chewy piece of baguette-type bread.

When it came time to board the ferry, we could not find the porter who had promised to return to help us. We manhandled our luggage through Immigration, then down an endless covered walkway to wait in line. The ferry took 35-minutes to back-and-fill into position alongside the walkway. I was ready to leap overboard and help it.

Miraculously, a porter arrived to take our five bags onto the ship. He suggested our going downstairs but we did not have sense enough to agree. We were happy just to be aboard and to find plastic chairs around a table in the long, rapidly-filling restaurant. We were surrounded by a scruffy crowd of backpackers and screaming toddlers.

Don needed to find a money changer, so he went exploring. He returned to suggest that Muriel go back downstairs to investigate first-class facilities. Reluctantly, Muriel agreed. I accompanied her. We walked down a flight of stairs into air-conditioned comfort and Muriel came to life. The long room, similar to the one we had come from, was completely full. However, across the passageway was a luxurious area of tables and upholstered chairs.

I explained to the nearby officer that we had not been able to buy first-class tickets. He explained, more in French than in English, that they do not sell first class tickets after the end of the main tourist season. However, there was plenty of room and he urged us to take advantage of it. He called a sailor to get our luggage as we ran topside to tell Don. Our bags were stowed close to the lounge, near the officer’s post. We sank gratefully into the peace and plush of our table near a large window.

Muriel went off to change some money but returned to say that they did not take travelers’ checks. She thought she was short-changed 20-cents after cashing a $50 bill. I, too, needed money since I owed the pot after the surrender of Dirhams. I produced one of my few “real” bills and counted my Spanish pesetas carefully. In my case, the money changer overpaid me the equivalent of 20-cents because he did not have change. It made up for Muriel’s loss.

The trip across the Straits of Gibraltar was lovely with a view of North Africa from one side and Spain from the other. We passed through the Pillars of Hercules. Gibraltar loomed to starboard.

 

We docked at Algeciras. A valet motioned to us that he would handle our luggage. Topside we waited while others debarked. When everyone was off, a short, muscular Spaniard in strange little overalls collected our bags and carried them to a luggage cart on the wharf. Don asked me to negotiate a price. The porter demanded the equivalent of us$16 to move us the short distance. He refused to lower his price. We grabbed our bags and struggled on. Fortunately, three of our suitcases had wheels. Don insisted on taking my garment bag. It was heavier than usual. I had put my liter of Scotch into my suitcase, which meant that my fairly heavy toiletries hanger had to go in the garment bag. I fretted about Don.

We dealt with the formalities of entering Spain, then struggled with our loads down a long, wide flight of stairs. At the bottom, an obnoxiously insistent man offered to take us to Málaga, Seville, Córdoba, or anywhere else. Negative replies just excited him. At the outer door, another man made the error of accosting an overburdened and besieged Don. The luckless shill was blasted by a bellow that sent him scurrying.

Our initial impression of Spain changed for the better when an obliging taxi driver not only took us and our luggage the short distance to our hotel, but even carried the bags inside when no porter appeared.

The receptionist at our commercial hotel at the foot of the pier greeted me by name before I said a word and handed me a fax for Don from his secretary. We were shown to simple, comfortable rooms, a vast change from our recent luxury in Casablanca and Fez. However, no room ever looked better to me. It had been a tiring day of travel.

We met in the Stauffer’s room for a fortifying Scotch. We had lost two hours sailing from Tangier to Algeciras. It was 9:30 at night. I gave my regrets, leaving Muriel and Don to have dinner without me. I could not find the strength to bathe or wash stockings, but fell into bed gratefully.

Friday, 8 September

I awoke at what I thought was 4:30 am. Miraculously my travel alarm said 5:15, though I had not set it ahead. I set the alarm for 6:10 and went back to bed to think about it. At what appeared to be 6:00 Muriel knocked frantically at the door to say that they had overslept. Mystery solved. My watch had paused and my travel alarm was correct—by Morocco time.

After breakfast, we walked down to the nearby Hertz office. The pleasant man in the office knew nothing about Don’s reservation for a car. His call to the main office in Málaga reassured him that a car would be delivered to Algeciras by 12:30.

We wandered back down the main street bordering the water, stopping at a bank to change money. Don proudly asked me if I would like to visit a mercado, having located one by accident. Muriel and I loped off in the direction he indicated, an amused Don following behind. The fish, fruit, and vegetable stalls were radiant with colors. Muriel spotted a stand with scissors and knives. She bought a handsome switchblade, which I did not hesitate to tell her was a poor choice as a gift.

At a nearby stall, we found Muriel some clip-on dark glasses she needed because she had forgotten to bring her proper pair. Through the rest of the trip they delighted children everywhere as Muriel flipped them up against her forehead, then back down over her glasses.

Don had his pocket knife sharpened by a diligent man whose circular stone was spun by the engine of his motorcycle.

We found a rickety table at a market-side café for our morning cerveza.

 

We returned to Hertz at 12:30. Our car arrived at 1:00, just before the poor rental man collapsed with anguish at the delay. Our plan was that all three of us should be registered as drivers. The day before I left Belize, Don faxed me word that, while Hertz would accept my regular driver’s license, in case of an accident it was vital that we all held International Driver’s Permits. Alex said there was no way I could get one in a hurry. A quick trip to the Licensing Authority proved him wrong. Within thirty minutes I was back in the office, orange-covered document in hand. Apparently it was a useless accomplishment. The Hertz man said only two drivers were permitted. Don and Muriel have operated smoothly as a driving team all over the world. They signed the contract together as usual.

Once we had wheels, a quick conference resulted in our decision to have lunch in La Linea, then go on to Gibraltar, regardless of the late hour. The Stauffers had missed it on their last trip. I didn’t really care one way or the other, but since we were in the neighborhood…

We drove up and down the main road looking for a likely restaurant and finally found Pedro’s, a charming place. Don and Muriel coped with enormous Salades Nicoise while I had divine scrambled eggs with asparagus and salty slices of ham.

Gibraltar traffic was directed into a huge parking lot with eight lanes. Immigration officials moved from lane to lane, clearing five cars in each before moving to the next. It took us a full 25-minutes to be waved into a faster lane where passports were stamped after the most brief of examinations.

The road to Gibraltar crosses the middle of its impressive landing strip. I noticed that both of our ex-pilot drivers speeded up unconsciously as they crossed the expanse of concrete.

“The Rock” rises with sober disdain from acres of tightly-packed buildings encroaching on its base. We took the cable car to the top. Facilities for overlooks and food were elaborate for the hordes of tourists who visit Gibraltar. We took pictures of the Pillars of Hercules and the outstretched arms of Spain and Morocco reaching to each other across the Mediterranean.

We did not see Gibraltar’s famed Barbary Apes. Later in Madrid, one of Don’s young British business associates mentioned that his mother had been bitten by one of the apes on her honeymoon and had not considered it remotely amusing.

A map at the summit showed a fine road around the island. We started off on it and reached a dead end. About face. We did not have time enough to find the circuitous route. We were off to Granada, with my being sure it would be 10:00 pm before we could arrive.

 

Our drive to Granada took us along the Costa del Sol. It was a sequence of sailboat-studded bays backed by rugged mountains in breathtaking shades of muted purple and cerise.

To our left were hills set with neat, square houses. Alongside the water to the right were acres of white highrises with tile roofs lining the seafront and flowing back as if thousands of bars of Ivory soap had been dumped from a low-flying plane. Whole mountainsides were hidden by housing, hinting at terrifying numbers of sun worshipers.

We drove past strange, gilded mountains, lucky to host one tree amid bushy bits of brush that would barely sustain a goat. As we turned away from the coast, the mountains became a softer green, though still parched, with golden sand showing through their olive shades. Here and there a patch of white indicated a home.

Farther still, the countryside became as barren as a desert, though the gold probably was the stubble of harvested wheat fields. Small islands of trees, ringed by stones cleared from the fields, dotted the landscape. There was a strange juxtaposition of shapes and shades. A great jagged mauve pyramid of mountain loomed behind geometric ocher faces of excavations with deep brown and olive soil on their undisturbed tops. A town spilled white through the shallow valley between two mountains. The drive was a wonderful show of elementary geology. Great slabs and ridges of dense, striated rock stood uneroded above rolling hills.

We had been told in Algeciras that our drive to Granada would take about four-and-a-half hours. Heavy initial traffic made us lengthen the estimate. Suddenly we were on an Autovía (highway) and traffic evaporated. We reached Granada at 8:15 pm.

 

In Granada, we followed the small lavender signs for the Alhambra until they gave out. Muriel, the driver, retraced our path and turned at a street division we apparently had missed. Within a short time she had covered a series of increasingly narrow streets, progress blocked by more No Entry signs than One Way. Muriel took a promising two-way street uphill. At a corner Don was sure led to our hotel, we were stopped by another No Entry. Tour bus drivers parked nearby told us to go back down the hill, take the first right, then the second right, and go back uphill to our Hotel Alixares.

Muriel turned us around with her usual ease and followed directions. The second right was blocked by a diagonally-parked van. Looking up the incredibly narrow street, I was sure I saw a dead end. Don and I persuaded Muriel to drive on to the next right. That initiated another half hour of exploring the cramped streets of Granada. Muriel spent half her time backing-and-filling to reverse direction when progress was blocked or prohibited. Tempers were tested. Ultimately, Muriel found an actual street leading in the right direction. Stops for inquiries by Tour Translator Scott elicited information that let to our checking into the Hotel Alixares at 9:15 that night.

 

The valet apologized for the size of my room as he opened the door, but added that it had the best view in the hotel. The room was minute. Just space for a narrow single bed, a desk with small TV, and a suitcase rack. The adjacent balcony had a greater area and overlooked Granada below and the Sierra Nevada mountains above. My only complaint was that, in the large wardrobe, the shelf built to accommodate a safe was so close to the hanging bar that even skirts and jackets doubled up at their hems.

Warned that the dining room closed at 10 o’clock, we had a quick celebratory Scotch on the Stauffer’s (smaller) balcony, then hurried to the dining room. We had an unexceptional meal served by a disgruntled staff.

I returned to my little room and examined the edges of the balcony. I decided that no cat burglar would select the smallest room in an hotel, and left my sliding doors wide open to the cool Spanish night.

Saturday, 9 September

By agreement, we slept late. I counted on the morning light to wake me, not realizing that the sun did not rise until nearly 8 o’clock. We had a leisurely breakfast, then set off on foot for the nearby Alhambra.

We climbed ancient towers for an incomparable view of the palaces, Granada, and the mountains ringing the city.

We wandered slowly through the magnificent rooms, courtyards, and gardens of the Nasrid Palace. It is the finest example in the world of Moorish architecture. Plasterwork drips from the usual lacy designs to form small stalactites. The carved cedar ceilings with plasterwork below, the incised inscription from the Koran, and the delicate zellige, mosaic of intricate ceramic shapes, finishing each wall to the floor, should have been disturbingly busy. Instead they were graceful, muted artistic successes. Each room was lovelier than the last; each garden, more serene. There are books to describe the Alhambra. I shall only say that walking through it was an experience to enrich the soul.

As we emerged from the final gardens of the Alhambra, we found a small refreshments kiosk. Nearby was a tiny wisteria-draped gazebo, where we retired gratefully to enjoy both sitting down and a cooling liquid. We were alone in a long park area except for half a dozen cats, most of them a sinister black.

 

After a pleasant lunch in a nearby restaurant, we visited the Museum of Arabic Arts in the Palace of Carlos V. From there, we took the little Alhambra train up to the Generalife, the summer palace of the Kings of Granada. Built on the side of a mountain overlooking the Alhambra, it allowed their Majesties to retire from burdensome official audiences and enjoy its spectacular gardens and simpler palace. It was a short walk from the Alhambra for officials who had to take important matters to Royal attention.

The area was surrounded by tall, elongated cypress trees, their dense foliage and pointed tops forming a living fence. Huge hedges of yew or cedar lined walkways. Arched openings through the hedges led to a succession of smaller gardens at each side of a central garden of varied flowers, pools of water, and bisecting paths.

A series of steps to a level higher on the mountainside led to a private amphitheater. Beyond that was the famous water garden, a long rectangular pool with jets of water arching from each side. Walks past beds of flowers led to the palace itself.

 

We decided to drive into Granada for dinner. Don communed with the front desk about routes to and from the hotel. He learned that the best way from the hotel to el centro (downtown) was the route Muriel had tried up from the other direction unsuccessfully.

Again we explored more of Granada than we had any desire to see. An almost total lack of street names, ubiquitous No Entry signs, and a plethora of narrow one-way streets going the wrong direction acted with centrifugal force on Don each time he approached the restaurant we had selected. After nearly an hour, the gods relented. We found a congenial route, a parking garage, and the restaurant in short order.

It was a simple, attractive place with a waiter dedicated to making us happy. We had an excellent meal with house-offered bocas (appetizers) and a delicious final house liqueur.

We retired to the hotel. I delayed bedtime in a frantic search for the train ticket I would need next day. I had mislaid it exactly where it should have been, among my plane tickets. It had not been there when I searched in a panic that afternoon.

Sunday, 10 September

We were off by car for Córdoba at our scheduled hour of 9:30 am. The drive was faster and easier than anticipated because of a good highway and Sunday sparsity of traffic.

We passed dozens of miles of olive groves marching up and down the folds of sage-green and golden hills. Don remarked, “If the nutritionists ever decide olive oil is not good for you, the economy of Spain will crash.”

Suddenly, olive groves were replaced by undulating empty fields, ploughed for their crop of winter wheat. Towns along the way were the usual collections of white cubes with tile roofs nestled in valleys or frosting the tops of low, broad mountains.

We reached the train station in Córdoba early. It was new, spacious, immaculate. We found our two necessities: the Hertz return and carts for our luggage.

We settled in the little lunchroom for a light snack before train time. Don and I decided on ham-and-cheese sandwiches as simple and reliable. Muriel noticed something interesting in the display case and ordered it for herself. As she was paying the bill, a woman standing next to her remarked, “I assume you realize you have just bought a potato sandwich.” Muriel was dumbfounded—and helpless.

Back at the table with us she found that, indeed, her “tortilla” sandwich, which she had assumed was a sort of scrambled egg with sausage, was a thick patty of potato. Fortunately, her new friend offered her a little packet of catsup. Muriel smeared her potato liberally and said that the sandwich was strange, but quite good.

Although we had bought first-class tickets, only tourist accommodations were available on the train. They were lovely, comfortable airplane-type seats. The car offered a movie and earphones. It was a new line with high-speed trains similar to the French TGV. Spain has built new tracks of standard European gauge that eventually will connect at the French border. The ride felt like velvet, with no jolting and no noise.

Again, our major landscape was olive groves, up hill and down dale. Tunnels through the surrounding mountains alternated with great, flat green-gold plains.

We reached Madrid in good time and checked into the Hotel Intercontinental Castellano. Our rooms were exceptionally large but little things gave us the feeling that the hotel was sliding down from its original glory. Taps didn’t work and there was no wash cloth on arrival, though one appeared next day. It annoyed us that the hotel was the most expensive of our tour.

 

Don and Muriel attended the opening reception of the Naval Stores Conference. In the early evening, I joined them for dinner as guests of Mitsui, a major international Japanese corporation. We were a congenial group of ten including Mitsui representatives from several countries (England, Germany, Red China as well as Japan).

I was included as Don’s Central American agent, rather than as the Stauffer’s traveling companion. Don had warned me that the Japanese are big on business cards and suggested that I carry a good supply. Sure enough, as we were seated and introductions began, the cards started flying back and forth like confetti.

Don explained later that cards are indispensable to Japanese businessmen in determining who is in the superior position. This governs such niceties as how low one bows, how long the bow is held, and who straightens up first. I was pleased that my Marine & Services cards identified me as Executive Director.

Conversation was brisk; the food was delicious; service was attentive. A memorable evening.

Monday, 11 September

Madrid is a magnificent city, masculine in feeling where Paris is feminine. Squared grilled balconies, many glassed-in against the cold, are prominent features of long buildings. Towering old trees border great avenues. Gardens bright with blooms are tucked into every available space. Ornate public buildings glow with dramatic lighting at night.

Muriel learned that, because the King was not in residence, the palace was open to the public. We decided to take advantage of the opportunity to see a working palace. We entered though the quaint ancient pharmacy, its walls lined ceiling-high with shelves of great jars holding powders, crumbled leaves, and other fascinating nostrums. We proceeded through a smoky room with a great brick fireplace, the original laboratory where potions were concocted.

We were led through elegant audience rooms with almost as elegant waiting rooms leading to them. The banquet hall, with its table set for sixty, was breathtaking. Finally, we reached the throne room. I was so overcome at seeing the real throne of a real, living king, that I broke my own rule and snapped a quick photograph. Instantly I was intercepted by a gracious but firm official who let me know that I had done something unforgivable. Muriel hissed at the same time that flashbulbs were not allowed. I apologized abjectly, zipped my camera into my handbag, and promised to go forth and sin no more. As we moved into the next room, I realized that the guard in there was eying me suspiciously. I am not used to being an Ugly American and was embarrassed at my fall from grace.

 

That evening, I was included in the Arakawa Chemical Company cocktail party. It was pleasant to find that all my new acquaintances of the evening before were there. As we left, each of the women was given a brightly-wrapped small box. Muriel said that it was customary in Japan to offer a gift to departing guests. She predicted coasters, correctly. It was a lovely set in charming Japanese designs of a characteristic but, to me, strange number: five.

After the party, Don took us out to dinner, along with some delightful Austrian friends of theirs. When we first talked about this trip a year ago, Don said I had to have suckling pig in Madrid. This was the evening.

We went to the Plaza Mayor looking for a restaurant Don remembered. The Plaza is a large brick-paved square surrounded by a long, formal building. We finally were directed past the plaza, down some dark, steep steps and into a restaurant that bills itself as a cave because it actually is one.

We were led into a lower, narrow, informal room literally gouged out of the rock on which Madrid stands. The suckling pig was as delicate and delicious as Don promised. The problem was the skin, cooked so crisp that it made a formidable barrier. Seeing my frustration, Klaus, sitting on my right, without saying a word, leaned over, cut sharply through the middle of the skin, severed it, and deftly lifted one half aside. I thanked him and enjoyed the rest of the meat I had feared I would have to forego.

During dinner, a gaily dressed group of musicians moved through the rooms, entertaining with sprightly pieces.

Tuesday, 12 September

Muriel awoke with a recurrence of her periodic vertigo. She had to spend the day quietly in her room.

I was disappointed for her and for me. We had planned to tour the Prado together. I learn a great deal and appreciate paintings more fully with Muriel’s knowledgeable, often amusing, commentary. I went on to the Prado alone and spent a thrilling day surrounded by some of the world’s greatest paintings.

Bill Breen, a long-time friend of the Stauffers, invited us all for dinner. Muriel was recovering but did not feel well enough to go. We walked a few blocks to what we understood was Madrid’s finest restaurant. We did not eat; we dined. Few sommeliers could match the costume or manner of ours. With us was a British couple, the wife a well-known gourmet and both of them members of the Confrérie des Chevaliers du Tastevin, the ancient and exclusive Burgundy wine-experts’ society. They were quiet, pleasant people who knew why the food was exceptional where I only knew that it was.

Wednesday, 13 September

Muriel awoke feeling alive again. The Stauffers had the final half-day of their conference, then were scheduled to join a planned trip to Toledo that afternoon. I had booked a day-long tour to Escorial and Toledo.

The massive El Escorial Monastery is on a mountainside a short distance from Madrid. The royal Bourbon apartments are sumptuous with Pompeian ceilings and fine tapestries. The apartments of Phillip II are far more simple.

Our tour group was led down what seemed like miles of marble and jasper steps to a baroque circular room that houses the remains of centuries of kings and queens. The black-and-brass ends of elaborate caskets show from openings that rise five high. Only three unused spaces remain. We were told they are waiting for the mother and father of the current king and for King Carlos himself. Their Majesties are not brought to the impressive mausoleum immediately after death. They rest elsewhere for about 25 years before being moved to the magnificent chamber.

We proceeded down a long marble corridor past room after room of marble catafalques, some elaborate with effigies atop them, others simple. These were the resting places of royal relatives. The corridor debouched in a second round room, this one light marble compared to the heavy black-and-brass ornamentation of the major room. In the middle was a large, elaborately carved marble creation, a circular housing for the remains of tiny Royal children.

 

From the Escorial we went to the Valle de los Caídos, Franco’s magnificent monument to the dead of the Spanish Civil War deep in the Guadarrama Mountains. Rising from the mountain above the Basilica and great cypress-bordered plaza is a gigantic cross.

I did not go into the basilica like most of the tour group because a service was in progress. I started to walk out onto the great plaza to look down into the valley battlefield beyond. However, sudden wild blasts of wind swirled out of the mountains, the most vicious, icy wind I ever have felt slicing down like a knife. I fled to the nearby cafeteria for a cup of coffee. I returned to stand in the sun in the shelter of the bus but the wind whipped past me from the opposite direction. It was a miserable wait for the tour group to reassemble and the driver to open the bus doors.

Our drive back to Madrid took us past wooded mountains with jagged expanses of exposed granite. Pine woods carpeted with needles reminded me of childhood summers in Michigan.

 

In Madrid, we left some passengers who had paid for only the morning tour, took on some new ones for the afternoon, and departed for Toledo. We stopped first for lunch at a hillside restaurant overlooking the town. The meal was quite decent but what I remember most is the incredibly efficient way waiters attended a vast room full of tour groups.

Toledo rises golden against the bright blue Castillian sky on its pedestal of granite, ringed by the green waters of a river, deep in the ravine. The bus left us at a handsome ancient bridge, which we crossed on foot to portals of the ancient city.

We wandered cobblestoned, winding little streets in the walled city. We visited many of Toledo’s magnificent old buildings, mixtures of Spanish Gothic and Mudéjar architecture. The cathedral was huge and elaborate. The centerpiece of its Treasury was a 3-meter-high monstrance of gold and silver.

The Synagogue was refreshingly simple after the ornate Cathedral. Interestingly, its handsome decoration was Moorish mosaics.

The Monastery is a virtual art gallery with paintings of El Greco, Rubens, Velázquez, and Titian. I was close to tears in one long gallery when I realized I was completely surrounded by paintings of El Greco. Later in a small church we saw El Greco’s magnificent Burial of Count Orgaz. It is the art of Toledo more than its charm and glorious buildings that burns in memory.

 

Muriel and Don’s tour ended sooner than originally planned. We got together for a farewell drink to Madrid. I was too tired for anything but bed. Alternating waves of hot and cold washed over me. I was exhausted, not sick.

Thursday, 14 September

After a straight eleven hours’ sleep, I awoke feeling marvelous and ready to move on to the north coast of Spain.

We caught our train for Santiago de Compostela at 2:00 pm. The train station was at the edge of Madrid. We were out in the countryside in moments without the usual long, dismal run through the ugliest area of town. As soon as we pulled out of the station, we went to the dining car next door for a light lunch. The Serrano ham sandwiches on long, crisp rolls were good at the time but, by the middle of the night, Muriel and I realized we could have done without them. Nevertheless, at the time we enjoyed watching the mountains roll past as we ate. In the far distance we could see the great cross rising above the Valle de los Caídos.

We returned to our car and the movie of Bill Cosby as a ghost speaking Spanish. The trip was long but our seats were comfortable in our first-class no-smoking car and the countryside fascinating: Mountains, plains, great fields of corn and wheat stretching pale green and gold across the gentle hills, and enough olive groves to supply the world’s demand for years to come.

As the fields gave way to low mountains, layers of rock thrust through the grass like great gray teeth. The train slowed. Alongside, I could see discarded rust-stained ties. A cut through solid rock showed towering stone faces where rock had been blasted free for the track. Piles of shale threatened to bury the line in retribution.

Tunnels became more frequent. Amid the short, tight vegetation on the folded land were large patches of purplish growth, reminiscent of the lavender of Provence. Rocky outcrops broke the smooth silhouettes of increasingly high mountaintops.

Tunnel – valley – tunnel – valley – tunnel – cloud –

Occasionally we passed boxlike little houses with brown-framed windows and tile roofs. More often, small planted plots broke the scruffiness of valley floors with no signs of human habitation in sight.

As we approached Orense, we entered an area of friendlier hills with valleys scattered with farmsteads and villages. It was announced that the train would split into two sections. I panicked, of course. Don assured me that he knew all about it and that our car was destined for Santiago de Compostela. “If it weren’t, I would have told you.”

On our trips, I made a great to-do about wanting to reach each new hotel in daylight. Despite the long trip, but thanks to even longer days, we just barely succeeded at Santiago de Compostela. We were in the city around 9:00 pm and ensconced in the Hotel Peregrine soon thereafter.

Friday, 15 September

Our first morning project was picking up our car from Hertz. It was a lengthy and frustrating procedure. First, Don had to wait at least thirty minutes before the Hertz man attended to him. We were on the wrong side of his kiosk with no way of getting around to the other where new people kept arriving and taking the clerk’s attention. Eventually the man moved around to our side. Yes, he had the reservation, yes, it was shown as prepaid.

Hertz Man: Where is your bowcher?

Don: What bowcher?

Hertz Man: The bowcher from the travel agent.

Don (recognizing that bowcher = voucher): I didn’t use a travel agent. I booked directly through Hertz, as I always do.

Hertz Man: I can’t give you a car without a bowcher.

Don: You know I booked the car. You know it was prepaid. I need the car right now.

Hertz Man (eyes rolling, hysteria imminent): Bowcher….bowcher…

Don (soothingly): Why don’t you give us the car and then fax the Hertz office for a copy of the voucher you need.

With resolution in sight, Don began filling out the contract. He asked to put both Muriel and me on as alternate drivers.

Hertz Man: Only one driver. You pay extra for others.

Muriel (aggravated): Leave us both off!

Don: If you think I’m going to do all the driving myself, you’re crazy.

In the end both, Don and Muriel signed onto the contract. I stood aside, my brand new International Drivers’ License in its bright orange cover unwanted and unused. Later, I realized how relieved I was. I never have driven in mountains and the idea of learning how with a stick-shift car was daunting.

 

By the time we were settled with wheels, it was almost time for lunch. Muriel ordered the Caldo Gallego (Galician soup). It arrived, a thin liquid with unrecognizable greens floating in the bottom.

Muriel (sampling soup): It has a slight hint of rubber tires. (another tentative sip) It gets better. You get used to it.

 

In the Middle Ages, Santiago de Compostela was the third most important pilgrimage destination, after Jerusalem and Rome. It is the alleged final resting place of the Apostle St. James the Greater, called “The Thunderer.” The tale of his association with the city is long, convoluted, and involves several miracles. Nevertheless, when we descended to the little vault under the main altar of the cathedral to view the Reliquary, we found a pious middle-aged woman kneeling on the little prie-dieu in front of the ornate casket, rosary in hands and tears on cheeks.

We drove outside the city to an old Monastery, still in use. Square upper windows were encased by iron grills. Inside them for privacy were green-painted lattices. But on some windows, monks had inserted planters with pink flowers between grill and lattice. The imprisoned blooms brightened stark walls.

Saturday, 16 September

Muriel, emerging from her room for breakfast, casually remarked, “Sorry to be late. I was attacked by a snake.”

It took a count of five for me to translate that to an unfortunate encounter with the hand-held shower in her bathtub. These are common throughout France and Spain. I love them; the Stauffers don’t. Muriel had failed to hold her shower-head firmly when she turned on the water. The metal line coiled and recoiled like a vicious serpent spraying walls, floor, and ceiling of her bathroom, as well as drenching dried laundry and her hair. Muriel’s screams brought Don to the rescue.

 

We drove south along the coast of Galicia. As we neared the coast, we saw increasing numbers of beige stone houses and walls. The area was wooded, with deciduous trees a fall russet among the more numerous evergreens. We continued down cloud-shrouded roads amid slow-moving small-truck traffic. Layers of clouds billowed above us, reaching ridges where the gray was shot with silver as the sun tried to break through.

At the town of Noia, the highway was lined with square modern houses with touches of bright colors. We followed a mountain-bordered river leading to the ocean. Homes covered the mountainside below us on one side of the road and above it on the other. A rocky promontory jutted into the Atlantic.

We passed town after town crouched around inlets. Where the highway moved away from the water, we passed small fields of corn. Grapes for Vino Verde grew on trellises in every yard, no matter how tiny.

Strange rectangular crypt-like structures along the road caught our attention. They had peaked roofs with a cross at each end. Because of their slatted sides, apparently for ventilation, we decided they must be corn cribs. Not long after we made our determination, I glanced at the bottom of the page of my open Michelin guide and saw the picture of “An hórreo drying shed.” We passed dozens of them on our drives along the coast. I was reminded of Bucher’s comment: “When in doubt, read the Book of Words.”

 

We turned off the coast road toward the Mirador de la Curota, an overlook high on a mountainside above a jagged inlet. We climbed an increasingly poor road, past spectacular views of the bay. As we drove higher, the clouds dropped lower. By the time we reached the Mirador, we had one brief glimpse of the four inlets of the Rías Baixas before the clouds closed in again. We paused at the top, hoping the strong winds would dispel the clouds. They didn’t.

As we left the summit, creeping through the fog on a winding road, we passed a speed sign, 40 KM. “Are they out of their minds!” Don exclaimed.

We came out just below the level of the clouds at a lower overlook. It was faintly hazy, but the view across the inlets was a spectacular panorama until the clouds drifted down over us again.

I am not completely comfortable in clouds. My life has been spent at sea level. I love mountains, but expect clouds to keep their place in the heavens, not on earth.

It was beer time. Muriel dug in her heels. She wanted a view with her beer. Frustrated by the shrouded Mirador, we turned at the next roundabout to go back through the streets of Padrón. In desperation, we settled for a nondescript café on the main street. Muriel’s view consisted of an aqua car being loaded onto a trailer across the street.

 

Houses in this area often were two-story buildings, the second story overhanging the first by the width of a balcony. As we neared Ataxa and O Grove, we began passing serious vineyards, though homes still had their little grape arbors tucked into tiny spare places in yards, alongside front doors, or at the sides of houses. The local wine is “Albariño,” a young (green) white wine.

We became aware of the famous “Spanish Windows,” many small panes to each opening. In Spain, flowers in window boxes are predominantly pink, whereas in France they usually are scarlet geraniums.

We stopped for lunch in O Grove. We entered a small, crowded fish restaurant and ordered what we saw on a nearby table. It was the finest meal of our entire trip. We were served a giant platter heaped with crabs, lobster, shrimp, and oysters. We had worked our way through barely half of it when a second platter arrived, with an equal abundance of clams, mussels, and something in a long, pipe-like shell that I did not recognize but learned to love.

 

We continued on down the coast, out to promontories and back to the base of inlets, where picturesque fishing villages rose onto the embracing mountainsides. Fleets of fishing boats were moored alongside piles of nets on piers. The nets were rolled, not spread out to dry. Moored beyond the shore in inlet after inlet were fleets of small barges, some with houses. Don speculated that they might be crabbing platforms.

Long, slow waves broke against wide golden beaches in the bights of inlets and, as we drove along, gave way to piles of rocks, coves, and tide islands. As we drove south, we found quick alternation of sandy coves and rocky cliffs jutting out into the ocean. We stopped at a little park with flagstone walks overlooking a long stretch of wide beach. Far below us, two horsemen cantered slowly back and forth in opposite directions, while an enthusiastic German Shepherd tried to decide which of them to follow.

We passed gray-green humps of hilly islands. Along the shore was a series of summer resort towns with small apartment buildings. Muriel remarked, “I didn’t like the Costa del Sol, but I could see living here. It has charm.”

Miradores (overlooks or vista points) along the highway gave us a succession of views, each lovelier than the last. At Cangas, our driver took the wrong road trying to reach Vigo. We wound up the mountainside, away from the sea, past handsome private homes, to a magnificent view at the end of the inlet. We retraced our road and followed the coast to a suspension bridge on which we crossed to Vigo. We stopped at the railroad station. We were not able to get a Herald Tribune for Don, but I was able to get postcards of the little towns along the coast.

We returned to Santiago de Compostela on the Autovía and were back at the hotel in a surprisingly short time.

Sunday, 17 September

We made our usual confused exit from our hotel and city. Fog made it difficult to find the Autovía to Coruña. It was under construction. Arrows pointing in opposite directions shared the same sign. Muriel, who was driving, remarked, “This is more interesting than I care to see.”

As the fog lifted, it became a lovely drive. Rolling country was lightly wooded, broken by the occasional agricultural valley. The weather was alternating fog, clearing, rain.

We stopped in La Coruña in the rain and dashed into a charming little ice cream shop. Upstairs was a tiny room with only three tables, where we had a view of our car. Last year’s trauma of shattered van window and stolen suitcase left us uneasy on the road when our luggage was in the car.

Muriel and I sat down gratefully, putting our umbrellas and handbags aside. Don appeared most uneasy.

“What’s wrong?” Muriel asked him solicitously.

“I’m sitting on the wet side of my raincoat.”

We stopped to see The Tower of Hercules. Built in the Second Century AD, it is the oldest working lighthouse. Nearby along the coast, a sad small ship lay wrecked on the rocks of a cove. Don remarked that the Spanish Armada had sailed from La Coruña.

 

As we continued, we drove through gorgeous countryside of mountains, woods, and individualized homes instead of white boxes with red tile roofs. The succession of inlets had little towns pasted against the mountainsides that dipped down to the water. Pretty homes with lawns perched high on hills. Gradually, the mountains became heavily forested with pine and eucalyptus. Don called it “Wild, lush country.”

As we reached Asturias, each inlet became a little port. Small freighters rode peacefully at anchor in the middle of inlets. The mountains dropped down to the sea in ridges frosted with the little white homes of the townspeople. In places, several tongues of mountain, their sides sheared off in giant slabs of gray rock, emerged from the bright blue water.

By the time we reached Viveiro, we found heavy new construction of apartment buildings, presumably for tourists to the developing Costa Verde. New homes demanded admiration with their exceptionally bright orange brick.

 

We had left three nights open on our trip so that we could proceed as we decided after reaching the coast. Don communed with his Michelin Guide and found two possible hostelries. Surprisingly, the Parador de Ribadeo was only $8 per night more than the recommended small country inn. The Paradores are special—historic buildings, carefully remodeled into hotels by the Spanish Government. Most of them were more expensive than we chose.

We were delighted with our choice. We had large, attractively appointed rooms and baths. French doors opened onto balconies overlooking the estuary. The picturesque little village on a hilly promontory opposite us was crowned by a tiny church. Muriel immediately got out her sketch pad and paints.

We had a good dinner in the Parador’s dining room. I wisely chose the veal entrecôte while Muriel and Don selected “boiled pork,” which turned out to be thick slices of ham served with a type of greens they had learned to love in Portugal. We ended our evening with liqueurs on the glassed-in veranda overlooking the estuary.

Monday, 18 September

At the breakfast buffet, Muriel and Don made the mistake of trying the interesting curls that one put onto the revolving tray of a small toaster oven. To their horror they discovered that they were made of potato, not pastry. Spain, we decided, is very big on using potatoes in unexpected ways.

We made our customary stop at a bank to change money. It took an agonizing forty-five minutes to cash our travelers’ checks. First, there was the laborious typing of a “bowcher” by a gentleman who, we suspected, had started work that day. Next, there was a lengthy conference with the supervisor. Don decided that our day’s sightseeing was the interior of the bank. Mish mu him. In recompense, we got the best rate of exchange and lowest bank charges of our trip.

 

We continued east on the coastal road, a plateau dropping down to the ocean with mountains on the inland side of the highway. Forests of pine and eucalyptus marched down to the water’s edge on the other side. A green checkerboard of fields outlined by low hedges rose from the plateau to the lower slopes of the mountains. The blocky white houses had slate roofs decorated by single rows of tile caps marching down roof peaks and intersections.

We turned toward Luarca. Don remarked, “There’s a cozy little town down in this valley.”

The road followed a deep cleft with a high wall of blasted rock on one side and a wide creek on the other. We wound among tall trees, passing several bridges that looked like Roman aqueducts spanning gorges for the old narrow-gauge railroads.

The town of Luarca was built in a series of deep gorges leading to the sea. Narrow streets wound upward between buildings. White homes outlined the tops of ridges while more clustered at the bottoms of each slash or clung to the sides of ravines. The view of our drive into Luarca will always be one of my choice memories. No postcard captured the panorama.

We stopped at a waterfront café in intermittent rain. Don walked through a passageway between buildings to the next street, where he photographed school children at recess with his camcorder. The children laughed, waved, and posed for their pictures. Later Muriel and I walked with our umbrellas through the same passageway to find a store for Muriel’s film and a kiosk for my postcards.

 

We continued past Luarca through an area of steep mountains, narrow ravines, and villages nestled in narrow valleys at little bays. Drying cribs with stubby legs, similar in size to the ones in Galicia but of different material, were mounted high on concrete platforms.

Muriel was at the wheel through the mountains in driving rain.

She fumbled with controls futilely, trying to get the rear window wiper to work. Finally she succeeded. Don asked her how.

Muriel replied, “I just banged it there and it went.”

Problem was, it wouldn’t stop.

Muriel commented in frustration, “It may rain for the next two days, and it still will be working.”

We had no idea whether we would have had glimpses of sea along our route because everything was obscured by either fog or cloud. A sign warned Slippery Road. Moments later we passed a four-car collision, including a police car.

We left the highway for lunch in Cudillero on the enormously rocky coast. The town lay in a ravine and extended a short way up the mountainsides. Streets were narrow and cobbled. It was an enchanting place.

We investigated several restaurants before Don suggested that we try a tiny one with only eight or nine tables because it was full of locals. It was an inspired choice. Muriel and Don had a delicious Caldo de Mariscos, a rich soup served in an enormous tureen, full of shrimp, lobster, crab, and fish. I tried the Calamares Fritos (tiny fried squid) and loved them.

 

As we continued on our way, I noticed an enormous black bull silhouetted at the top of a nearby hill. My amazement grew as the bull increased in size as we neared it. I thought in terms of Paul Bunyan. Finally the bull became a huge cutout billboard, no printing, just the shape itself. We saw them several times more before we left Spain.

We followed a twisting road in rain after our late lunch. It was another free night, so we needed to find an hotel. We hit the Autovía to reach Llanes as quickly as possible. The landscape opened up to increasingly high mountains, many with sides that appeared as triangular planes in the late afternoon sun. Wooded areas separated small fields where small herds of black- or brown-and-white cattle grazed peacefully. The scenes were so set, so traditional, that they looked unreal.

The mountains of Asturias were higher than those in Galicia. We passed great gray tors and tumbled piles of naked granite. Mountainsides were rusty with drying autumn growth sprinkled among the olive greens of mosses and trees. Whole mountainsides stretched 8,000 feet high, devoid of topsoil, the gray granite softened by a vast lacy pattern of moss.

 

We reached Llanes and cruised through the town investigating the hotels recommended by Michelin. Muriel and I went into a new hotel on the waterfront. We glanced around the barren lobby and assessed the few guests. Muriel commented that it was the sort of place where you expected to find slot machines. We drove to the next hotel. Don, with unabated patience and not even a sigh of strained tolerance, sent Muriel and me in to evaluate it.

Muriel’s evaluation was, “Not bad for a YMCA.”

We returned to the Hotel Paraíso, which we had passed on our drive through town. The charming young brunette at the reception desk briskly erased notes on her room chart to make two rooms available for us. While Don put the car in the hotel garage, Muriel was led to their room. I tagged along. At our first glance into the room, Muriel and I both privately thought they were going to enjoy the night on a pull-out sofa-bed. A second glance at the adjoining bedroom reassured us that they had been given a simple suite with ample storage space everywhere but in the bathroom, where they needed it.

Our smiling hoteliere then led me down the hall to the emergency entrance at the end, opened it, and ushered me up a flight of marble stairs with a bright yellow metal banister to a single door at the top. This opened into my aerie. It was a charming room with twin beds and a third bed tucked into a far alcove. French doors led to a large balcony overlooking the jumble of tiled roofs of nearby homes. Doors and windows under the eaves were curtained in traditional lace. I was entranced.

After happy hour in the Stauffer’s living room, we followed directions to a restaurant in the neighborhood. We checked several menus posted outside in the traditional manner and elected a restaurant with cloth napkins in contrast to the places with paper tablecloths and napkins. The chicken cooked in its own juices was delicious.

Tuesday, 19 September

I awoke in the dark to hear heavy rain. We breakfasted early so Muriel and I could have our hair done. We got directions to “Carmen and Emilio” from the pretty receptionist and walked through the deluge, huddling under our umbrellas.

We arrived just as the shop was opening. Muriel’s coiffure by Carmen was attractive but a bit more elaborate than she liked. She was sprayed almost to the point of asphyxiation. Later, a few judicious pats back in the hotel tamed it into more becoming dimensions.

Emilio attacked me with rapid, jerky movements. Just when he appeared to have blow-dried, curled, and teased adequately, he ran his fingers up through the coiffure and started the entire process again. He finished another round, then began a third. I was spellbound. He finally achieved something both of us liked. With what I considered three layers of the same coiffure, the set held its shape for an unbelievable number of days.

 

I left my aerie and its view of the rooftops reluctantly. We drove along the ocean highway through the high mountains and rocky inlets of Asturias to the simpler sandy waterfront of Cantabria. In Santillana del Mar, we parked near an hotel and dashed through heavy rain to the bar. As we enjoyed our morning beer, the rain abated. We wandered on wet cobblestone streets up the hill into the charming old village. The streets were lined with quaint balconied houses with ticky-tacky tourist shops on the ground level.

As we returned to the car, so did the rains. It belted down on us as we proceeded to the hotel Don had expected us to stay in, had we reached Santillana del Mar the night before. The waiter had to turn the lights on as we entered the empty dining room. I selected a table tucked into a tiny alcove. We all ordered what we hoped were shrimp omelets.

Remembering that last time Muriel ordered a “tortilla”, she received potatoes, I inquired firmly, “That is a tortilla de huevos, isn’t it?”

We ordered a bottle of the local Albariño “green” young wine we had learned to enjoy.

We had hoped to see the prehistoric drawings in the Altamira caves, but arrived too late. We had not realized that the caves were closed for the day at 2:30 pm. Only 40 people per day are allowed to enter the caves.

We continued to Santander, a huge city rebuilt since a 1941 tornado. We stopped to walk down to the wide, golden beach through a lovely park. The wind was biting, though the rain had stopped temporarily.

We left and headed for Burgos on a route recommended by our friends at the hotel. On the map it appeared longer but they assured us that the direct route was a terrible road. Our fine Spanish highway helped make up for the sodden scenery on the drive to Burgos. We wound down three steep mountains, alternately forested and wind-scoured. Don remarked that perhaps the weather would improve when we got through the mountains.

It was hardly a fine afternoon but there were layers of bright silver where the sun reflected on clouds at the horizon. We entered an area of low mountains, almost bare of vegetation, and of rolling valleys, the less-lush ocher of ploughed fields. Round bales of hay were scattered across expanses of greenish-yellow stubble. Buildings were stone instead of the white we had seen for days. The countryside was treeless and unattractive. We drove miles without sight of human habitation.

A tiny castle appeared perched on a high rocky outcrop. There was a sense of desolation in its treeless, peopleless, stockless surroundings.

 

This was the first day that the rain never stopped. Our hotel in Burgos that night was large and modern with mirrored bathrooms that multiplied our images endlessly, unnervingly. It was too cold and wet to venture out so we enjoyed perfectly cooked lamb chops in the hotel’s welcoming little dining room.

Wednesday, 20 September

Burgos’ 13th-century cathedral is fascinating architecturally, melding French and German Gothic into the final traditional Spanish form. Elaborate tombs just in front of the main altar are the final resting places of the parents of Isabel la Católica (patroness of Christopher Columbus). A wooden casket secured by brackets high on a corridor wall had a plaque, El Cid.

The treasury held a spectacular silver cart unlike anything I had seen in any other cathedral. Obviously designed for religious processions, it was a great, heavy wheeled piece with platform upon elaborate silver platform, ending in what appeared to be a small reliquary.

 

After our explorations in Burgos, we headed north toward the coast. We stopped at the café of a modern roadside hotel for lunch. We had our usual “safe” choice of ham and cheese sandwiches. We took our first bites simultaneously. I wish Don had been using his camera to capture our expressions of outrage and repulsion. Our innocent sandwiches had been grilled in fish-tainted oil. Muriel ate only her ham and cheese. Don and I chomped dutifully through ours, pretending they had a strange and special Spanish seasoning. When we finished, Muriel suggested ice cream as an antidote. We ended up with quite good packaged cones and bars.

Storm clouds closed in as we headed to Hondarribia at the corner of the Spanish coast adjacent to France. The landscape was barren low mountains made more dreary by rain. The area toward Vitoria was a vast cereal-covered plain, reminiscent of Southern Spain. We wound back through ridges of tall, jagged mountains, bare rock with tiny plants in crevices. On the other side we saw a herd of deer peacefully grazing in a pasture amid softer ridges.

Muriel’s demand to see “real Basques” became a running joke. We drove into Vitoria.

Don: See all those people, Muriel? They’re Basques.

Muriel: How do you know?

Don: They have to be. Vitoria is the head of the Basque government.

We suddenly noticed that street signs carried both Spanish and Basque names. Don was determined to find the old city, though his companions were less driven. After endless circles of the city center, he found a parking place and we walked in. Stone steps led to heavy old stone buildings with glimpses of charming old homes up curving little side streets.

Two red-uniformed police officers strolled side by side through the plaza. Muriel asked Don to photograph them.

Don quickly aimed his camera at their departing backs, then himself departed after them, camera at the ready. Muriel and I wondered whether they would slap Don in jail or just confiscate camera and film. Don returned, chastened. The police had turned on him. One of them jumped behind a tree to get away and the other threatened him with a string of things Don fortunately could not understand. He fled.

Muriel scolded, “After worrying about belligerent Indians in Chiapas, why would you take a chance with touchy Basques!”

Don protested that he was just following Muriel’s instructions.

Muriel replied, “I said photograph their backs. I didn’t say anything about spring up under their noses with your camera.”

 

We drove through another mountain range where entire sides were sheared off, leaving immense rock slabs. The high forests gradually gave way to lower mountains and broad valleys. Farm houses were made of stone with tile roofs or were half stone with whitewashed upper stories. The highway toll booth carried instructions in Basque with a Spanish translation below.

We turned east, paralleling the coast through high, wooded mountains. Clouds sifted down over their tops, softening contours and dulling the deep greens.

We never completely reconciled the two names of Fuenterrabia and Hondarribia, which appeared to be two names for the same town. Probably one was Basque and the other Spanish. The old walled city where we stayed used Hondarribia.

We went through our usual performance trying to find our way to the top of the hill, into the old walled city, and through narrow streets to our hotel. After several tries, Don suggested that I ask directions. I got out of the car and accosted a surprised young boy who was walking his dog. He proudly pointed to the next corner, instructed us to turn left and said we would find the Parador at the top of the hill.

When I returned to the car, Don remarked to all of us, “Aren’t you glad I thought of it?”

Muriel replied, “Aren’t you glad Katy can say it?”

Moments later we parked at the edge of the large, unadorned plaza in front of the stark, bare beige walls of a 10th-century castle used by King Carlos V. We entered a great stone lobby where arched doorways led to unexpected stone stairways and courtyards.

The desk man grabbed my luggage and set off through a stone lounge decorated with heavy tapestry, lances, shields, and a small cannon. We climbed a flight of stairs, went down a corridor to an elevator, went up one floor, emerged and climbed four steps, walked down another corridor, down six steps, and turned right to my room.

Our rooms were charming with dark wood furniture, paneled wardrobes, and a deep alcove where French windows opened above a dining patio and looked across the harbor to the French coast. The alcove was separated from the room by heavy draperies. Later I remarked on the strange construction and Don explained that the alcove was cut into the two-yard thick original wall to permit placement of normal windows.

Windows on the opposite side of my hall corridor looked down into the courtyard with its broken original wall, iron gateway, and moss-covered stone steps leading nowhere.

That evening we crossed the plaza to a small restaurant. We were ushered down steep, narrow stairs to a dining room just two tables wide. The narrow room had rough stone walls and a low beamed ceiling. Service was friendly and the food, excellent.

Thursday, 21 September

Heavy rain. Our planned walk through the old city of Hondarribia was impossible. As we left the hotel for our car, a party of four (two of them old enough to know better) was waiting for a break in the weather to cycle to Pamplona. Not long afterwards, we passed them as they were turning back through the torrents to return to Hondarribia. We drove up to the lighthouse via a narrow, winding road past lovely private homes. Fortunately, it was one way. The rain worsened. We could see nothing. We gave up and drove to the nearby city of San Sebastian.

We passed a depressing series of highrise apartment buildings. Streets were flooded. Police in red-hooded rain jackets and black rain trousers with red stripes down each side directed traffic and unplugged drains.

We did not know where we were or how to get where we wanted to be.

Muriel, who was driving, complained, “Every time I finally see a sign it points to France. It may take all day to find San Sebastian.”

Don, thinking ahead, mused, “When we try to get back, it may be better to go on into France to get back to that place we’re staying that no one can pronounce.”

Muriel corrected him: “No one but Kate.”

We passed an ambulance towing a boat boldly marked RESCUE.

I commented, “I find that colorful.”

Muriel disagreed. “I find it distressing with all these street with so much water on them.”

Don cautioned, “We’re approaching Centro Ciudad.”

I commented, “Fine, but what ciudad (city)?”

Muriel broke in with, “If this is San Sebastian, we’re looking for a laundromat with a beer parlor next door.”

Those needs were put in abeyance as sunshine replaced rain. We strolled along the handsome corniche, enjoying the view of the horseshoe bay with small mountains at each end and a hilly island in the center. We took advantage of the city to visit a bank, an art store, and an electronics store.

We drove up to the restaurant at the top of the mountain at one end of the bay for lunch. Afterwards, we actually located a laundromat past a smelly market up a dark alley. The alley debouched in a large plaza overlooked by thousands of Spanish windows and lined with sidewalk cafes. Hot coffee while the laundry was swishing supplied a pleasant antidote to the cold wind whistling about the plaza.

Back in Hondarribia that night, we returned to the same restaurant for dinner. We were seated at the same table and found the same Austrian couple at the table across from us. We greeted each other like old friends, chatted across the narrow aisle separating us, and agreed to have dinner together the next night.

Friday, 23 September

Muriel settled herself in the half-ruined courtyard to paint the arched doorway with its grated door. Don and I set out to explore Hondarribia on foot.

Each little stone plaza was surrounded by houses very different from those we saw elsewhere in Spain. They were narrow and tall, stucco or half-timbered, with tiled roofs. Brightly painted balconies overflowing with flowers stretched the width of most houses on every floor. One house had scarlet balconies; the next, aqua; the next, green; the next, yellow; the next, a surprising sober brown. The effect was warm and friendly. Tiny shops selling bread, meat, fish, etc., opened off the steep little cobblestone streets.

When Muriel joined us later that morning, we walked down into the newer town below. Careful as I was at watching my step on the uneven streets, I succeeded in tripping and going down like a felled tree. I lay on the stones evaluating possible damage while Muriel and Don gasped in horror above me. I had made a three point landing, two knees and my chin. None was damaged.

When Don helped me to my feet I realized that my right thumb was bent back at a right angle. Don gently pulled it back into position. The thumb moved normally so I refused his offer to find the nearest hospital. I had only moderate pain, swelling, and discoloration for the next few days, though when I got back to Belize, I found that the thumb was broken. My priorities on a fall are somewhat askew. I worry about breaking my glasses or tearing my surgical stockings before I contemplate the possibility of breaking a vital extremity.

We continued our walk, passing through the handsome old gateway in the town walls. As we started down the steep street, Muriel reminded us that what goes down must come back up. We stopped for beer at a sidewalk café with long, highly polished tables with backless benches at each side and small square stools at each end, ideal for long Basque conversations over coffee. By this time, Muriel had decided that the elderly men wearing berets definitely were Basques. She was not sure about the other dozens of people in view on the streets at any one time.

We explored several outdoor dining areas for lunch before settling on one. Don finally had the tiny snails he had been looking for. I joined Muriel in ordering octopus salad, admittedly with some trepidation. It was delicious.

 

We drove into France past former Immigration kiosks, now empty and useless under terms of the European Union. Saint-Jean-de-Luz was a lovely vacation area of handsome homes, hotels and apartment buildings. I found it unappealingly over-developed.

The French Basque coast is a plateau that drops in sheer rock cliffs into the ocean. Huge limestone rocks near shore are scoured into strange shapes by wind and water. Many have small crosses mounted atop them attesting to lost ships and sailors. Wide beaches stretch along the long, open coastline.

Biarritz is equally heavily built. We stopped for coffee on a terrace overlooking the beach, then walked out a long bridge to a massive rock formation. We agreed that our favorites were the Galicia and Asturias coasts. They were simple, not glitzy, not tacky. The French Basque coast was too-much-too-much for our taste.

Don had been told to return our Hertz car to the San Sebastian airport. We stopped there, but found no Hertz office. Back at the hotel Don enlisted the help of one of the men at the reception desk. After a long period and several calls he got the necessary information:

“Take the car to the airport (5 minutes from the Parador). Lock it. Give the keys and contract to the bartender in the airport.”

We tried another restaurant for dinner with our Austrian friends. It was a pleasant evening, but I preferred our first, intimate little cave dining spot.

Saturday, 23 September

Muriel and Don left early to pick up our French Avis car just across the border, then drop off the Spanish Hertz at the San Sebastian airport. I was left in situ to guard the luggage.

Muriel appeared at my bedroom door sooner than I expected. She reported that the car given them was a tiny Renault that just barely could accommodate our luggage and us. We were to exchange it for a larger car at the Biarritz airport before noon. We exited in haste to meet our deadline. I was slightly less perturbed by the luggage stacked almost on my lap in the tiny back seat than I was by the car’s disgusting purple color.

We reached Biarritz in time. The Avis agent told Muriel that she was désolée, but they only had a vehicle with automatic transmission. Muriel graciously accepted the “inconvenience.” It was a large, gorgeous car. We knew the car probably would cost a young fortune, but after seeing its capacious trunk, none of us complained.

 

We drove toward Bayonne, searching for a suitable beer stop. Found a Novotel, where we were able to get our favorite brand “1664.” When we returned to the car, Muriel could not start it. She thought the engine was flooded. Fortunately a gracious young man asked if he might help. He demonstrated how to disarm the security sensor above the rear view mirror with the ignition key. Without his help we might be sitting in Bayonne still.

We continued through a countryside of poor soil, fit only for raising pine trees. We pulled up at a small hotel just off the highway for lunch. There was only one other table of diners in the slightly depressing room but we were entertained by an affectionate little Dachshund. We had a pleasant quick meal of omelets and salad.

We set off for Dax through a double lane of Sycamores with their mottled gray-and-white straight trunks. Leaves meeting overhead formed a green tunnel for miles. We paused briefly to see the Roman Baths then continued through flat country. Our Driver considered it a restful change from mountain driving. Muriel noted that the architecture in villages was all the same, as if everything had been built the same year. She suspected it might have had something to do with the War.

Through Armagnac, the land became prosperous-looking, with vast fields of grapes and corn. Our road wound through rolling hills. Curved patches of woods separated bright green fields.

We stopped beside an enormous weeping willow to change drivers. Muriel emerged from behind the wheel with her head bent forward almost at right angles. She and Don wrestled with the resisting head rests of our fancy car until they finally found the trick to adjusting them for comfort.

 

We reached Auch and circled downtown, searching for an hotel. We found the Relais de Gascogne, liked its looks, and checked in. Our rooms were spartan but immaculate. The pamphlet and map of Auch given us by the receptionist informed us that we were in an area of exceptional interest. Auch was a stop on the pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela in the Middle Ages.

Over Don’s unvoiced protest that hotel food usually is inferior, Muriel and I made the fortunate decision to enjoy the hotel’s charming dining room. We had an exceptionally good meal—superb soup; Mousse de Foie; and a savory Daube of Beef with noodles, which arrived in great pottery serving bowls, far more than we could eat. We finished our meal with Crème Caramel and Armagnac.

An after-dinner walk took us across one bridge and back another. Don unerringly directed us through a series of unfamiliar passageways that led back to our hotel.

Sunday, 24 September

We breakfasted early and drove up the hill to the Cathedral in Old Auch. It was a beautiful Renaissance building with Gothic arches, unpainted statues, and spectacular stained glass windows overlooking the ambulatory. The cathedral was simple compared to the ornate Spanish cathedrals we visited, with a handsomely carved wooden reredos instead of the massive gold structures we had seen.

After completing our leisurely examination of the cathedral, we wandered through nearby shops, waiting for the mid-morning service to begin. We returned for the first part of the Mass. We were charmed by the enthusiastic nun standing in front, vigorously directing the tone-deaf congregation through hymns.

 

Between Auch and Toulouse, widely separated traditional farms dotted lush countryside. Homes were substantial beige stone with tiled roofs. People seemed to live on their farms unlike the areas we had passed earlier, where families lived in villages and went outside to work their fields. A minute, flimsy plane passed low overhead. The pilot appeared to be pedaling it.

We stopped to explore a Sunday market in Léguevin. Stalls held fruits, cheeses, fresh meats and sausages, mushrooms, and wine in kegs to be sold in small measures. Chickens roasting on a spit reminded us that it was near lunchtime.

We continued down a Sycamore-lined road to Toulouse. We followed a tree-lined river into Centre Ville. We found a small brasserie with tiny round outdoor tables. A pert waitress moved two tables together. Our orders of steamed mussels in their great bowls, more bowls for shells, and three glasses for our bottle of white wine completely covered their surfaces. It was a memorable meal.

 

We took the Autoroute on to Carcassone. In both Spain and France, the superhighways were worth traveling, despite their successions of toll booths, when we were through sightseeing and wanted to get from one place to another quickly.

As we approached, we could see Carcassone rising above the plain on its low hill. It was a picture-book Medieval fortress, a circle of towers and battlements, typically French, with massive crenelated walls set with watch towers with conical peaked roofs. A light rain arrived at Carcassone along with us.

We were directed to the car park, where a bright young Scotsman in a small van collected luggage and us and whipped through a small arched entrance in the massive walls. He wound rapidly through curving cobbled streets too narrow to hold both the vehicle and the hordes of strolling Sunday sightseers. To our surprise, we arrived without incident at the Hotel Dame Carcas.

The hotel was one (or several) of the original stone buildings. Muriel and Don were shown to a gracious room. Then our driver led me across a charming tiled walkway with glass sides and ceiling, brightened by row of plants in tall wrought-iron stands. He apologized for the distance but assured me it was a lovely room.

It was. The room with its beamed ceiling was very large, dwarfing the enormous heavily carved four-poster bed with its brocaded spread and canopy. Mullioned windows with window boxes overflowing with red geraniums overlooked the plaza in front of the cathedral. Three ornate arm chairs and a heavy table made a pleasant locus for Happy Hours during our stay. Walls were decorated with gold-framed paintings and a tall gold-framed mirror above the mantle. Walking down the hall next day, I glanced into a nearby single room with a gleaming brass bedstead and realized the Air France agent had been honored with special accommodations.

The bathroom itself was huge with an old fashioned claw-foot tub fitted out with the standard new faucets and hand-held shower spray. The only small thing in my new home was the separate toilet room opening off the entry hall. It was triangular in shape with a door that opened inward making it difficult to squeeze in between door and commode. It must have tried the agility of large former occupants.

 

The Stauffers and I met in the lobby and strolled through winding streets, studying menus posted in front of restaurants. Streets still were jammed with people. Half the offerings of shops were displayed on racks in the street outside. The effect was to bury the ancient stone dignity of the town in tourist ticky-tacky. We remembered Eze above the Riviera where shops hid discretely beyond deep doorways and the passageways were bright with planters, not Tee-shirts.

Cassoulet was the regional specialty. It was on every menu. We decided we had to have it, with Crème Brûlée for dessert. The restaurant directly across from the hotel filled our requirements. We feasted happily and regretted the richness of our meal during the wee hours of the night.

Monday, 25 September

We spent the day exploring Carcassone. The sparseness of Monday tourists was a relief. The Château Comtal within the walls held a wonderful museum of Medieval artistry. The cathedral was simple but handsome with lovely stained glass windows.

We walked out through the massive main gate to the area between the inner and outer walls. We were alone to admire the towering walls and turrets. Skies were clear, but a sudden, fierce, icy wind reminded us of the Mistral we had experienced the year before in Provence. Muriel and I wondered why the linings of our rain coats were hanging in closets back home.

In the afternoon, we took the little train ride around the outside of the walls. We learned a lot from the English commentary. Allegedly, the name of the city came from an event early in the life of the fortress. It had been under siege for over a year. Cleverly, the starving inhabitants fed much of their meager store of remaining food to fatten their remaining pig. Then they threw the pig from the battlements. Leaders of the army below saw how fat the animal was and decided the town had supplies to withstand a further lengthy siege. They withdrew. The lifting of the siege was celebrated by joyous ringing of the bell of the Cathedral Dame Carcas. The people shouted “Dame Carcas sonne” (Dame Carcas rings). From that, according to legend, came the name Carcassone.

We all enjoyed our stay, trying to separate the truly impressive medieval fortress from the current sleaziness of its streets. We were pleased to have seen Carcassone but had no desire to return.

Tuesday, 26 September

We made an early departure to Toulouse to turn in our luxurious car and catch our Air France flight to Paris. As we turned onto the highway above Carcassone, the snow-capped peaks of the Pyrenees ran like a sunlit line of jagged clouds above the far horizon. It was a pleasant, quick drive with little traffic.

Don dropped Muriel and me at a door to the airport and vanished to turn in the car. We stood amidst our pile of luggage and, to our horror, saw no baggage carts in sight. I mounted guard while Muriel went scavenging. She returned with a single cart she had whisked away from a passenger checking in for a flight. We put the large bags on the cart while I pulled our two suitcases on wheels. We proceeded to the opposite end of the terminal and the Air Inter check-in. There, just outside the door, was a long line of luggage carts. Don joined us with one of them.

We spent the hour before Check In having a last 1664 beer in the pleasant little bar.

Gabriela Anaya at Air France Mexico had assured me lunch would be served on our flight. It wasn’t. Receiving a complimentary tiny 1664 helped. As soon as we reached the welcoming arms of the Tilsitt Étoile in Paris, we walked down to a nearby crêperie and corrected the oversight. Our strength restored, we walked briskly from one store to another, looking with sporadic success for things we knew we could not live without for the next twenty-four hours.

Long before our trip, the Stauffers had faxed me details of some twenty-odd bistros in Paris. We whittled the list down to three favorites. Together we decided on a single one. The hotel receptionist telephoned La Poule au Pot for reservations for us.

Don led us masterfully through the maze of the Metro to the vicinity of Les Invalides. We walked three or four blocks and found our simple, turn-of-the-century bistro exactly where it was supposed to be. We all ordered the specialty from which it took its name. We enjoyed a quarter chicken stuffed with pate and stewed with vegetables. Muriel and I finished with the best Crème Brûlée of the trip. Don forewent it for a classic Pêche Melba.

We returned to the Tilsitt Étoile for a farewell Liqueur, courtesy of the Stauffers rather than of our depleted “pot.”

Wednesday, 27 September

After a final petit dejeuner (breakfast) together, I collected my luggage, gave Muriel and Don a last hug, and took off for Charles de Gaulle airport.

I spent my pre-boarding time in the pleasant Air France lounge. A young Air France employee came by to ask if I were on the Washington flight. In alarm for Muriel and Don, I asked if the flight were cancelled. CNN had reported that morning that Air France flight attendants had called a 2-day strike. The young woman assured me that the Washington flight was delayed, not cancelled. I asked her to call the Tilsitt Étoile and try to get a message to the Stauffers. She returned shortly to say that they already had left the hotel.

Soon I boarded my flight and explored the electronic wonders of the new “Espace” configuration of the former Le Club class. A private TV screen emerged from one arm rest while my tray was hidden in the other. I had enough leg room to stage a small dance in the area, if I were not using the built-in leg rest. The seat reclined so far that I felt almost horizontal.

My seat companion was a huge, gracious Palestinian returning from a construction site on an island off Portugal to his home in New York. Our snippets of conversation through the long day were pleasant. I was less pleased at being given the awful cold he was fighting.

The trip to Miami was uneventful. I checked into the Hotel MIA in the airport.

Thursday, 28 September

A pleasantly routine TACA flight delivered me to Belize mid-afternoon. Alex and María were waiting. At home, Amber greeted me enthusiastically, as did my new puppy Missy, who I feared might have forgotten me.

Thursday, 28 September

A pleasantly routine TACA flight delivered me to Belize mid-afternoon. Alex and María were waiting. At home, Amber greeted me enthusiastically, as did my new puppy Missy who, I feared, might have forgotten me.

Epilogue, 12 November

As I wrote you, I returned from my gorgeous trip with a broken thumb. I stumbled on the uneven street in Hondarribia, Spain. It seemed to be just a major dislocation. Don gently eased in back into position. It worked fine. I saw no reason to consult a doctor.

When ten days later it had not improved, I finally had an X-ray here in Belize and found it was fractured. I saw a nice young orthopedic surgeon. He said they didn’t do anything about a fracture in the final joint of a thumb, but that I should have physical therapy for the torn ligaments to avoid permanent damage to the hand.

Can you think of anything more ignominious than physical therapy on a thumb? 

Fortunately, the delightful young woman I was sent to took it seriously. I enjoyed my sessions with Michelle. She used sonic massage to encourage torn ligaments to mesh smoothly instead of forming scar tissue. Michelle gave me guidelines for use of my hand and decreed “homework” with a large ball of something that looked and felt like Silly Putty.