INTO THE WEST
Blame the economic downturn: the planes - both flights -from Boston to Bozeman via Salt Lake City were not full. For the first time in recent years, I flew with an empty seat next to me.
Delta continues to serve at no charge water, coffee , soft drinks,peanuts and a single cookie. But even in a flight lasting more than five and a half hours, anything else cost $5 and up. I saw no pillows and no blankets.
Mara was waiting for me in weather that was warmer than what I had left in Boston. There was a little snow left over from earlier storms, and footing was slippery in places. It melted during the day and refroze at night, when the temperatures dipped from the 40’s to the 20’s.
MONDAY
Monday was gorgeous - temperatures in the low 40s, a few puffy clouds in the wide open sky. We had lunch in downtown Bozeman, and later stopped to visit Mara’s Mongolian friends, - the family she “adopted” seven years ago - in their just-moved-into new home, their first after seven years in Montana.
Not unexpectedly, the three bedroom, two bath, two floor tract home with attached garage was priced at about half of what the same house sells for in Lexington.
Their delight in showing us around was palpable. Chimbat, the father, is three years into a five-year program that will give him a plumber’s license. He was recently laid off from the company he has been working for, but had already been called back and expected to be working full time again.
BoBo, the mother, manages the Bozeman office of Boojum Expeditions, which runs adventure travel trips to Mongolia, where members of BoBo’s family run the operations in the capital city of Ulan Bator.
Onyuka, the now 14 year old daughter whom Mara taught to skate seven years ago when they arrived in Bozeman, now attends public high school in Bozeman. Also at home was BoBo’s mother, here on a long visit. A fascinating woman, she is an M.D. and worked as a pathologist for a hospital in Ulan Bator run by and for the Russian KGB.
TUESDAY
Tuesday, Mara needed to be at her office, and she dropped me off at a local health club where I hoped to get in my normal water aerobics. The information as to time and dates of classes got lost in translation, Later I spent time in the brand new and magnificent Bozeman Public Library, built on a site a street away from Mara’s office. Soon, I was enmeshed in the stupidity of the National Park Service in Yellowstone, courtesy of a book entitled “Playing God in Yellowstone” by Alson Chase, which I will finish at another time.
WEDNESDAY
By Wednesday, I had sorted out the exercise schedule at the Ridge, the club with the water aerobics. (The classes were not all that different from what I have been experiencing at the Waltham YMCA. Except: more male participants and a lot more talking during class, a “no-no” in Waltham.)
After the exercise class, we drove south and west to the area of Mara’s latest project, in the town of Twin Bridges. Abuilding is a guest “cabin” and an exercise house for the Jim Kennedy family. Kennedy is CEO of Cox Communications, of Atlanta, Georgia, a huge media organization. Kennedy famous in southwestern Montana for trying to keep outsiders from accessing “his” fishing streams, a frequent source of conflict between the locals and the rich sportsmen from Away.
Before going to the site, we had lunch with Ron, the builder, the same contractor with whom Mara had done the Goldberg buildings. At Land’s End, the Kennedy estate/ranch/spread, the guest house, built of stone is well along, together with an exercise building (doesn’t everyone need one?). The work will keep the contractor and Mara busy through June.
There is nothing comparable committed but one job appears to have excellent prospects, albeit with a difficult client. Mara is cutting back expenses to the extent she can on payroll, and marketing hard.
We drove home through Alder, where the vacation house she has done for here friends, the Reeves, is located. Les Reeves was ion residence, bemoaning the fact that the house was bigger then he wanted it to be - his wife’;s wishes and checkbook prevailed.
From there, we checked out the O’Dell Ranch, the Goldberg’s establishment which got Mara’ practice off the ground. In addition to the main house, there is a beautiful new barn with a bunk house to come.
What effect the economic downturn will have on the future of projects like Land’s End that she has been doing so successfully isn’t clear. Her clients would appear to be well protected against the buffets of the economy. However, inquiries have been few and far between since September.
Conventional wisdom would say that the market niche she is in will hold up better than others in this economy.
On the commercial side, at least in Bozeman, there appears to have been extensive overbuilding, with large box stores already closing. Linen and Things was in the process of liquidating, a high end women’s western wear store is closing, and a large rug store on the highway is going out of business.
Tract housing in Bozeman continues to go up and sell, apparently, but people are getting nervous.
THURSDAY
Thanksgiving was very traditional as to food but not as far as guests. The Mongolians - Chimbat, BoBo, Onyuka, and BoBo’s mother sat down to turkey, green beans, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce with pineapple chunks(new to me and delicious), gravy, baked apples (my contribution), and pie (store bought).
We sent the guests home with enough for at least another meal.
The family is here for the long term, with BoBo about to get her green card, which will entitle them to at least 20 years in the states.
The dream of Olympic stardom on skates for Onyuka seems to have been shelved. The very expensive private school/skating academy in Minneapolis proved too much of struggle financially . She seems comfortable with the local high school and the new friends and opportunities that affords.
FRIDAY
On Friday, Mara and I left Bozeman about noon, heading east on the interstate I-90 towards Livingston, a funky town on the Yellowstone River, which flows north out of the park. We cut off after a few miles on to Trailcreek Road and headed southeast, eventually reaching the banks of the river, and then headed south.
Called Paradise Valley, the land on both sides of the river has seen a great deal of development since we were first here in the middle 90s. Mara did one of her first major architectural projects there, an addition to the resort at Chico Hot Springs, in the center of the Valley.
Gardiner is a small town, built at the northwestern entrance to the park, and the starting point for many visitors, as the entrance is closest to a major airport (Bozeman). The entrance arch to the Park, dedicated by Teddy Roosevelt, stands at the edge of the small business district, now mostly shut for the winter.
A single restaurant was open, reached through a darkened souvenir store. The sole waitress appeared unhappy in her work, and the food somehow reflected the waitress’ lack of interest. My hamburger was great, but the meal on Mara’s plate was greasy. and barely edible.
The rest of the town featured “CLOSED” signs in most windows. Gardiner is a jumping off place for bus trips into the park, and the busses were parked in herds awaiting next season.
Normally, by mid-November, the park roads are shutdown to ordinary auto traffic, in part due to usually heavy snows. But this year, on November 28th, there were just remnants of previous storms in the meadows and fields , and the only ice appeared in shady places along the shoulders of the road.
No guards at the entrance kiosk, no admission charges in November - and the road, we were told, was open across the top of the park to Cook City at the northeast entrance. The road went south first to Mammoth Hot Springs, where the huge hotel was shuttered for the season , but the steam rose from the terraced hot springs that gave the area its name.
With the road south blocked, we started east. A few miles in, Mara shrieked,
“Big horn sheep!” Normally seen only on the peaks of the mountains, a dozen had wandered down close to the road, with one actually sitting along the shoulder .
(On our way out later, in the same general area, we saw the same band, this time clinging to a sheer rock wall above a highway cut. A photograph would have been wonderful, but an unpleasant ranger prevented us from stopping - despite the fact that there were no cars parked along the road and traffic was virtually non-existent. In the first sighting, there were half a dozen cars and no ranger.)
By three thirty, we had reached the Lamar Valley, about two thirds of the way across the park. A large grey fox crossed the road in front of us, not hurrying in the knowledge he had control of his environment. There were bison in the river meadows and elk in large herds.
Turning back about three thirty, we came upon the most riveting sight of the trip: on an escarpment, perhaps five hundred feet in the air, above the road, about thirty elk were standing in a line silhouetted against the sky, primarily female, . as though posing for us lower mortals.
In November, the summer greens had been replaced by browns, tans and greys, but we had the park to ourselves for a few hours, and it was extraordinarily peaceful.
MARA’S PLACE
It is hard to know the right name for Mara’s three and a half acres. It is not a farm, certainly - perhaps homestead in the right word.
The main house continues to evolve inside, with a couple of Morris style rockers now in the living room, facing the huge fireplace. The wood shingles on the outside of the house have had a fresh coat of clear finish and look great.
A storm several years ago took down a couple of cottonwoods, and several others needed to go - Mara now has firewood to spare, after a long siege of cutting and splitting.
The deck that runs around the entire main house holds a free-standing potbellied stove, and a hot tub along with a large barbecue unit. Lying submerged in the hot tub, with the leafless cottonwood trees overhead is a very pleasant experience.
The cabin continues to attract visitors. An electrician from Phoenix, working on the chair lifts at Bridger Bowl Ski Resort which will open December 11th, has been in residence for several weeks, and was still there when I left.
The cabin was rented for virtually the entire summer and well into the fall, with repeat bookings for next year already in place.
The front door and deck of the cabin face north, away from the main house, giving privacy to both units. There is a smaller cabin awaiting evolution into another rental unit at some point in the future. A third building, a long low storage shed, will remain just that is all likelihood. Add to that a horse shelter, and another small storage building, and the square footage under roofs adds up. I almost forgot a garage that is also used for storage.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Journey To The Uttermost Part of the World
It must have started when I was quite young, certainly no older than eight or nine. I became fascinated with windjammers, which in the early 1930’s were actually still in use, bringing bulk cargoes of phosphates from Chile around Cape Horn to Europe and the United States.
The names of the books I read about the Southern Ocean and the ships which ventured into it no longer reside in my memory. But the fascination with the bottom of South American remains to this day.
Earlier this year, I happened on a recent volume titled “Rounding The Horn” by Dallas Murphy, and my interest was rekindled by his account of sailing in the area, and actually landing on a small island at the southern end of a series of islands streaming south from Tierra del Fuego, “Land of Fire”.
On this small island stands the tall rock called the Horn - named by the Dutch in honor of the Duke of Hoorn and later Anglicized. (As we later learned, whether the Horn is named for a duke or one of two towns with the name in Holland is still unresolved by historians.)
The book details the history of the European explorations and conquests of the area, beginning with the first contacts as early as the 16th century, and continuing through the establishment of the first European settlements in the mid-19th century.
Much of the focus of the book is on Tierra del Fuego, actually a large island, split between Chile and Argentina, like most of the southern third of South America. It lies south of the Magellan Straits, the waterway from the Atlantic to the Pacific found first in the 16th century by the explorer for whom is is named.
Then, longtime friends called and said they had signed up for a trip which would include a large portion of Patagonia, the name for the area south of a line drawn roughly from east to west starting at Buenos Aires, Argentina and crossing the continent to Santiago, Chile. Would we be interested in coming along?
It took me almost no time to decide I wanted to do it, and my friend Carol was delighted to go along. We signed on for the two week journey, beginning in Buenos Aires, and extending by plane, bus and boat all the way south.
The literature about the trip emphasized wind and weather - sudden changes and four seasons in a day. Bring lots of layers, we were told, and footwear for sloshing through mud and getting wet on beaches while debarking from small inflatables, as well as for trekking up and down mountains.
But keep luggage to a minimum because Argentinean airlines charge for anything over 33 pounds checked on domestic flights!
The week before our Saturday, December 8th, departure was a blur. Over the previous weekend, I fell prey to the consequences of a post nasal drip that threatened the entire journey.
But fortified with several kinds of nose drops and other remedies, we took off for Miami, to board another flight there to Buenos Aires, more than eight hours away.
BUENOS AIRES
Our 48 hours in Buenos Aires revealed a modern, quite beautiful city, with far more trees than one would expect and lots of parks, clean and well maintained.
Not so the downtown streets, which were bordered by very narrow sidewalks, many of them cracked and uneven, offered many opportunities for stumbling.
Traffic seemed unusually heavy for a Sunday - until we learned that a new president was to be inaugurated on Monday. (The fact that the election had been virtually ignored in the US media is an indication of how little attention is paid to the countries of S South America.)
Christina Kirchner was to be the first woman president of Argentina, democratically elected, in a scene eerily reminiscent of the Perons, Juan and Eva (Evita) who dominated Argentine politics from 1946 to 1955.
Christina won 46% of the votes in a nationwide election, succeeding her husband Nestor who chose not to run again. Without a primary, there was a field of 13 in the race.
Sunday night after dinner, part of the group (including Carol but not me) walked to the Pink House, the president’s resident in downtown Buenos Aires, where they caught glimpses of the new president and her husband, along with Chavez of Venezuela and Michelle Bachelet, president of Chile.
Bachelet presents a far different background than Argentina’s leader. She is a pediatrician, a socialist, a former minister and health and minister of defense. As we learned when we got to Chile, she has great respect there, in a country which is far more stable economically and far more prosperous than Argentina.
My attention on the trip has been focused on Patagonia and the area south of 50 degrees south latitude, and our visit to Buenos Aires was too short for a deep impression. The language barrier is significant, and one I chose not to try to surmount, Some others of the group did try, with varying degrees of success.
Sunday, our tour of the city included the city cemetery in the Recoleta district, a gaudy collection of above-ground mausoleums, with astonishing decorations in marble, granite and other stones.
We were told that some of the sites were bought and sold after families died out for sums greater than for large houses in the city. One feature I had not encountered before: glass doors to the crypts through which to view the coffins on shelves inside, presumably to make sure the bodies were still where they had been put.
Eva Peron is buried there, not as Eva Peron but as Eva Duarte, her family name. We were told her body was hidden for years after her death to prevent it from being seized by the anti-Peronist military forces which took control of the country in 1976 and ruled until 1983.
Another Argentinean whose grave is at Recoleta is Luis Firpo, a heavy weight boxer who knocked out Jack Dempsey in 1923 but was deprived of his rightful victory by the infamous “long count”.
Only a few of us in the group were old enough to know of the “Wild Bull of the Pampas”, as Firpo was billed in his career. (As a vintage newsreel available on YouTube shows, Firpo actually knocked Dempsey out of the ring, but the referee’s count gave him time to climb back in, and later knock out Firpo.)
Bright colors are supplied only by the flowers on some tombs, but every style of decoration in stone has been applied to the buildings, many of which extend underground.
Recoleta is open only during daylight hours, to reduce vandalism - but there was evidence of vandalism anyway, in parts missing from statuary and decorative fences torn apart.
Until mid-afternoon, our tour of the city continued, but not much registered with me. Obviously, I didn’t come for Buenos Aires.
But we did get, with several others in the group, to a private tango lesson in a bar cum tango museum around the corner from the hotel. I sat out the program but Carol proved a natural,
Dinner on our own at a lovely riverside restaurant was topped off with a fireworks display from the Pink House, celebrating the new president.
Although walking on city streets has not been strenuous, my pace is the slowest of the group, and I suspect I will need to opt out of some activities as the days go on.
The next morning, we headed further south, flying to the boom town of El Calafate, close to the Chliean border. the jumping off place for Los Glaciares National Park, home to the Perito Merino Glacier. For 50 years, Perito Merino has maintained the same mass, gaining six feet a day at the top and losing the same amount at the bottom.
I was lucky enough to see three “calving” ice chunks break off from the face of the glacier, to become floating icebergs in Lake Argentino. Merino is one of fifty glaciers in the park, which encompasses 1700 square miles.
It is the best known both for its stability and for the ease with which people can get close to it.
From El Calafate, we traversed the pampas to the west, heading for the Chilean border. Three hours of gravel road without a town in sight, the land itself brown with a few low bushes (including the calafate bush which yields berries from which jam is made). We saw occasional cattle and sheep but mostly simply open range.
At one point, we ran alongside a herd of sheep being moved to new pastures (or a shearing shed) by gauchos on horseback. At the end of a side road (gravel like the main road we had been traveling on) we stopped at a large barn, where hundreds of sheep were being shorn of their wool.
This annual event is accomplished by roving bands of shearers, who work for 1.5 pesos a fleece, which is in United States dollars about 50 cents. Wages are held down by the poor world market for wool and for lamb, according to what we were told.
The shearers work under the direction of a ”capo” who makes all the arrangements for the process, and who controls the workers with a gong, sounding it for starting, for stopping for mate (more about mate later), for lunch and for quitting time.
The sheep appeared to be resigned to their temporary nakedness, with little bleating heard. Despite the low wages, there is no apparent shortage of labor, with apprentices hauling off the fleeces to tables to be sorted and bailed for further processing, as they wait for an opportunity to become# shearers.
The sheep arrived by truck and evidently were returned to their proper pastures the same way. How who owned which sheep was decided was never revealed. We saw some with splotches of blue or red dyes on the backs of some in the flocks, which may have indicated their origin.
We never got a clear account of the whole process - I can probably find out at Google.
INTO CHILE
At noon, we were sitting in the bus at the border crossing from Argentina into Chile. For the first time since our arrival in South America, the sun shone, and we put up relatively good-naturedly with the inexplicable delay in processing us through.
Clearly, there are issues between Chile and Argentina that have not been resolved. Otherwise, why would we have had to change to a Chilean bus company and bring on board a Chilean local guide? Why would there be lengthy processing for a busload of American tourists, under the guidance of a well-known tour company?
The customs office is one of half a dozen buildings on the site, in the middle of the pampas - but for the first time since leaving El Calafate, there is green in the landscape. Green grass instead of brown covers the land, and there there are trees on the nearby hills.
The green grass indicates much more rain than further east, and the trees indicate less wind.
The inspection was finally over, and we left for the Chilean border crossing, seven kilometers further west, where we would have to go through the whole process again.
TORRES DEL PAINE NATIONAL PARK
Driving into the park, the first vista was a bright cerulean blue lake beneath the abrupt mountains that give the park its name. As we drove further, the views of the peaks constantly changed, with colors shading and textures changing as the angle and distance shifted.
It was a memorable experience heightened by the dazzling sunshine that accompanied us all day, and into the 9:45 sunset. (It stays light for another 45 minutes after sunset.)
We began to see more wildlife. A humpless member of the camel family, the guanaco, protected in the park, has proliferated and we saw dozens along the roadside.
In the air were condors and meadow larks, and on the ground upland geese and the cora-cora, as well as the ostrich-like bird called “nandu” or rhea. The rhea’s chicks are under the protection of the male bird.
At one point, we saw a brood of about a dozen chicks suddenly coalesce into a tight band as their father attacked a small fox which wanted the chicks. The fox quickly changed his mind, as the much larger bird ran him into the brush.
The Chilean guide who had joined us at the border was entranced - she had read of that kind of behavior but had never seen it before.
The towering peaks that give the park its name are only about 10,000 feet tall, but suddenly emerging as they do from the flat pampas, they became the focus of our eyes.
Late in the day, we arrived at Hosteria Lago Grey, a lodge at the southern end of Lake Grey, into which the Grey Glacier calves its chunks of ice, which become floating icebergs moving with the wind, and often grounding in the shallows. There were several in the “front yard” of the Hosteria.
The modern main building was flanked by cabins, connected to the lodge by a covered walkway. As at all our stops, our luggage was delivered to the doors of our rooms, and in the morning, we put it out to be repacked on the bus.
It was 9:15 that evening when we sat down to dinner, one of the poorer meals of the trip - tough tenderloin and tasteless fish. The day had included a long trek into the lower portions of the massif, and I slept through until six in the morning, waking sore and stiff from the exertions.
A Tylenol with codeine morning.
The treks are designed to walk to a destination and return by the same route. Thus, if someone falls behind, as I often did, I can retrace my steps, and the guide has a pretty good idea of where people are.
Typically, the local guide leads the group and Pedro, the team leader brings up the rear, available for the laggards, of which I was usually one.
One thing that was very clear on crossing into Chile was the strength of the economy, compared to Argentino Although the rate of exchange was vastly different - 3.12 pesos to the dollar in Argentina and 475 pesos to the dollar in Chile - prices were significantly higher in Chile, buoyed by a roaring world market for copper and the other minerals found in abundance in the country.
The difference in the economic heath of the two countries can perhaps be traced to the very different courses they have followed since the overthrow of their dictators, Pinochet in Chile and Peron in Argentina. The Peronistas and Peron’s philosophy of popularism, tinged with a healthy dose of corruption, have been a heavy burden for the country to face.
Chile, on the other hand, has repudiated the Pinochet regime while being the beneficiary of the country’s mineral deposits.
The next morning brought sun and clouds - and wind. We hiked towards the face of the glacier along the shore of the lake, eventually reaching a beach with the glacier in front of us.
The trek continued across the beach and into the hills on the other side, but I chose to break off and watch the movement of the icebergs floating in the lake. Crossing the beach became a rite of passage, as the wind continued with gusts up to 50 miles an hour - or so it was estimated.
RANCH LIFE
Back on the bus towards noon, we headed for Punta Arenas, the largest Chilean town south of Santiago, and the jumping off place for voyages further south.
But first, we diverted to Estancia Rio Verde.
A sheep and cattle ranch dating from the 1800’s, it began serving tours in recent years, perhaps because sheep raising has become more difficult to make money at.
The ranch is a family affair, with the owner involved, his American daughter-in-law the pastry chef and maitre d’hotel, and friends and family making up the small staff.
Outside were 10,000 sheep and 4,000 cows, but inside was comfortable and warm, with superb food. Saturday morning, while the group hiked to the arm of the Pacific on which the ranch is located, I stayed behind.
After two days of intensive trekking - even though I did only about half of the walks - I was ready for a few hours of rest. The uneven surfaces take a psychological toll as well as a physical one on my back and legs.
People have been helpful and understanding, but I have felt abashed and embarrassed at being able to do so little.
Our Chilean guide is delightful - a 34 year old mother of a 9 month old daughter, married to a Polish chef. She and her family spend the travel season - September through May - in Chile and the rest of the year in Germany.
She is very grounded, knowledgeable, and a low key contrast to our trip leader, who is bombastic exaggerator - but also very knowledgeable and one who made strong efforts to help me when I needed help.
Once I decoded his language - “a couple of hundred yards” meant half a mile,
“a few minutes” could be up to half an hour - I had little trouble. He is of Italian descent, as are many native Argentineans, proud of his heritage, proud of his city, proud of his country but profoundly unhappy with the way it is governed.
Living, as the people of the estancia do, 22 kilometers from the nearest improved (gravel, not paved) road, requires some interesting adjustments. Electricity is provided by a generator - from 8 p.m. to 10:30 or 11:00. Before and after that, candles and flashlights suffice.
With the generator, lights bulbs tend to be small, set high on the walls. The rooms are spartan, and the bathrooms tiny - at least ours was - but the public rooms are quite large by contrast, and comfortably furnished in a style reminiscent of the American West. There was lots of oaks beams, heavy wood furniture , roughly plastered walls, high ceilings.
An unexpected highlight of our visit to the ranch occurred on the morning of our departure, when we were treated to a Chilean rodeo, in the rodeo ring which is part of the ranch.
Several dozen mounted gauchos, each wearing a woolen poncho in distinctive colors, marched into the ring, to vie with one another in their abilities to handle cattle in a number of situations.
Unfortunately, our timetable prevented an extended stay in the arena, and we were off to Punta Arenas where our ship was waiting.
THE TOUR GROUP
There are 24 people in the party - two single women (in their 40’s?), a father and son (27), another irregular liaison like Carol and I, and the rest (more or less) comfortably married couples.
At 82, I am the third oldest after Sam, 84, and someone else at 83. The rest appear to be in their 60’s and 70’s, and almost all retired.
I suspect the group is more conservative politically than the people I spend most of my time with - but the trip leader ordered us to refrain from political discussion in the interests of harmony, and we have done so.
In the meantime, he has been lavish in his praise of the Chilean president and harsh in his criticism of the Argentinean government.
Most of the couples appear relatively well-of, judging by the clothing in evidence, with a lot of new outwear apparently bought specifically for this trip.
We have spent more time with the Bermans than with others, but we usually have our meals with at least one other couple as well.
THE WIND
The wind is ever-present. At Lake Grey, it appeared to be blowing at least 45-50 miles an hour. and the trees in many placed lean away from the westerly direction of the gales.
At this latitude, below 50 degrees south, there is no other land around the globe to interrupt the wind’s flow - and it just keeps growing stronger. That constant westerly flow against sailing vessels trying to go west around Cape Horn from the Atlantic to the Pacific is what made the passage for those sailing ships such an ordeal, in many cases.
At last, a week after we left Boston, we boarded the Mare Australis (Southern Sea) at 8 p.m. in Punta Arenas. The vessel has cabins for 120, and on this trip, 110 people are on board, including our 25.
Late that night, I woke to feel the only rolling of the ship during the entire voyage. It came from the west running waves as we left the Straits of Magellan for the open Pacific briefly on our way into the islands.
After a day and a half of cruising south at a leisurely pace, several things impressed me. What we were seeing in the Straits of Magellan, and the islands running south from Tierra del Fuego was virtually unchanged from what Magellan and his crew saw in 1520.
Below the Beagle Channel, the avenue to the Pacific that Darwin and the Beagle sailed through in 1834, there are virtually no people except the Chilean naval personnel at the tiny town of Puerto Williams, on the island of Navarino (population 1725).
Reportedly, a small population of Yamana, descendants of the natives, are among those living in the town.
South of Puerto Williams which lies on the north shore of Navarino Island, across the Beagle Channel from the city of Ushuaia, in Argentina, no crops are grown, a few ranches survive. but the country is essentially uninhabited.
A rare aid to navigation, in the form of a channel marker, very occasionally reminded us that other people have been there. The land itself is hilly, with mountains of varying heights, standing on islands, islets, and just plain rocks sticking out of the fjords and channels that go back into the land.
No beaches are to be seen, with most of the hills ending right at the water. In the day and a half we have been sailing south from Punta Arenas, I have seen only two small fishing boats and a single sailing vessel, a chartered sloop based at Porto Williams.
The wind, which had been with us from Buenos Aires to Punta Arenas, disappeared when we boarded Mare Australis, and Saturday and Sunday were fair and pleasant with lots of sun.
Now, glaciers became the focus of the trip, as we steamed down “Glacier Alley”, the northwest arm of the Beagle Channel. We went ashore to see Pia Glacier up close and personal, and then watched from the Sky Lounge on the 4th deck (the highest) as the parade continued.
Germany Glacier is the longest in the area, and we viewed it as the sound system played “Lili Marlene”. This glacier flowed down at a gentle angle, not quite reaching the water. Behind the glaciers, the mountain peaks rise with a mantle of snow fields rising up to the summits.
A new vista opened, a mountain side laid out in striated bands of rock and vegetation in a arc pattern, as though the center of the mountain had been pulled up while the ends were anchored;
It appeared capable of supplying feed for sheep but as in the rest of Tierra del Fuego, no animals were visible.
The weather gods continue to favor us - no sun but no fog and no low-lying clouds obscuring the mountains. In late afternoon, the white streams flowing from snow fields down the sides of the mountains stand out like chalk lines on a blackboard.
CAPE HORN
First, it isn’t a cape - it’s an island, shown on the navigation charts as Isla Hornos, the farthest south of the Tierra del Fuego archipelago. (The illusion that we were the only people in the area was utterly shattered as our 120 passenger ship dropped anchor on the east side of the island, right next to the 80 passenger expedition ship, the SS Bremen, based in Ushuaia, Argentina and carrying a group of German travelers.)
It was originally Hoorn Island, named for a small Dutch town or a Dutch nobleman (depending on which source you check) by a Dutch expedition which saw it in 1616.
On the island is a lighthouse, manned by a single Chilean naval rating and his family who spend a year there, in a house attached to the light. Next door, is a chapel dedicated to the sailors who died in the shipwrecks that have occurred over the years in the area.
An outbuilding completes the tiny settlement, while half a mile away, reached by the wooden walkway erected to accommodate visitors and spare the sparse grass, is a magnificent sculpture honoring the dead sailors - seven sheets of stainless steel, set up as a square on end, surrounding a negative space depicting the albatross, the bird most typical of the region, and thought to embody the souls of the 10,000 sailors who were lost in the 800 recorded shipwrecks in the area.
Access to the island for us was by Zodiac on to a narrow beach of large pebbles, and then up 165 stairs to the mesa-like table land that made up the bulk of the island’s 14 acres. The “horn” rises nearly 1500 feet at the other end of the island.
No trees were visible on the island, only short grass and a few shrubs clinging to the edges of the land on the leeward side of the island.
Unlike my imagined Cape Horn, sitting in lonely splendor, surrounding the island on three sides are other varying sized islands and islets which make up the archipelago, stretching north to the large island that makes up the bulk of Tierra del Fuego.
Our weather good fortune continued, with little wind and actual periods of sun during our couple of hours ashore. Pedro, our guide, was making his fifth trip to Cape Horn, and had not been able to go ashore on his previous four trips because the weather would not allow the Zodiacs to be launched.
Getting up the 165 steps was the crowning physical achievement of the trip for me, but I had had lots of practice aboard ship. Our cabin was on the fourth deck, the dining room on the first, and other activities on the second and third decks, with no elevators.
The ship itself had been launched in Valparaiso, Chile, in 2003, designed specifically for the kind of trip we were on. We were on its 167th voyage from Punta Arenas to Ushuaia via Cape Horn, and back, a week’s journey.
Our cabin had twin beds, a dresser, a side chair, a large window on the sea, and a surprising large lavatory with shower. I have had very little ocean-going experience, but the boat seemed more than adequate.
Breakfast and lunch were cafeteria style, while dinner was a full sit-down meal, with unlimited wine from Chilean and Argentinean vineyards. OAT had three nine-place tables to ourselves, served by an extremely accommodating waiter, who managed to find tonic water for me when I had had more wine that I needed.
Two birthdays in our group were celebrated with cake and champagne on very short notice.
Piped into each cabin were three or four channels of music, with a classical channel we found exceptional. Even the engine room , which we got to visit, was spotless.
Access to the outside was more limited that I would have expected, with open decks only outside the Sky Lounge on the fourth deck, at the stern of the boat, and a similar small area at the bow on the third floor, outside another lounge. I would suspect that a good deal of the time, the weather would not be conducive to strolling on the deck outdoors.
USHUAIA, ARGENTINA
This small city, clinging to a shelf of land below the end of the Andes for six or seven miles, is the jumping off place for voyages to Antartica, Cape Horn and the Falklands, and as these trips have gained popularity, the city has grown.
Moored to the docks in the harbor were half a dozen vessels, ranging from our own 236 foot liner to a three-masted sailing ship that makes the Antartic trip at a slower pace.
The city is geared today to the expeditionary business, with people working in Ushuaia from September to May, and then leaving for warmer climes until the next season. The population is reported to be 64,000.
Our day and a half at Ushuaia featured a Landrover ride to a lake in the interior of Tierra del Fuego Island that added little to our experience, but did feature a superb lunch of sausage and steak, cooked on a barbecue set up in the woods.
Tea in the home of the owner of the Landrovers, high up the muntainside above the city, gave us some great views, loevly tea and outstanding pastry.
We flew out of Usuaia’s channel side airport back to Buenos Aires, for the last day of the trip. With the Bermans, we made our last foray into the neighborhoods of BA, for final shopping and a bargain lunch in a restaurant we were delighted to find ourselves the only tourists.
With a 10:30 p.m. departure for Dallas, en route to Boston,we were shocked to board the bus from the hotel to the airport at 5:00 in the afternoon. But after battling Friday afternoon traffic leaving the city, and arriving to encounter utter chaos at the airport, we understood our trip leader's concerns.
In 50 years of air travel, I have never encounters conditions like those at the airport - at least twenty lines of passengers, with perhaps a dozen people in each line, trying to check in, - with computers down, for the most part. Eventually, our leader took our information and came back with our boarding passes - only I found someone elses name on mine.
So the process started over again.
Eventually, courtesy of Sam Berman's lifetime membership in the American Airlines Admirals Club, we relaxed there - only to find an hour later our flight had been canceled. The wind had blown a rolling stairway into our plane, rendering it unfit to fly!
Eventually, we were boarded on a flight to Miami, and Sam's providential membership got us all Business Class seats, a great boon for the eight and a half hour flight. The down side is that Carol and Vivian Berman have now sworn never to fly any other way!
Looking back over the time we were gone, I was a little surprised to find that I could get along quite nicely - at least for two weeks - without telephones, newspapers, television, and e-mail. At the same time, I was reachable for a family emergency, should one have arisen.
It was a great trip, and increased my respect for OAT as an organization. We are going with them again soon.
The names of the books I read about the Southern Ocean and the ships which ventured into it no longer reside in my memory. But the fascination with the bottom of South American remains to this day.
Earlier this year, I happened on a recent volume titled “Rounding The Horn” by Dallas Murphy, and my interest was rekindled by his account of sailing in the area, and actually landing on a small island at the southern end of a series of islands streaming south from Tierra del Fuego, “Land of Fire”.
On this small island stands the tall rock called the Horn - named by the Dutch in honor of the Duke of Hoorn and later Anglicized. (As we later learned, whether the Horn is named for a duke or one of two towns with the name in Holland is still unresolved by historians.)
The book details the history of the European explorations and conquests of the area, beginning with the first contacts as early as the 16th century, and continuing through the establishment of the first European settlements in the mid-19th century.
Much of the focus of the book is on Tierra del Fuego, actually a large island, split between Chile and Argentina, like most of the southern third of South America. It lies south of the Magellan Straits, the waterway from the Atlantic to the Pacific found first in the 16th century by the explorer for whom is is named.
Then, longtime friends called and said they had signed up for a trip which would include a large portion of Patagonia, the name for the area south of a line drawn roughly from east to west starting at Buenos Aires, Argentina and crossing the continent to Santiago, Chile. Would we be interested in coming along?
It took me almost no time to decide I wanted to do it, and my friend Carol was delighted to go along. We signed on for the two week journey, beginning in Buenos Aires, and extending by plane, bus and boat all the way south.
The literature about the trip emphasized wind and weather - sudden changes and four seasons in a day. Bring lots of layers, we were told, and footwear for sloshing through mud and getting wet on beaches while debarking from small inflatables, as well as for trekking up and down mountains.
But keep luggage to a minimum because Argentinean airlines charge for anything over 33 pounds checked on domestic flights!
The week before our Saturday, December 8th, departure was a blur. Over the previous weekend, I fell prey to the consequences of a post nasal drip that threatened the entire journey.
But fortified with several kinds of nose drops and other remedies, we took off for Miami, to board another flight there to Buenos Aires, more than eight hours away.
BUENOS AIRES
Our 48 hours in Buenos Aires revealed a modern, quite beautiful city, with far more trees than one would expect and lots of parks, clean and well maintained.
Not so the downtown streets, which were bordered by very narrow sidewalks, many of them cracked and uneven, offered many opportunities for stumbling.
Traffic seemed unusually heavy for a Sunday - until we learned that a new president was to be inaugurated on Monday. (The fact that the election had been virtually ignored in the US media is an indication of how little attention is paid to the countries of S South America.)
Christina Kirchner was to be the first woman president of Argentina, democratically elected, in a scene eerily reminiscent of the Perons, Juan and Eva (Evita) who dominated Argentine politics from 1946 to 1955.
Christina won 46% of the votes in a nationwide election, succeeding her husband Nestor who chose not to run again. Without a primary, there was a field of 13 in the race.
Sunday night after dinner, part of the group (including Carol but not me) walked to the Pink House, the president’s resident in downtown Buenos Aires, where they caught glimpses of the new president and her husband, along with Chavez of Venezuela and Michelle Bachelet, president of Chile.
Bachelet presents a far different background than Argentina’s leader. She is a pediatrician, a socialist, a former minister and health and minister of defense. As we learned when we got to Chile, she has great respect there, in a country which is far more stable economically and far more prosperous than Argentina.
My attention on the trip has been focused on Patagonia and the area south of 50 degrees south latitude, and our visit to Buenos Aires was too short for a deep impression. The language barrier is significant, and one I chose not to try to surmount, Some others of the group did try, with varying degrees of success.
Sunday, our tour of the city included the city cemetery in the Recoleta district, a gaudy collection of above-ground mausoleums, with astonishing decorations in marble, granite and other stones.
We were told that some of the sites were bought and sold after families died out for sums greater than for large houses in the city. One feature I had not encountered before: glass doors to the crypts through which to view the coffins on shelves inside, presumably to make sure the bodies were still where they had been put.
Eva Peron is buried there, not as Eva Peron but as Eva Duarte, her family name. We were told her body was hidden for years after her death to prevent it from being seized by the anti-Peronist military forces which took control of the country in 1976 and ruled until 1983.
Another Argentinean whose grave is at Recoleta is Luis Firpo, a heavy weight boxer who knocked out Jack Dempsey in 1923 but was deprived of his rightful victory by the infamous “long count”.
Only a few of us in the group were old enough to know of the “Wild Bull of the Pampas”, as Firpo was billed in his career. (As a vintage newsreel available on YouTube shows, Firpo actually knocked Dempsey out of the ring, but the referee’s count gave him time to climb back in, and later knock out Firpo.)
Bright colors are supplied only by the flowers on some tombs, but every style of decoration in stone has been applied to the buildings, many of which extend underground.
Recoleta is open only during daylight hours, to reduce vandalism - but there was evidence of vandalism anyway, in parts missing from statuary and decorative fences torn apart.
Until mid-afternoon, our tour of the city continued, but not much registered with me. Obviously, I didn’t come for Buenos Aires.
But we did get, with several others in the group, to a private tango lesson in a bar cum tango museum around the corner from the hotel. I sat out the program but Carol proved a natural,
Dinner on our own at a lovely riverside restaurant was topped off with a fireworks display from the Pink House, celebrating the new president.
Although walking on city streets has not been strenuous, my pace is the slowest of the group, and I suspect I will need to opt out of some activities as the days go on.
The next morning, we headed further south, flying to the boom town of El Calafate, close to the Chliean border. the jumping off place for Los Glaciares National Park, home to the Perito Merino Glacier. For 50 years, Perito Merino has maintained the same mass, gaining six feet a day at the top and losing the same amount at the bottom.
I was lucky enough to see three “calving” ice chunks break off from the face of the glacier, to become floating icebergs in Lake Argentino. Merino is one of fifty glaciers in the park, which encompasses 1700 square miles.
It is the best known both for its stability and for the ease with which people can get close to it.
From El Calafate, we traversed the pampas to the west, heading for the Chilean border. Three hours of gravel road without a town in sight, the land itself brown with a few low bushes (including the calafate bush which yields berries from which jam is made). We saw occasional cattle and sheep but mostly simply open range.
At one point, we ran alongside a herd of sheep being moved to new pastures (or a shearing shed) by gauchos on horseback. At the end of a side road (gravel like the main road we had been traveling on) we stopped at a large barn, where hundreds of sheep were being shorn of their wool.
This annual event is accomplished by roving bands of shearers, who work for 1.5 pesos a fleece, which is in United States dollars about 50 cents. Wages are held down by the poor world market for wool and for lamb, according to what we were told.
The shearers work under the direction of a ”capo” who makes all the arrangements for the process, and who controls the workers with a gong, sounding it for starting, for stopping for mate (more about mate later), for lunch and for quitting time.
The sheep appeared to be resigned to their temporary nakedness, with little bleating heard. Despite the low wages, there is no apparent shortage of labor, with apprentices hauling off the fleeces to tables to be sorted and bailed for further processing, as they wait for an opportunity to become# shearers.
The sheep arrived by truck and evidently were returned to their proper pastures the same way. How who owned which sheep was decided was never revealed. We saw some with splotches of blue or red dyes on the backs of some in the flocks, which may have indicated their origin.
We never got a clear account of the whole process - I can probably find out at Google.
INTO CHILE
At noon, we were sitting in the bus at the border crossing from Argentina into Chile. For the first time since our arrival in South America, the sun shone, and we put up relatively good-naturedly with the inexplicable delay in processing us through.
Clearly, there are issues between Chile and Argentina that have not been resolved. Otherwise, why would we have had to change to a Chilean bus company and bring on board a Chilean local guide? Why would there be lengthy processing for a busload of American tourists, under the guidance of a well-known tour company?
The customs office is one of half a dozen buildings on the site, in the middle of the pampas - but for the first time since leaving El Calafate, there is green in the landscape. Green grass instead of brown covers the land, and there there are trees on the nearby hills.
The green grass indicates much more rain than further east, and the trees indicate less wind.
The inspection was finally over, and we left for the Chilean border crossing, seven kilometers further west, where we would have to go through the whole process again.
TORRES DEL PAINE NATIONAL PARK
Driving into the park, the first vista was a bright cerulean blue lake beneath the abrupt mountains that give the park its name. As we drove further, the views of the peaks constantly changed, with colors shading and textures changing as the angle and distance shifted.
It was a memorable experience heightened by the dazzling sunshine that accompanied us all day, and into the 9:45 sunset. (It stays light for another 45 minutes after sunset.)
We began to see more wildlife. A humpless member of the camel family, the guanaco, protected in the park, has proliferated and we saw dozens along the roadside.
In the air were condors and meadow larks, and on the ground upland geese and the cora-cora, as well as the ostrich-like bird called “nandu” or rhea. The rhea’s chicks are under the protection of the male bird.
At one point, we saw a brood of about a dozen chicks suddenly coalesce into a tight band as their father attacked a small fox which wanted the chicks. The fox quickly changed his mind, as the much larger bird ran him into the brush.
The Chilean guide who had joined us at the border was entranced - she had read of that kind of behavior but had never seen it before.
The towering peaks that give the park its name are only about 10,000 feet tall, but suddenly emerging as they do from the flat pampas, they became the focus of our eyes.
Late in the day, we arrived at Hosteria Lago Grey, a lodge at the southern end of Lake Grey, into which the Grey Glacier calves its chunks of ice, which become floating icebergs moving with the wind, and often grounding in the shallows. There were several in the “front yard” of the Hosteria.
The modern main building was flanked by cabins, connected to the lodge by a covered walkway. As at all our stops, our luggage was delivered to the doors of our rooms, and in the morning, we put it out to be repacked on the bus.
It was 9:15 that evening when we sat down to dinner, one of the poorer meals of the trip - tough tenderloin and tasteless fish. The day had included a long trek into the lower portions of the massif, and I slept through until six in the morning, waking sore and stiff from the exertions.
A Tylenol with codeine morning.
The treks are designed to walk to a destination and return by the same route. Thus, if someone falls behind, as I often did, I can retrace my steps, and the guide has a pretty good idea of where people are.
Typically, the local guide leads the group and Pedro, the team leader brings up the rear, available for the laggards, of which I was usually one.
One thing that was very clear on crossing into Chile was the strength of the economy, compared to Argentino Although the rate of exchange was vastly different - 3.12 pesos to the dollar in Argentina and 475 pesos to the dollar in Chile - prices were significantly higher in Chile, buoyed by a roaring world market for copper and the other minerals found in abundance in the country.
The difference in the economic heath of the two countries can perhaps be traced to the very different courses they have followed since the overthrow of their dictators, Pinochet in Chile and Peron in Argentina. The Peronistas and Peron’s philosophy of popularism, tinged with a healthy dose of corruption, have been a heavy burden for the country to face.
Chile, on the other hand, has repudiated the Pinochet regime while being the beneficiary of the country’s mineral deposits.
The next morning brought sun and clouds - and wind. We hiked towards the face of the glacier along the shore of the lake, eventually reaching a beach with the glacier in front of us.
The trek continued across the beach and into the hills on the other side, but I chose to break off and watch the movement of the icebergs floating in the lake. Crossing the beach became a rite of passage, as the wind continued with gusts up to 50 miles an hour - or so it was estimated.
RANCH LIFE
Back on the bus towards noon, we headed for Punta Arenas, the largest Chilean town south of Santiago, and the jumping off place for voyages further south.
But first, we diverted to Estancia Rio Verde.
A sheep and cattle ranch dating from the 1800’s, it began serving tours in recent years, perhaps because sheep raising has become more difficult to make money at.
The ranch is a family affair, with the owner involved, his American daughter-in-law the pastry chef and maitre d’hotel, and friends and family making up the small staff.
Outside were 10,000 sheep and 4,000 cows, but inside was comfortable and warm, with superb food. Saturday morning, while the group hiked to the arm of the Pacific on which the ranch is located, I stayed behind.
After two days of intensive trekking - even though I did only about half of the walks - I was ready for a few hours of rest. The uneven surfaces take a psychological toll as well as a physical one on my back and legs.
People have been helpful and understanding, but I have felt abashed and embarrassed at being able to do so little.
Our Chilean guide is delightful - a 34 year old mother of a 9 month old daughter, married to a Polish chef. She and her family spend the travel season - September through May - in Chile and the rest of the year in Germany.
She is very grounded, knowledgeable, and a low key contrast to our trip leader, who is bombastic exaggerator - but also very knowledgeable and one who made strong efforts to help me when I needed help.
Once I decoded his language - “a couple of hundred yards” meant half a mile,
“a few minutes” could be up to half an hour - I had little trouble. He is of Italian descent, as are many native Argentineans, proud of his heritage, proud of his city, proud of his country but profoundly unhappy with the way it is governed.
Living, as the people of the estancia do, 22 kilometers from the nearest improved (gravel, not paved) road, requires some interesting adjustments. Electricity is provided by a generator - from 8 p.m. to 10:30 or 11:00. Before and after that, candles and flashlights suffice.
With the generator, lights bulbs tend to be small, set high on the walls. The rooms are spartan, and the bathrooms tiny - at least ours was - but the public rooms are quite large by contrast, and comfortably furnished in a style reminiscent of the American West. There was lots of oaks beams, heavy wood furniture , roughly plastered walls, high ceilings.
An unexpected highlight of our visit to the ranch occurred on the morning of our departure, when we were treated to a Chilean rodeo, in the rodeo ring which is part of the ranch.
Several dozen mounted gauchos, each wearing a woolen poncho in distinctive colors, marched into the ring, to vie with one another in their abilities to handle cattle in a number of situations.
Unfortunately, our timetable prevented an extended stay in the arena, and we were off to Punta Arenas where our ship was waiting.
THE TOUR GROUP
There are 24 people in the party - two single women (in their 40’s?), a father and son (27), another irregular liaison like Carol and I, and the rest (more or less) comfortably married couples.
At 82, I am the third oldest after Sam, 84, and someone else at 83. The rest appear to be in their 60’s and 70’s, and almost all retired.
I suspect the group is more conservative politically than the people I spend most of my time with - but the trip leader ordered us to refrain from political discussion in the interests of harmony, and we have done so.
In the meantime, he has been lavish in his praise of the Chilean president and harsh in his criticism of the Argentinean government.
Most of the couples appear relatively well-of, judging by the clothing in evidence, with a lot of new outwear apparently bought specifically for this trip.
We have spent more time with the Bermans than with others, but we usually have our meals with at least one other couple as well.
THE WIND
The wind is ever-present. At Lake Grey, it appeared to be blowing at least 45-50 miles an hour. and the trees in many placed lean away from the westerly direction of the gales.
At this latitude, below 50 degrees south, there is no other land around the globe to interrupt the wind’s flow - and it just keeps growing stronger. That constant westerly flow against sailing vessels trying to go west around Cape Horn from the Atlantic to the Pacific is what made the passage for those sailing ships such an ordeal, in many cases.
At last, a week after we left Boston, we boarded the Mare Australis (Southern Sea) at 8 p.m. in Punta Arenas. The vessel has cabins for 120, and on this trip, 110 people are on board, including our 25.
Late that night, I woke to feel the only rolling of the ship during the entire voyage. It came from the west running waves as we left the Straits of Magellan for the open Pacific briefly on our way into the islands.
After a day and a half of cruising south at a leisurely pace, several things impressed me. What we were seeing in the Straits of Magellan, and the islands running south from Tierra del Fuego was virtually unchanged from what Magellan and his crew saw in 1520.
Below the Beagle Channel, the avenue to the Pacific that Darwin and the Beagle sailed through in 1834, there are virtually no people except the Chilean naval personnel at the tiny town of Puerto Williams, on the island of Navarino (population 1725).
Reportedly, a small population of Yamana, descendants of the natives, are among those living in the town.
South of Puerto Williams which lies on the north shore of Navarino Island, across the Beagle Channel from the city of Ushuaia, in Argentina, no crops are grown, a few ranches survive. but the country is essentially uninhabited.
A rare aid to navigation, in the form of a channel marker, very occasionally reminded us that other people have been there. The land itself is hilly, with mountains of varying heights, standing on islands, islets, and just plain rocks sticking out of the fjords and channels that go back into the land.
No beaches are to be seen, with most of the hills ending right at the water. In the day and a half we have been sailing south from Punta Arenas, I have seen only two small fishing boats and a single sailing vessel, a chartered sloop based at Porto Williams.
The wind, which had been with us from Buenos Aires to Punta Arenas, disappeared when we boarded Mare Australis, and Saturday and Sunday were fair and pleasant with lots of sun.
Now, glaciers became the focus of the trip, as we steamed down “Glacier Alley”, the northwest arm of the Beagle Channel. We went ashore to see Pia Glacier up close and personal, and then watched from the Sky Lounge on the 4th deck (the highest) as the parade continued.
Germany Glacier is the longest in the area, and we viewed it as the sound system played “Lili Marlene”. This glacier flowed down at a gentle angle, not quite reaching the water. Behind the glaciers, the mountain peaks rise with a mantle of snow fields rising up to the summits.
A new vista opened, a mountain side laid out in striated bands of rock and vegetation in a arc pattern, as though the center of the mountain had been pulled up while the ends were anchored;
It appeared capable of supplying feed for sheep but as in the rest of Tierra del Fuego, no animals were visible.
The weather gods continue to favor us - no sun but no fog and no low-lying clouds obscuring the mountains. In late afternoon, the white streams flowing from snow fields down the sides of the mountains stand out like chalk lines on a blackboard.
CAPE HORN
First, it isn’t a cape - it’s an island, shown on the navigation charts as Isla Hornos, the farthest south of the Tierra del Fuego archipelago. (The illusion that we were the only people in the area was utterly shattered as our 120 passenger ship dropped anchor on the east side of the island, right next to the 80 passenger expedition ship, the SS Bremen, based in Ushuaia, Argentina and carrying a group of German travelers.)
It was originally Hoorn Island, named for a small Dutch town or a Dutch nobleman (depending on which source you check) by a Dutch expedition which saw it in 1616.
On the island is a lighthouse, manned by a single Chilean naval rating and his family who spend a year there, in a house attached to the light. Next door, is a chapel dedicated to the sailors who died in the shipwrecks that have occurred over the years in the area.
An outbuilding completes the tiny settlement, while half a mile away, reached by the wooden walkway erected to accommodate visitors and spare the sparse grass, is a magnificent sculpture honoring the dead sailors - seven sheets of stainless steel, set up as a square on end, surrounding a negative space depicting the albatross, the bird most typical of the region, and thought to embody the souls of the 10,000 sailors who were lost in the 800 recorded shipwrecks in the area.
Access to the island for us was by Zodiac on to a narrow beach of large pebbles, and then up 165 stairs to the mesa-like table land that made up the bulk of the island’s 14 acres. The “horn” rises nearly 1500 feet at the other end of the island.
No trees were visible on the island, only short grass and a few shrubs clinging to the edges of the land on the leeward side of the island.
Unlike my imagined Cape Horn, sitting in lonely splendor, surrounding the island on three sides are other varying sized islands and islets which make up the archipelago, stretching north to the large island that makes up the bulk of Tierra del Fuego.
Our weather good fortune continued, with little wind and actual periods of sun during our couple of hours ashore. Pedro, our guide, was making his fifth trip to Cape Horn, and had not been able to go ashore on his previous four trips because the weather would not allow the Zodiacs to be launched.
Getting up the 165 steps was the crowning physical achievement of the trip for me, but I had had lots of practice aboard ship. Our cabin was on the fourth deck, the dining room on the first, and other activities on the second and third decks, with no elevators.
The ship itself had been launched in Valparaiso, Chile, in 2003, designed specifically for the kind of trip we were on. We were on its 167th voyage from Punta Arenas to Ushuaia via Cape Horn, and back, a week’s journey.
Our cabin had twin beds, a dresser, a side chair, a large window on the sea, and a surprising large lavatory with shower. I have had very little ocean-going experience, but the boat seemed more than adequate.
Breakfast and lunch were cafeteria style, while dinner was a full sit-down meal, with unlimited wine from Chilean and Argentinean vineyards. OAT had three nine-place tables to ourselves, served by an extremely accommodating waiter, who managed to find tonic water for me when I had had more wine that I needed.
Two birthdays in our group were celebrated with cake and champagne on very short notice.
Piped into each cabin were three or four channels of music, with a classical channel we found exceptional. Even the engine room , which we got to visit, was spotless.
Access to the outside was more limited that I would have expected, with open decks only outside the Sky Lounge on the fourth deck, at the stern of the boat, and a similar small area at the bow on the third floor, outside another lounge. I would suspect that a good deal of the time, the weather would not be conducive to strolling on the deck outdoors.
USHUAIA, ARGENTINA
This small city, clinging to a shelf of land below the end of the Andes for six or seven miles, is the jumping off place for voyages to Antartica, Cape Horn and the Falklands, and as these trips have gained popularity, the city has grown.
Moored to the docks in the harbor were half a dozen vessels, ranging from our own 236 foot liner to a three-masted sailing ship that makes the Antartic trip at a slower pace.
The city is geared today to the expeditionary business, with people working in Ushuaia from September to May, and then leaving for warmer climes until the next season. The population is reported to be 64,000.
Our day and a half at Ushuaia featured a Landrover ride to a lake in the interior of Tierra del Fuego Island that added little to our experience, but did feature a superb lunch of sausage and steak, cooked on a barbecue set up in the woods.
Tea in the home of the owner of the Landrovers, high up the muntainside above the city, gave us some great views, loevly tea and outstanding pastry.
We flew out of Usuaia’s channel side airport back to Buenos Aires, for the last day of the trip. With the Bermans, we made our last foray into the neighborhoods of BA, for final shopping and a bargain lunch in a restaurant we were delighted to find ourselves the only tourists.
With a 10:30 p.m. departure for Dallas, en route to Boston,we were shocked to board the bus from the hotel to the airport at 5:00 in the afternoon. But after battling Friday afternoon traffic leaving the city, and arriving to encounter utter chaos at the airport, we understood our trip leader's concerns.
In 50 years of air travel, I have never encounters conditions like those at the airport - at least twenty lines of passengers, with perhaps a dozen people in each line, trying to check in, - with computers down, for the most part. Eventually, our leader took our information and came back with our boarding passes - only I found someone elses name on mine.
So the process started over again.
Eventually, courtesy of Sam Berman's lifetime membership in the American Airlines Admirals Club, we relaxed there - only to find an hour later our flight had been canceled. The wind had blown a rolling stairway into our plane, rendering it unfit to fly!
Eventually, we were boarded on a flight to Miami, and Sam's providential membership got us all Business Class seats, a great boon for the eight and a half hour flight. The down side is that Carol and Vivian Berman have now sworn never to fly any other way!
Looking back over the time we were gone, I was a little surprised to find that I could get along quite nicely - at least for two weeks - without telephones, newspapers, television, and e-mail. At the same time, I was reachable for a family emergency, should one have arisen.
It was a great trip, and increased my respect for OAT as an organization. We are going with them again soon.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
ANOTHER HOT SPRING IS JUST DOWN THE ROAD
SUMMER 2007 WESTERN ROAD TRIP:
ANOTHER HOT SPRING IS JUST DOWN THE ROAD
After meticulously recording the story of the first four days our trip from Boston to San Anselmo, California in my semi-immortal prose, I managed to leave my notebook on the flight from Oakland to Salt Lake City. Despite several pleas to Southwest Airlines, the notebook has not surfaced.
Thus, the following account may not have the immediacy of the original version, but it represents my best shot.
The much advertised “extra legroom” on JetBlue planes is true. On our non-stop flight from Boston to Oakland, California, our window and aisle seats on the left side of the plane, near the front, were quite comfortable. What I hadn’t anticipated was my seat companion on the window - a five foot tall young lady weighing at least 350 pounds.
She overspread her seat, making my every move a very cautious one, as mounds of flesh extended in all directions. The poor young lady ate almost continuously from the time we took off, crunching M&Ms and a variety of morsels from her handbag, which I picked up for her on the several occasions she couldn’t bend over far enough to get it.
Aside from that, the flight was uneventful, and on time.
Knowing there would be no dinner on the flight which left at 7:45 p.m., Carol had thoughtfully prepared a healthy meal of borscht, salad and fruit. Unfortunately, the borscht was confiscated by the ubiquitous TSA employees, as an impermissible liquid.
I hope they enjoyed it.
We were on our way to visit Carol’s daughter Tami, and her family. Tami Miller Vasquez, her husband Edmundo, and teenage children Julia and Jacob, live in San Anselmo, in Marin County, north of San FRancisco. They were flooded out of their home in the flood of 2005.
According to Wikipedia, “Heavy rains caused the creek to flood in 1982, as well as recently on December 31, 2005. Significant creek flooding occurs in San Anselmo every 20-23 years, in 1940, 1963, 1982 and in 2005. 1982 was the worst, with up to 5 feet of rapidly moving water traveling down the main street. 2005 was only 2-3 feet. Traditionally after the flood, the town cleans up, changes little in building codes to mitigate water damage in new construction and remodels in the affected flood plain area and waits another 20 years.”
Tami and Edmundo chose to refurbish the house, which had about two feet of water on the first floor, and to raise the house itself four feet in the process. Landscaping remains to be done, but the interior itself is much improved. Carol and I were seeing the reconstruction for the first time.
We arrived on a Thursday evening, as Tami was getting Jacob ready to depart early Saturday morning for a month in Barcelona, studying Spanish, as his sister had done a year ago.
By mid-afternoon on Friday, Tami had finished what needed doing, and with the rest of the family occupied, Tami, Carol and I drove northwest to Point Reyes Station, a small town which is the gateway to Point Reyes National Seashore, and which retains the frontier flavor of its origin as a railway junction in the early days of the the 20th century.
Sir Francis Drake landed on a beach in the area in 1579, on his voyage around the world. Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, running from Tiburon to Point Reyes National Seashore, is among the many commemorative designations which celebrate his landing.
Tami had been there often, and we ran into several of her friends as we wandered around the few streets in the village.
Saturday, once Jacob was safely on his way to Spain, we drove south to Tiburon, sited at the north end of San Francisco Bay. Here, ferries leave frequently for the city as well as for Angel Island, less than a mile to the south. Having missed the hourly ferry to Angel Island, we opted for the San Francisco ferry which docked at the Ferry Building, where we debarked into an astonishing array of restaurants, bistros, cheese shops, bakeries, and assorted food emporiums. Carol and Tami did the heavy investigation, while I sat in the sun, which finally came out of the fog after playing hide and seek with the city most of the day.
After a superb Thai lunch, we took the ferry to Angel Island, for a tour by tram of the site of an army hospital, a prisoner of war camp in World War II, and the West Coast version of Ellis Island. In the 1920’s, when the door was closed by the United States to immigration from the Far East, only family members of Asians already in the country were allowed in - and Angel Island was where they were held while each case was investigated.
The island is now a state park, with a myriad of activities, and frequent ferry service from both Tiburon and San Francisco. We barely scraped the surface, and the place deserves a couple of days of exploration. It’s history includes its use by Native Americans, and Spanish occupation in the 17th and 18th centuries.
Sunday, Tami, Carol and I drove north again, but this time, I dropped them off in the hills above Stinson Beach, a resort south of Point Reyes, at about one thirty in the afternoon. The idea was for them to hike down a trail, four and one half miles, to Stinson Beach, where I would be waiting for them.
Tami estimated the walk would be about two hours, and we agreed that I would wait at the general store in Stinson Beach.
I found the store with no difficulty, - the town has only one of anything - got out my book, and settled down for a couple of peaceful hours, with occasional glances at the California girls, who were so poor they could only afford tiny strips of fabric for bathing suits.
At three thirty, I spoke with a county sheriff’s deputy - Stinson Beach has no police force and a volunteer fire department - who was on traffic duty. He assured me that the trail leading down to Stinson Beach (which I mistakenly thought they had taken) was very popular, and would have lots of hikers on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. “Not to worry”.
At about four forty-five, with no word, I decided to call 911, got the sheriff’s office which connected me to the Forest Service, and told them my tale. After hearing they would send out an alert for the two hikers, I settled down to wait.
At about five thirty, my cell phone rang. It was Tami - they had lost the trail (which was a fire road rather than a trail). They had been forced retrace their steps to their starting place, the first place which had service for her cell phone.
I called the Forest Service with the news, and started off to pick them up. A few miles up the mountain, at a Forest Service garage, several men in two trucks were in conversation.
Either by brains or luck, I pulled into the parking lot, and found them talking about us. One of them was sure he knew where they were, based on my less than perfect description of where I had let them off.
He took off to that location. I was sure he was going in the wrong direction, and stubbornly decided to set off again on my own. The second ranger said, “We already have two people lost. I am going to follow you to make sure we don’t have a third.”
Within five minutes, I became aware that I was traversing an area I hadn’t seen before, and shortly, the ranger tailing me honked, pulled over, and told me they had been found.
Much chagrined, I followed him for a few miles, realized that I had completely missed a vital turn in the road, and was happily reunited with Carol and Tami.
Lesson to be learned: identify in very specific terms - names of roads and intersections - the starting place, with sufficient information to get back to it. My nonchalance was my undoing. I apologized profusely to the rangers, whose attitude was very forgiving, and an indication to me that my kind of behavior was not an unusual occurrence.
We celebrated the happy outcome with broiled oysters at a recommended restaurant in Olemah, a tiny town in the area. Our conclusion: better to eat ‘em raw with sauce and horseradish.
Monday morning, Southwest Airlines took us to Salt Lake City, where we picked up a rental car and headed north. We had chosen Lava Hot Springs, Idaho, as our destination the first night, and checked out the bed and breakfasts on the Internet.
No one could tell us where our first choice was located, and the proprietor was in a yoga class and unavailable. The second choice was in the center of town, and not very prepossessing. Carol went to check out the rooms, and came back with a doubtful expression on her face.
We were parked behind a fence, on the other side of which was a hot springs pool at least one hundred feet by twenty, with several smaller pools - one with hotter water, the other with cold water. On the left was an institutional looking building which was the b and b.
In an earlier life, we learned, it had been a rest home for injured veterans of World War I; then, a community hospital run by a couple, both of whom were doctors; and finally, in the 1980’s, when the town’s population had shrunk to the point where the hospital could not longer be supported, it had become a bed and breakfast.
The room we were shown was large and clean if somewhat meagerly furnished. At one end was an alcove - without a door - in which sat a toilet and opposite it was a jacuzzi tub.
Despite the unusual features of the place, we decided it would suffice.
There were few other visitors - our room was the only one of about six on our end of the floor that was occupied. After dinner at one of the town’s two restaurants, we tried the hot spring.
We learned the water originates in an artesian well, and is about 140 degrees Fahrenheit when it reached the lodge. Diluting it with cold water keeps the pool temperature about 110.
The spring is also the source of heating for the place, with multiple plastic pipes in each room replacing radiators or vents. The showers and drinking water come from the same source.
The pool appears to have some characteristics of social club. Half a dozen middle-aged men were in the shallow end for what appeared to be a nightly congregation where, I suspect, the town’s affairs were conducted.
The owner made and served breakfast the next morning, providing us with a little of the history of the place.
The Greyhouse bed and breakfast is twelve miles south of Salmon, Idaho, a Victorian mansion that had been moved from Salmon, where it had once served as hospital (we were getting into a rut). Victorian was the theme of the furnishings as well, with a profusion of Victorian hats, lamps photos, etchings and a wild and unorganized assortment of knickknacks.
Sharon, the co-owner with her husband - he was not visible - is the archetype of a pleasant, motherly b and b hostess, The house sits a few hundred feet from the Salmon River, on which her son runs rafting trips.
At least in the parts we saw, the Salmon does not appear to be a serious white water river - but the scenery is wonderful. We got to Greyhouse about six in the evening, after a very long day on the road, following the river up from Lava Hot Springs,
We had taken a wide detour from Lava Hot Springs to see Craters of the Moon National Monument, the creation of thousands of year of volcanic eruptions that spewed cinders and lava over a wide area.
Carol had seen it forty-five years ago, and remembered it as much less raked over and smoothed out.
Our route entered the Sawtooth National Recreation Area, with beautiful woods and streams, and very little man-made interference except for the roads. There was far less traffic than I would have expected. My speculation that tourism is down this year - gas prices? - was confirmed later in the trip by inn owners who were experiencing a lean season.
We headed north again, out of the Area, surrounded by mountains, and it was here, late in the day, with the sun behind us, shining on the mountains, that I understood “purple mountain majesties” - because the mountains rising on each side of the highway were indeed purple in the late afternoon light.
With the light traffic, the typical car was cruising at well over the 75 m.p.h. speed limit on major roads. Even secondary roads are posted at 65 m.p.h. Our slower travel made it politically wise to pull over into a layby occasionally to let faster traffic pass on the narrower highways.
The river was no more crowded than the highway - we saw only several pairs of kayakers and two eight-person rafts.
Wednesday was to be our slow day. It began at a leisurely breakfast at which I refused the offer of french toast - forsaking it for poached eggs on toast.
Sharon said several times, “But we have french toast!” Evidently I was missing a special treat and she was clearly not very happy with me.
As is usually the case in bed and breakfasts, the conversation with other guests begins: “Where are you from?” “Wow, that’s a long way from here. Did you drive all the way?”
Once the locality exchanges take place, the conversation tends to lag. However, a boy of twelve or thirteen at our table asked Carol, “What did you do for a living?”
She considered it an unusual question from a youngster, but answered it without much elaboration. When I thought about it, it seemed he had probably heard the same question asked by his parents - and asking it himself established his bona fides as a seasoned traveler.
After breakfast, we loaded up and spent an hour walking about Salmon, which has 3012 people and at least twice as many retail establishments as Lexington. It is a center for river and forest activities, as well as for the ranchers and farmers in the area.
After lunch in the town of North Fork, we headed east, crossing the Great Divide at Chief Joseph's Pass, and then heading down slope to the site of the near-final chapter in the history of the Nez Perce Native Americans’ struggle to maintain their way of life.
At the Battle of Big Hole, the Nez Perce decisively defeated the U.S. Army troops, only to be pursued and driven north by that same army.
The Nez Perce were trying to avoid being herded onto a reservation in what is now Idaho. They were desperately trying to reach sanctuary in Canada - and about 150 finally made it.
Chief Joseph. with the remaining band of women and sick children and his few remaining warriors, finally surrendered and were put on reservations, where they survive to this day.
Chief Joseph’s words are remembered to this day, as he ended his last speech, "Hear me, my chiefs. I am tired; my heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands I will fight no more, forever."
The government erected a monument in 1883 to the Army soldiers who died at Big Hole - but the Native Americans didn’t get the same treatment until recently.
At the battle field site, the movie depicting the battle and the fate of the Nez Perce affected both Carol and I deeply - we spent the rest of the day in a state of depression, brought on by the realization once again of the incredible cruelty inflicted on Native Americans throughout our country’s history.
By four in the afternoon we had reached Jackson, Montana, a wide place in the road. with 232 residents. It featured a garage, which appeared to specialize in farm and ranch machinery; a barroom, open on weekends: a “mercantile store” which was essentially a deli; an antique store; and our destination. the Jackson Hot Springs Lodge.
Clearly, an architect had never been allowed with a mile of the place. But despite its failings as an example of well-designed western style, it had a hot springs pool, 75’ by 25’. As with the inn at Lava Hot Springs, the water, which came from a well nine miles from the lodge, was used for washing, dining and heating.
The pool was being refilled - it is drained weekly - but there was enough water after dinner for Carol to get wet.
The pretentious restaurant at the lodge, with the only alternative a sandwich at the deli, managed to combine mediocre food with high prices. But a morning dip in the now filled pool restored our good humor - until I went to start the car and found the battery dead.
The previous evening, in closing up the car, I had inadvertently hit the alarm button on the remote control, sending the horn blaring and the lights flashing. I eventually got the horn to cease wailing but could not douse the lights.
Foolishly, I assumed they would stop on their own.
And they did - at 2:06 a.m. when the the battery died, as evidenced by the dashboard clock.
The garage across the street was kind enough to send a truck with jumper cables to immediately get us going. The man who brought them refused any compensation, a not unusual response in the West.
(We had ordered a compact car from National but were given a full size - it was a Montana registered car that the company as sending towards home from Salt Lake City. It had a keyless starting system I hadn’t seen before. Get in the car using the remote to unlock the car, press a button on the dash with a foot on the brake and voila! - a keyless start!)
Without further problems, we drove on through Dillon, Twin Bridges, Sheraton, Virginia City, Nevada City and Ennis (home of the now famous house that Mara designed for Fred Goldberg).
By four thirty, we had picked up one of Mara’s cars at the farm on Cobb Hill Road, returned our rental to the Bozeman Airport at Belgrade, picked up some groceries, and were napping when Mara got home about six.
The place has been altered substantially since we last visited in June 2006. Mara has performed extraordinary effects with the property, both in the main house and in the “cabin”.
The cabin, designed for vacation rentals,- now with two bedrooms, a new kitchen, new furnishings throughout, high end linens and towels, and gorgeous lighting - will have its first month long tenant beginning the day after we left.
The main house is air conditioned, for which we were grateful after several days of 100 degree heat. With Mara busy with appointments on Friday, we were happy enough to flake out and recover after four days on the road, in very hot weather.
People we talked with on the way indicated that the extreme temperatures in the high ‘90s were unusual for such an extended period. Fortunately for lawns and farms, there seems to be no serious water shortage in Western Montana, with plenty of water for irrigation.
Some other areas of Montana are not so fortunate, with water restrictions in place.
Mara’s farm on Cobb Hill Road is about as far from downtown Bozeman you can get and still be in the city limits. The road past the house has been paved since we were here last, cutting down on the noise and dust created by the former gravel surface. The three and one half acre plot sits about a half mile from the main road south to Big Sky Resort and the Gallatin River Valley.
In addition to the main house and the cabin, there is a smaller building which will eventually be a one-bedroom guest house. Next to the cabin, there is a long low building now used as a workshop and for storage.
There are several paddocks enclosed with jack fencing (horizontal poles held in place at each end by a pair of X-crossed poles), and a weather shelter for the horses which once occupied the paddocks, along with the tack room.
The main house has a deck on all four sides, with a step or two to the lawn, which is shaded by a grove of tall cottonwood trees.
Mara’s original thought had been to lease the paddocks to horse owners looking for space, but with vacationing tenants coming to the cabin, that concept has been put on hold. Non-horse people might find the odors off-putting.
The land looks south to mountains and north to mountains. Less than 15 minutes brings you to downtown Bozeman, but the feeling is completely rural.
Friday evening we had dinner in Bozeman with Lark Smotherman, the professional photographer who has done pictures of most of Mara’s projects, and whose work can be seen on Mara’s website.
We learned that Lark has taken a position as Artistic Director of a major international advertising firm. It gives her a measure of financial security she needs at this point, but her leaving later this fall to live in San Antonio will deprive Mara of a very good friend.
Saturday morning, we drove north to Helena, stopping for lunch there and then driving on to The Gates of The Mountains, an opening in the mountains seen and named by Lewis and Clark.
“It was mid-July, 1805, when Captain Meriwether Lewis first viewed the Gates of the Mountains along Montana's Missouri River. His journal entry describes the scene this way: "we entered the most remarkable clifts that we have yet seen. These clifts rise from the water's edge on either side perpendicularly to the height of 1,200 feet. Solid rock for the distance of 5 miles." This view is still available for today's adventurer and it looks virtually the same as when Capt. Lewis and his Corps of Discovery first laid eyes upon it.”
Tour boats now leave from a dock on a lake at the Hilger Ranch and travel downstream through the canyon. The lake, formed by a dam, has a marina and appeared to be a popular boating area.
The Hilger Ranch, on the south side of the Gates and on the west side of river, has been preserved and protected from development since it was established in the 1850’s, and the present owner appears to adhere to the same philosophy.
The boat trip took us past campgrounds maintained by the Bureau of LAnd Management and the Forest Service, most accessible only by water. The cliffs enclosing the river are spectacular, and for the first time on the trip, my camera was out and working.
With us was Chere Jiusto, executive director of Montana Preservation Alliance, the organization of which Mara has been president and is now treasurer. As its title indicates, it is “working to preserve historic resources and places in Montana through education, advocacy, technical assistance, awards and partnerships with like-minded preservation groups.”
The tour took us past Mann Gulch, the site of the 1949 forest fire that claimed the lives of 12 fire jumpers, trapped in a box canyon when the fire exploded. The story was told in a book called “Young Men and Fire” by Norman MacLean, the author of “A River Runs Through It”.
I had read the book many years ago, and have never forgotten the story of the 15 elite jumpers who parachuted into the gulch. Ten were dead within an hour of the drop and two more died the next day. Only three survived, scarred for the rest of their lives by the experience.
On a bright sunny day, with scarcely a cloud in the sky, it was difficult - actually, impossible - to look up the canyon from the water and imagine what happened nearly sixty years ago.
Saturday evening, Mara’s friends, Les and Margie Reeves had us as their guests for dinner, along with Les’ son and daughter-in-law. Designing the interior of their home in an up-scale development on the south side of Bozeman had been one of Mara’s first jobs, and she formed a friendship with the couple that has continued.
The Reeves had come to Lexington earlier this summer on their way to a sailing trip in Maine, and we had given them lunch.
Bozeman has continued to grow commercially and residentially, but sitting on the deck that runs on all four sides of Mara’s main house on a quiet Sunday afternoon, none of that activity impinged on the our vision.
The heat and the forest fires in the general area made for a good deal of haze. The mountains to the south, in the direction of Yellowstone Park, were barely visible.
Sunday night, our last evening, was spent with Mara’s friend and across-the-road neighbor, Lynne and her husband, the real estate broker who found the property for Mara. Lynne’s contagious sense of humor made the evening go all too fast.
In a state of great contentment, I said, “We are coming for a month next year.” I suspect Mara wrote it down to hold me to it.
+
ANOTHER HOT SPRING IS JUST DOWN THE ROAD
After meticulously recording the story of the first four days our trip from Boston to San Anselmo, California in my semi-immortal prose, I managed to leave my notebook on the flight from Oakland to Salt Lake City. Despite several pleas to Southwest Airlines, the notebook has not surfaced.
Thus, the following account may not have the immediacy of the original version, but it represents my best shot.
The much advertised “extra legroom” on JetBlue planes is true. On our non-stop flight from Boston to Oakland, California, our window and aisle seats on the left side of the plane, near the front, were quite comfortable. What I hadn’t anticipated was my seat companion on the window - a five foot tall young lady weighing at least 350 pounds.
She overspread her seat, making my every move a very cautious one, as mounds of flesh extended in all directions. The poor young lady ate almost continuously from the time we took off, crunching M&Ms and a variety of morsels from her handbag, which I picked up for her on the several occasions she couldn’t bend over far enough to get it.
Aside from that, the flight was uneventful, and on time.
Knowing there would be no dinner on the flight which left at 7:45 p.m., Carol had thoughtfully prepared a healthy meal of borscht, salad and fruit. Unfortunately, the borscht was confiscated by the ubiquitous TSA employees, as an impermissible liquid.
I hope they enjoyed it.
We were on our way to visit Carol’s daughter Tami, and her family. Tami Miller Vasquez, her husband Edmundo, and teenage children Julia and Jacob, live in San Anselmo, in Marin County, north of San FRancisco. They were flooded out of their home in the flood of 2005.
According to Wikipedia, “Heavy rains caused the creek to flood in 1982, as well as recently on December 31, 2005. Significant creek flooding occurs in San Anselmo every 20-23 years, in 1940, 1963, 1982 and in 2005. 1982 was the worst, with up to 5 feet of rapidly moving water traveling down the main street. 2005 was only 2-3 feet. Traditionally after the flood, the town cleans up, changes little in building codes to mitigate water damage in new construction and remodels in the affected flood plain area and waits another 20 years.”
Tami and Edmundo chose to refurbish the house, which had about two feet of water on the first floor, and to raise the house itself four feet in the process. Landscaping remains to be done, but the interior itself is much improved. Carol and I were seeing the reconstruction for the first time.
We arrived on a Thursday evening, as Tami was getting Jacob ready to depart early Saturday morning for a month in Barcelona, studying Spanish, as his sister had done a year ago.
By mid-afternoon on Friday, Tami had finished what needed doing, and with the rest of the family occupied, Tami, Carol and I drove northwest to Point Reyes Station, a small town which is the gateway to Point Reyes National Seashore, and which retains the frontier flavor of its origin as a railway junction in the early days of the the 20th century.
Sir Francis Drake landed on a beach in the area in 1579, on his voyage around the world. Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, running from Tiburon to Point Reyes National Seashore, is among the many commemorative designations which celebrate his landing.
Tami had been there often, and we ran into several of her friends as we wandered around the few streets in the village.
Saturday, once Jacob was safely on his way to Spain, we drove south to Tiburon, sited at the north end of San Francisco Bay. Here, ferries leave frequently for the city as well as for Angel Island, less than a mile to the south. Having missed the hourly ferry to Angel Island, we opted for the San Francisco ferry which docked at the Ferry Building, where we debarked into an astonishing array of restaurants, bistros, cheese shops, bakeries, and assorted food emporiums. Carol and Tami did the heavy investigation, while I sat in the sun, which finally came out of the fog after playing hide and seek with the city most of the day.
After a superb Thai lunch, we took the ferry to Angel Island, for a tour by tram of the site of an army hospital, a prisoner of war camp in World War II, and the West Coast version of Ellis Island. In the 1920’s, when the door was closed by the United States to immigration from the Far East, only family members of Asians already in the country were allowed in - and Angel Island was where they were held while each case was investigated.
The island is now a state park, with a myriad of activities, and frequent ferry service from both Tiburon and San Francisco. We barely scraped the surface, and the place deserves a couple of days of exploration. It’s history includes its use by Native Americans, and Spanish occupation in the 17th and 18th centuries.
Sunday, Tami, Carol and I drove north again, but this time, I dropped them off in the hills above Stinson Beach, a resort south of Point Reyes, at about one thirty in the afternoon. The idea was for them to hike down a trail, four and one half miles, to Stinson Beach, where I would be waiting for them.
Tami estimated the walk would be about two hours, and we agreed that I would wait at the general store in Stinson Beach.
I found the store with no difficulty, - the town has only one of anything - got out my book, and settled down for a couple of peaceful hours, with occasional glances at the California girls, who were so poor they could only afford tiny strips of fabric for bathing suits.
At three thirty, I spoke with a county sheriff’s deputy - Stinson Beach has no police force and a volunteer fire department - who was on traffic duty. He assured me that the trail leading down to Stinson Beach (which I mistakenly thought they had taken) was very popular, and would have lots of hikers on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. “Not to worry”.
At about four forty-five, with no word, I decided to call 911, got the sheriff’s office which connected me to the Forest Service, and told them my tale. After hearing they would send out an alert for the two hikers, I settled down to wait.
At about five thirty, my cell phone rang. It was Tami - they had lost the trail (which was a fire road rather than a trail). They had been forced retrace their steps to their starting place, the first place which had service for her cell phone.
I called the Forest Service with the news, and started off to pick them up. A few miles up the mountain, at a Forest Service garage, several men in two trucks were in conversation.
Either by brains or luck, I pulled into the parking lot, and found them talking about us. One of them was sure he knew where they were, based on my less than perfect description of where I had let them off.
He took off to that location. I was sure he was going in the wrong direction, and stubbornly decided to set off again on my own. The second ranger said, “We already have two people lost. I am going to follow you to make sure we don’t have a third.”
Within five minutes, I became aware that I was traversing an area I hadn’t seen before, and shortly, the ranger tailing me honked, pulled over, and told me they had been found.
Much chagrined, I followed him for a few miles, realized that I had completely missed a vital turn in the road, and was happily reunited with Carol and Tami.
Lesson to be learned: identify in very specific terms - names of roads and intersections - the starting place, with sufficient information to get back to it. My nonchalance was my undoing. I apologized profusely to the rangers, whose attitude was very forgiving, and an indication to me that my kind of behavior was not an unusual occurrence.
We celebrated the happy outcome with broiled oysters at a recommended restaurant in Olemah, a tiny town in the area. Our conclusion: better to eat ‘em raw with sauce and horseradish.
Monday morning, Southwest Airlines took us to Salt Lake City, where we picked up a rental car and headed north. We had chosen Lava Hot Springs, Idaho, as our destination the first night, and checked out the bed and breakfasts on the Internet.
No one could tell us where our first choice was located, and the proprietor was in a yoga class and unavailable. The second choice was in the center of town, and not very prepossessing. Carol went to check out the rooms, and came back with a doubtful expression on her face.
We were parked behind a fence, on the other side of which was a hot springs pool at least one hundred feet by twenty, with several smaller pools - one with hotter water, the other with cold water. On the left was an institutional looking building which was the b and b.
In an earlier life, we learned, it had been a rest home for injured veterans of World War I; then, a community hospital run by a couple, both of whom were doctors; and finally, in the 1980’s, when the town’s population had shrunk to the point where the hospital could not longer be supported, it had become a bed and breakfast.
The room we were shown was large and clean if somewhat meagerly furnished. At one end was an alcove - without a door - in which sat a toilet and opposite it was a jacuzzi tub.
Despite the unusual features of the place, we decided it would suffice.
There were few other visitors - our room was the only one of about six on our end of the floor that was occupied. After dinner at one of the town’s two restaurants, we tried the hot spring.
We learned the water originates in an artesian well, and is about 140 degrees Fahrenheit when it reached the lodge. Diluting it with cold water keeps the pool temperature about 110.
The spring is also the source of heating for the place, with multiple plastic pipes in each room replacing radiators or vents. The showers and drinking water come from the same source.
The pool appears to have some characteristics of social club. Half a dozen middle-aged men were in the shallow end for what appeared to be a nightly congregation where, I suspect, the town’s affairs were conducted.
The owner made and served breakfast the next morning, providing us with a little of the history of the place.
The Greyhouse bed and breakfast is twelve miles south of Salmon, Idaho, a Victorian mansion that had been moved from Salmon, where it had once served as hospital (we were getting into a rut). Victorian was the theme of the furnishings as well, with a profusion of Victorian hats, lamps photos, etchings and a wild and unorganized assortment of knickknacks.
Sharon, the co-owner with her husband - he was not visible - is the archetype of a pleasant, motherly b and b hostess, The house sits a few hundred feet from the Salmon River, on which her son runs rafting trips.
At least in the parts we saw, the Salmon does not appear to be a serious white water river - but the scenery is wonderful. We got to Greyhouse about six in the evening, after a very long day on the road, following the river up from Lava Hot Springs,
We had taken a wide detour from Lava Hot Springs to see Craters of the Moon National Monument, the creation of thousands of year of volcanic eruptions that spewed cinders and lava over a wide area.
Carol had seen it forty-five years ago, and remembered it as much less raked over and smoothed out.
Our route entered the Sawtooth National Recreation Area, with beautiful woods and streams, and very little man-made interference except for the roads. There was far less traffic than I would have expected. My speculation that tourism is down this year - gas prices? - was confirmed later in the trip by inn owners who were experiencing a lean season.
We headed north again, out of the Area, surrounded by mountains, and it was here, late in the day, with the sun behind us, shining on the mountains, that I understood “purple mountain majesties” - because the mountains rising on each side of the highway were indeed purple in the late afternoon light.
With the light traffic, the typical car was cruising at well over the 75 m.p.h. speed limit on major roads. Even secondary roads are posted at 65 m.p.h. Our slower travel made it politically wise to pull over into a layby occasionally to let faster traffic pass on the narrower highways.
The river was no more crowded than the highway - we saw only several pairs of kayakers and two eight-person rafts.
Wednesday was to be our slow day. It began at a leisurely breakfast at which I refused the offer of french toast - forsaking it for poached eggs on toast.
Sharon said several times, “But we have french toast!” Evidently I was missing a special treat and she was clearly not very happy with me.
As is usually the case in bed and breakfasts, the conversation with other guests begins: “Where are you from?” “Wow, that’s a long way from here. Did you drive all the way?”
Once the locality exchanges take place, the conversation tends to lag. However, a boy of twelve or thirteen at our table asked Carol, “What did you do for a living?”
She considered it an unusual question from a youngster, but answered it without much elaboration. When I thought about it, it seemed he had probably heard the same question asked by his parents - and asking it himself established his bona fides as a seasoned traveler.
After breakfast, we loaded up and spent an hour walking about Salmon, which has 3012 people and at least twice as many retail establishments as Lexington. It is a center for river and forest activities, as well as for the ranchers and farmers in the area.
After lunch in the town of North Fork, we headed east, crossing the Great Divide at Chief Joseph's Pass, and then heading down slope to the site of the near-final chapter in the history of the Nez Perce Native Americans’ struggle to maintain their way of life.
At the Battle of Big Hole, the Nez Perce decisively defeated the U.S. Army troops, only to be pursued and driven north by that same army.
The Nez Perce were trying to avoid being herded onto a reservation in what is now Idaho. They were desperately trying to reach sanctuary in Canada - and about 150 finally made it.
Chief Joseph. with the remaining band of women and sick children and his few remaining warriors, finally surrendered and were put on reservations, where they survive to this day.
Chief Joseph’s words are remembered to this day, as he ended his last speech, "Hear me, my chiefs. I am tired; my heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands I will fight no more, forever."
The government erected a monument in 1883 to the Army soldiers who died at Big Hole - but the Native Americans didn’t get the same treatment until recently.
At the battle field site, the movie depicting the battle and the fate of the Nez Perce affected both Carol and I deeply - we spent the rest of the day in a state of depression, brought on by the realization once again of the incredible cruelty inflicted on Native Americans throughout our country’s history.
By four in the afternoon we had reached Jackson, Montana, a wide place in the road. with 232 residents. It featured a garage, which appeared to specialize in farm and ranch machinery; a barroom, open on weekends: a “mercantile store” which was essentially a deli; an antique store; and our destination. the Jackson Hot Springs Lodge.
Clearly, an architect had never been allowed with a mile of the place. But despite its failings as an example of well-designed western style, it had a hot springs pool, 75’ by 25’. As with the inn at Lava Hot Springs, the water, which came from a well nine miles from the lodge, was used for washing, dining and heating.
The pool was being refilled - it is drained weekly - but there was enough water after dinner for Carol to get wet.
The pretentious restaurant at the lodge, with the only alternative a sandwich at the deli, managed to combine mediocre food with high prices. But a morning dip in the now filled pool restored our good humor - until I went to start the car and found the battery dead.
The previous evening, in closing up the car, I had inadvertently hit the alarm button on the remote control, sending the horn blaring and the lights flashing. I eventually got the horn to cease wailing but could not douse the lights.
Foolishly, I assumed they would stop on their own.
And they did - at 2:06 a.m. when the the battery died, as evidenced by the dashboard clock.
The garage across the street was kind enough to send a truck with jumper cables to immediately get us going. The man who brought them refused any compensation, a not unusual response in the West.
(We had ordered a compact car from National but were given a full size - it was a Montana registered car that the company as sending towards home from Salt Lake City. It had a keyless starting system I hadn’t seen before. Get in the car using the remote to unlock the car, press a button on the dash with a foot on the brake and voila! - a keyless start!)
Without further problems, we drove on through Dillon, Twin Bridges, Sheraton, Virginia City, Nevada City and Ennis (home of the now famous house that Mara designed for Fred Goldberg).
By four thirty, we had picked up one of Mara’s cars at the farm on Cobb Hill Road, returned our rental to the Bozeman Airport at Belgrade, picked up some groceries, and were napping when Mara got home about six.
The place has been altered substantially since we last visited in June 2006. Mara has performed extraordinary effects with the property, both in the main house and in the “cabin”.
The cabin, designed for vacation rentals,- now with two bedrooms, a new kitchen, new furnishings throughout, high end linens and towels, and gorgeous lighting - will have its first month long tenant beginning the day after we left.
The main house is air conditioned, for which we were grateful after several days of 100 degree heat. With Mara busy with appointments on Friday, we were happy enough to flake out and recover after four days on the road, in very hot weather.
People we talked with on the way indicated that the extreme temperatures in the high ‘90s were unusual for such an extended period. Fortunately for lawns and farms, there seems to be no serious water shortage in Western Montana, with plenty of water for irrigation.
Some other areas of Montana are not so fortunate, with water restrictions in place.
Mara’s farm on Cobb Hill Road is about as far from downtown Bozeman you can get and still be in the city limits. The road past the house has been paved since we were here last, cutting down on the noise and dust created by the former gravel surface. The three and one half acre plot sits about a half mile from the main road south to Big Sky Resort and the Gallatin River Valley.
In addition to the main house and the cabin, there is a smaller building which will eventually be a one-bedroom guest house. Next to the cabin, there is a long low building now used as a workshop and for storage.
There are several paddocks enclosed with jack fencing (horizontal poles held in place at each end by a pair of X-crossed poles), and a weather shelter for the horses which once occupied the paddocks, along with the tack room.
The main house has a deck on all four sides, with a step or two to the lawn, which is shaded by a grove of tall cottonwood trees.
Mara’s original thought had been to lease the paddocks to horse owners looking for space, but with vacationing tenants coming to the cabin, that concept has been put on hold. Non-horse people might find the odors off-putting.
The land looks south to mountains and north to mountains. Less than 15 minutes brings you to downtown Bozeman, but the feeling is completely rural.
Friday evening we had dinner in Bozeman with Lark Smotherman, the professional photographer who has done pictures of most of Mara’s projects, and whose work can be seen on Mara’s website.
We learned that Lark has taken a position as Artistic Director of a major international advertising firm. It gives her a measure of financial security she needs at this point, but her leaving later this fall to live in San Antonio will deprive Mara of a very good friend.
Saturday morning, we drove north to Helena, stopping for lunch there and then driving on to The Gates of The Mountains, an opening in the mountains seen and named by Lewis and Clark.
“It was mid-July, 1805, when Captain Meriwether Lewis first viewed the Gates of the Mountains along Montana's Missouri River. His journal entry describes the scene this way: "we entered the most remarkable clifts that we have yet seen. These clifts rise from the water's edge on either side perpendicularly to the height of 1,200 feet. Solid rock for the distance of 5 miles." This view is still available for today's adventurer and it looks virtually the same as when Capt. Lewis and his Corps of Discovery first laid eyes upon it.”
Tour boats now leave from a dock on a lake at the Hilger Ranch and travel downstream through the canyon. The lake, formed by a dam, has a marina and appeared to be a popular boating area.
The Hilger Ranch, on the south side of the Gates and on the west side of river, has been preserved and protected from development since it was established in the 1850’s, and the present owner appears to adhere to the same philosophy.
The boat trip took us past campgrounds maintained by the Bureau of LAnd Management and the Forest Service, most accessible only by water. The cliffs enclosing the river are spectacular, and for the first time on the trip, my camera was out and working.
With us was Chere Jiusto, executive director of Montana Preservation Alliance, the organization of which Mara has been president and is now treasurer. As its title indicates, it is “working to preserve historic resources and places in Montana through education, advocacy, technical assistance, awards and partnerships with like-minded preservation groups.”
The tour took us past Mann Gulch, the site of the 1949 forest fire that claimed the lives of 12 fire jumpers, trapped in a box canyon when the fire exploded. The story was told in a book called “Young Men and Fire” by Norman MacLean, the author of “A River Runs Through It”.
I had read the book many years ago, and have never forgotten the story of the 15 elite jumpers who parachuted into the gulch. Ten were dead within an hour of the drop and two more died the next day. Only three survived, scarred for the rest of their lives by the experience.
On a bright sunny day, with scarcely a cloud in the sky, it was difficult - actually, impossible - to look up the canyon from the water and imagine what happened nearly sixty years ago.
Saturday evening, Mara’s friends, Les and Margie Reeves had us as their guests for dinner, along with Les’ son and daughter-in-law. Designing the interior of their home in an up-scale development on the south side of Bozeman had been one of Mara’s first jobs, and she formed a friendship with the couple that has continued.
The Reeves had come to Lexington earlier this summer on their way to a sailing trip in Maine, and we had given them lunch.
Bozeman has continued to grow commercially and residentially, but sitting on the deck that runs on all four sides of Mara’s main house on a quiet Sunday afternoon, none of that activity impinged on the our vision.
The heat and the forest fires in the general area made for a good deal of haze. The mountains to the south, in the direction of Yellowstone Park, were barely visible.
Sunday night, our last evening, was spent with Mara’s friend and across-the-road neighbor, Lynne and her husband, the real estate broker who found the property for Mara. Lynne’s contagious sense of humor made the evening go all too fast.
In a state of great contentment, I said, “We are coming for a month next year.” I suspect Mara wrote it down to hold me to it.
+
SPAIN 2003
In the fall of 2003, Carol and I went to Spain. These are the notes I made on that ill-fated trip.
October 15-16. A cramped seat on a moderately full flight from Philadelphia to Madrid. Uneventful, uncomfortable, and glad to be in Madrid. Sitting in the airport cafeteria after a mediocre salad, waiting for the flight to Bilboa on Spanair.
As Carol comments, it doesn’t feel very Spanish yet - except for the language and the people smoking. I’m exhausted - I can’t wait for to get to the hotel in Bilboa for a shower and a nap.
Getting ready for the trip really taxed my resources - I had too many deadlines to meet before we left. and the stress is just beginning to ebb from my mind and my body. Hopefully, more sense next time.
October 21. It is now about 8 p.m. on Tuesday, and we have been here in Marbella since Sunday, hostage to a flu-like illness that has dogged me since Saturday afternoon in Bilboa.
This is the first moment I felt the energy required to start writing again. An upset stomach, a sore throat and aching limbs - fairly classic flu, either picked up on the flight or the result of the flu shot I got the day we left
Bilboa was all we expected and more. The Guggenheim Museum is the main attraction, but it is a lively city with music and good restaurants, and a funicular that rises to a hill overlooking the city.
We managed to get in a good deal of sightseeing before I took to bed on Saturday afternoon. The hotel was funky but but clean and pleasant with an affable owner whose English was quite lovely to listen to.
We had expected to take a night train from Bilboa south the breadth of the country to Malaga, but I misread the timetables on the Internet. It ran only on Fridays and was sold out when we tried to book.
We ended up with a very expensive flight on Iberia, the national airlines, because the regional airline - with fares 40% less - was also completely;y booked on Sunday.
Despite my ills, we made it to Malaga on Sunday around noon, got the car - a Citroen Clio with stick shift, cheap bastard that I am - and eventually found our way to Carol’s apartment in the SKOL complex in Marbella.
The Costa del Sol stretches along the Mediterranean, and it is almost impossible to conceive of the incredible number of apartment buildings lining the coast for miles and miles.
In the three building complex we were in, there were 300 units. From the windows in our unit on the 6th floor, we could see dozens of similar buildings, most on the water but some set back a few streets.
Parking is a major issue - there was no provision made for parking when the original buildings went up. Only in recent years have developers been required to put in underground facilities. The Englishman who manages Carol’s apartment arranged for us to park underground, because finding a casual space is
Back from the sea, the mountains rise quickly, and the country retains much of its traditional character with gorges, forests, national parks, and a rich history going back to the Moorish invasions in the 7th century.
The ruins of Moorish castles still can be seen and visited, and I have been told the country has been little altered in many areas away from the coast. I hope to be well enough to spend a couple of days exploring, before we leave.
Carol has been taking very good care of me. While I rested, she has shopped and prepared meals, and generally been a generous caregiver, while I have been the cantankerous self that becomes most evident when I am ill.
To add to our woes, the caps on the jugs of maple syrup we brought to give as gifts worked loose in my suitcase - almost half my clothes were effected as well as some books.
The good fortune we had experiences our other trips over the past year had made me sloppy and careless. It would have been easy to put each jug in a sealable plastic bag.
The same sloppiness meant I hadn't brought anything to counteract my stomach woes. Eventually, everything got sorted out but my self esteem has taken several blows.
Marbella is a strange place for an American, with few others in sight. The town in full of Brits, who have been coming for almost a century to spend their holidays - and in many cases, to retire.
The complex we are in is strongly British - Kelly’s Pub, on the ground floor has Premier League soccer games from the United Kingdom every evening on television. (I suspect that one of the reasons there are few Americans is that Miami Beach offers the same amenities and atmosphere without the problem of language and transport.)
For the British, there are direct flights from Heathrow to Malaga, an hour from Marbella., while Americans have to fly via London, Paris, Lisbon or Madrid.
The city has kept control of the waterfront itself, with a beach along the entire coast open to all, and machines that daily smooth and groom the sand.
A walking road lines the back of the beach for miles, shaded by palm trees, lined with restaurants as well as vendors grilling sardines on open fires to be served at tables in the open.
The area we are in can be classified as a middle class neighborhood. Early today. in search of a yoga studio, we walked west into an upper-class area where the apartment buildings resembled castles, and the stores were showing leather jackets for men for 1295 euros (about $1600). And since there is underground parking in these newer buildings, there were actually empty parking spaces on the streets.
DIVERGENCE
I have committed every sin of omission imaginable. I packed no aspirin, no Tylenol except PM, no diarrhea or constipation medicine. Based on the exceptionally problem free two earlier trips this year, I ignored any possible glitches and have been beset by most.
Since last Saturday in Bilboa, I have been battling the remnants of the flu which put me down while there. The major leftover is congested chest, which I have tried to cure with OTC medications to little avail.
I left my blazer at the hotel in Bilboa, and despite the hotel’s promise to send it on , it hasn’t shown up and I have given it up for lost.
Yesterday, we drove to Gibraltar. Despite the warnings of long queues to exit the Rock, (it is British territory and you are crossing a country’s borders when you enter or leave) I decided to drive over the border on the basis that there didn’t seem to be a queue in sight.
Once in Gibraltar, we managed to drive nearly to the top of the mountain. Taxis have a monopoly on the last mile or so. We managed to get to St, Michael’s Cave, where a dinner party was being set up within the cave body.
Two Gibraltar ar apes - a mother and child - set themselves up as a grooming tableau across the road from where we parked the ca r, as though cued to do so.
We spent a pleasant couple of hours roaming the shopping streets, saw the ancient synagogue - locked tight - had coffee in the main square, and headed back to Spain.
Immediately, we were imprisoned in the artificial delays that the Spanish government has instituted on cars leaving the Gib, to show the government’s unhappiness with the political status of the island.
We spent over an hour in line, with some cars being searched to slow things down . It was clear phony - when we finally got to the guard post, we ere waved through without a glance at our passports.
The rock is indeed impressive, rising as it does from the sea just off the mainland, although there are similar mountains in the area. The nature reserve that covers most of the upper half of the rock appears poorly maintained despite the high fee charged to get onto the Rock - 23 euros (more than $30) for the two of us and the car.
There are tour buses available but we chose to be on our own - not necessarily the best choice in the circumstances.
The town, built on the more gently sloping western side of the Rock, is typical of many Spanish mountain towns - narrow streets, vertically joined together houses, everyone living it each other;s shadow. A very busy collection of shopping streets with imports from around the world. There is nothing of significance made in Gibraltar but it attracts foreign tourist and Spaniards on a huge scale.
English is spoken by almost everyone. Four synagogues - the one we visited was closed - a windowless building with sturdy doors and a combination lock on the front door.
The Jews have a long history in Gibraltar and continue to have a significant presence in the retail business, if the store names we saw were of any significance.
I am sure a more protracted visit would have altered my perception, but aside from the historical connections, there is little about the present community to admire.
Gibraltar has its own airport on a stretch of flat land between the island and the mainland. The single runway is sited approximately east and west, and runs at right angles to the road to the border.
Traffic shuts down when a plane prepares to land or take off.
You don’t see a lot of that .
A major British military presence continues in the harbor, with Gibraltar in the south and the port of Alegsirus on the north and west, with perhaps a dozen tankers and containers ships waiting to load and unload.
My journal ended at that point, as illness overtook me. We went on to spend a few days in Madrid, where we stayed with Karen Einstein. She got me to a hospital and a diagnosis of bronchitis.
We flew home early, and found the bronchitis was actually pneumonia.
October 15-16. A cramped seat on a moderately full flight from Philadelphia to Madrid. Uneventful, uncomfortable, and glad to be in Madrid. Sitting in the airport cafeteria after a mediocre salad, waiting for the flight to Bilboa on Spanair.
As Carol comments, it doesn’t feel very Spanish yet - except for the language and the people smoking. I’m exhausted - I can’t wait for to get to the hotel in Bilboa for a shower and a nap.
Getting ready for the trip really taxed my resources - I had too many deadlines to meet before we left. and the stress is just beginning to ebb from my mind and my body. Hopefully, more sense next time.
October 21. It is now about 8 p.m. on Tuesday, and we have been here in Marbella since Sunday, hostage to a flu-like illness that has dogged me since Saturday afternoon in Bilboa.
This is the first moment I felt the energy required to start writing again. An upset stomach, a sore throat and aching limbs - fairly classic flu, either picked up on the flight or the result of the flu shot I got the day we left
Bilboa was all we expected and more. The Guggenheim Museum is the main attraction, but it is a lively city with music and good restaurants, and a funicular that rises to a hill overlooking the city.
We managed to get in a good deal of sightseeing before I took to bed on Saturday afternoon. The hotel was funky but but clean and pleasant with an affable owner whose English was quite lovely to listen to.
We had expected to take a night train from Bilboa south the breadth of the country to Malaga, but I misread the timetables on the Internet. It ran only on Fridays and was sold out when we tried to book.
We ended up with a very expensive flight on Iberia, the national airlines, because the regional airline - with fares 40% less - was also completely;y booked on Sunday.
Despite my ills, we made it to Malaga on Sunday around noon, got the car - a Citroen Clio with stick shift, cheap bastard that I am - and eventually found our way to Carol’s apartment in the SKOL complex in Marbella.
The Costa del Sol stretches along the Mediterranean, and it is almost impossible to conceive of the incredible number of apartment buildings lining the coast for miles and miles.
In the three building complex we were in, there were 300 units. From the windows in our unit on the 6th floor, we could see dozens of similar buildings, most on the water but some set back a few streets.
Parking is a major issue - there was no provision made for parking when the original buildings went up. Only in recent years have developers been required to put in underground facilities. The Englishman who manages Carol’s apartment arranged for us to park underground, because finding a casual space is
Back from the sea, the mountains rise quickly, and the country retains much of its traditional character with gorges, forests, national parks, and a rich history going back to the Moorish invasions in the 7th century.
The ruins of Moorish castles still can be seen and visited, and I have been told the country has been little altered in many areas away from the coast. I hope to be well enough to spend a couple of days exploring, before we leave.
Carol has been taking very good care of me. While I rested, she has shopped and prepared meals, and generally been a generous caregiver, while I have been the cantankerous self that becomes most evident when I am ill.
To add to our woes, the caps on the jugs of maple syrup we brought to give as gifts worked loose in my suitcase - almost half my clothes were effected as well as some books.
The good fortune we had experiences our other trips over the past year had made me sloppy and careless. It would have been easy to put each jug in a sealable plastic bag.
The same sloppiness meant I hadn't brought anything to counteract my stomach woes. Eventually, everything got sorted out but my self esteem has taken several blows.
Marbella is a strange place for an American, with few others in sight. The town in full of Brits, who have been coming for almost a century to spend their holidays - and in many cases, to retire.
The complex we are in is strongly British - Kelly’s Pub, on the ground floor has Premier League soccer games from the United Kingdom every evening on television. (I suspect that one of the reasons there are few Americans is that Miami Beach offers the same amenities and atmosphere without the problem of language and transport.)
For the British, there are direct flights from Heathrow to Malaga, an hour from Marbella., while Americans have to fly via London, Paris, Lisbon or Madrid.
The city has kept control of the waterfront itself, with a beach along the entire coast open to all, and machines that daily smooth and groom the sand.
A walking road lines the back of the beach for miles, shaded by palm trees, lined with restaurants as well as vendors grilling sardines on open fires to be served at tables in the open.
The area we are in can be classified as a middle class neighborhood. Early today. in search of a yoga studio, we walked west into an upper-class area where the apartment buildings resembled castles, and the stores were showing leather jackets for men for 1295 euros (about $1600). And since there is underground parking in these newer buildings, there were actually empty parking spaces on the streets.
DIVERGENCE
I have committed every sin of omission imaginable. I packed no aspirin, no Tylenol except PM, no diarrhea or constipation medicine. Based on the exceptionally problem free two earlier trips this year, I ignored any possible glitches and have been beset by most.
Since last Saturday in Bilboa, I have been battling the remnants of the flu which put me down while there. The major leftover is congested chest, which I have tried to cure with OTC medications to little avail.
I left my blazer at the hotel in Bilboa, and despite the hotel’s promise to send it on , it hasn’t shown up and I have given it up for lost.
Yesterday, we drove to Gibraltar. Despite the warnings of long queues to exit the Rock, (it is British territory and you are crossing a country’s borders when you enter or leave) I decided to drive over the border on the basis that there didn’t seem to be a queue in sight.
Once in Gibraltar, we managed to drive nearly to the top of the mountain. Taxis have a monopoly on the last mile or so. We managed to get to St, Michael’s Cave, where a dinner party was being set up within the cave body.
Two Gibraltar ar apes - a mother and child - set themselves up as a grooming tableau across the road from where we parked the ca r, as though cued to do so.
We spent a pleasant couple of hours roaming the shopping streets, saw the ancient synagogue - locked tight - had coffee in the main square, and headed back to Spain.
Immediately, we were imprisoned in the artificial delays that the Spanish government has instituted on cars leaving the Gib, to show the government’s unhappiness with the political status of the island.
We spent over an hour in line, with some cars being searched to slow things down . It was clear phony - when we finally got to the guard post, we ere waved through without a glance at our passports.
The rock is indeed impressive, rising as it does from the sea just off the mainland, although there are similar mountains in the area. The nature reserve that covers most of the upper half of the rock appears poorly maintained despite the high fee charged to get onto the Rock - 23 euros (more than $30) for the two of us and the car.
There are tour buses available but we chose to be on our own - not necessarily the best choice in the circumstances.
The town, built on the more gently sloping western side of the Rock, is typical of many Spanish mountain towns - narrow streets, vertically joined together houses, everyone living it each other;s shadow. A very busy collection of shopping streets with imports from around the world. There is nothing of significance made in Gibraltar but it attracts foreign tourist and Spaniards on a huge scale.
English is spoken by almost everyone. Four synagogues - the one we visited was closed - a windowless building with sturdy doors and a combination lock on the front door.
The Jews have a long history in Gibraltar and continue to have a significant presence in the retail business, if the store names we saw were of any significance.
I am sure a more protracted visit would have altered my perception, but aside from the historical connections, there is little about the present community to admire.
Gibraltar has its own airport on a stretch of flat land between the island and the mainland. The single runway is sited approximately east and west, and runs at right angles to the road to the border.
Traffic shuts down when a plane prepares to land or take off.
You don’t see a lot of that .
A major British military presence continues in the harbor, with Gibraltar in the south and the port of Alegsirus on the north and west, with perhaps a dozen tankers and containers ships waiting to load and unload.
My journal ended at that point, as illness overtook me. We went on to spend a few days in Madrid, where we stayed with Karen Einstein. She got me to a hospital and a diagnosis of bronchitis.
We flew home early, and found the bronchitis was actually pneumonia.
THREE GENERATIONS IN DENMARK
THREE GENERATIONS IN DENMARK
Home exchanges require a suspension of distrust - how else can you turn over your house and its contents, as well as, perhaps, your car, to a family you know only by name and address, plus the sparse details that come through on the International Vacations website (www.intervac.com)?
But urged by friends who have had a number of exchanges, and buoyed by the thought of being able to spend enough time in one place to begin to understand it, we embarked on our Danish adventure on July 2, 2003.
Having been incautious enough to promise my granddaughter a trip to Europe upon high school graduation, when time came to make good on the promise, a house exchange to Italy appeared to satisfy the spirit and the letter of the commitment.
Alas, as I sifted through the Italian exchanges offered, Bush’s Iraqi misadventure was in the offing. Italians appeared to want nothing to do with America, and a number of inquiries produced no results.
But from the listing on-line of my own house, I began to get e-mails from Ireland, England and Scandinavia. Northern Europe evidently didn’t share Southern Europe’s distaste for America and its foreign policy.
Denmark won out over the others - it would be a little more foreign, but we heard that virtually everyone spoke English (which turned out to be accurate) - and Copenhagen, where we would be living, was very high on the list of “best places” of most people we talked with about the trip.
So, the trip began to take on a life of its own. Both ourselves - me, my daughter Jo Hannah, my granddaughter Stanzie, and my friend Carol Miller - and the exchanging family would fly Iceland Air via Reykjavik, arriving in each other’s communities on the same day.
Iceland Air has a single gate at the Copenhagen Airport, and we were able to spend a brief time after our arrival with the departing family that would be coming to Lexington. Given the six hour time difference between Boston and Copenhagen, they still got to Lexington on the 3rd.
Denmark has, so far, refused to adopt the euro, the new currency which is supposed to replace all the traditional European marks, and pounds, and pesetas, and lire. Kroner (crown) is used in all the Scandinavian countries - but to make life as complicated as possible, each kroner has a different value, both against the dollar and against each other.
The taxi ride into the Bronsjoi (pronounced approximately ‘brounshoy’)
section of Copenhagen, our new home, confirmed Denmark’s reputation as one of the most expensive countries in Europe.
But we were there at last, and the house was very much as our hosts had described it in the e-mails we had exchanged - three bedrooms, one bath with a second lavatory in the finished basement, a kitchen/dining room, living room, and the prize: a garden with a covered patio off the kitchen where we often ate.
Lots in Bronsjoi are small by our standards, but virtually every one is alive with flowers, small trees, bushes, and shrubs. Sitting in our garden, we could see only the roofs of neighboring houses, despite their nearness.
The surrounding streets were quiet, with little through traffic and few pedestrians - but many bicycles, about which I will have more to say.
Streets are narrow and not generally laid out in easy-to-understand patterns. Our first venture to the food markets recommended by our hosts resulted in our getting lost, despite the excellent maps we were left. Getting lost became the norm, at least in part because the street names were so unfamiliar.
Copenhagen, and most of Denmark, is much farther north than Boston, and we were blessed with light until after ten o’clock in the evening in July. Unfortunately for the Danes, in winter the day ends before four o’clock in the afternoon, the other half of the cycle.
Our marketing venture that first day brought us our initial instance of Danes going far beyond the norm to help us out. As we wandered the unfamiliar aisles of the small supermarket, trying to understand kilos and liters amid the array of never-before-seen labels, another customer became our guardian, with advice and comments that were very helpful. That experience was replicated with almost no exceptions throughout our stay.
Unlike many major cities in the United States, Copenhagen has a superb transportation system, with buses everywhere. Between excellent public transit service, the nearly universal use of bicycles, and gasoline priced at nearly $5 a gallon, the automobile is not nearly as ubiquitous as here.
Housewives carrying their groceries home from the market, businessmen in suits and ties, children of all ages, grandfathers and grandmothers on errands - all ride bikes. With the country predominantly flat - the highest point in Denmark is just over 500 feet above sea level - highly geared bikes are a novelty, and many looked very much like the single speed balloon-tired affairs I learned to ride on seventy years ago.
Major streets are laid out with sidewalks for pedestrians, then a parking lane for cars, next a bicycle lane and finally two or four traffic lanes. A driver from the U.S. finds it unnerving to need to watch for the thousands of bikes that are running along on his right. (They do drive on the right side of the road, however, so we avoided the learning curve needed in some other countries with a different orientation.)
Stanzie was fascinated by the variety of automobiles - Russian,
Spanish, Czech among other imports - many with brand names we knew but models we had never seen in America. As a corollary to the price of gasoline, most cars are small by American standards, which may be why so many were new to us.
When we arrived back in Lexington, we learned that the exchange family rested and relaxed for two or three days before venturing out into the wilds of New England. But that is not the mode of Americans in Europe, even those like us with four weeks ahead of us.
Making the most of every day and opportunity seems to me peculiarly American. Perhaps it is just a carryover from the felt need of immigrants and children of immigrants, like my parents and myself, to work extra hard to gain recognition and acceptance.
From my experience traveling a month in New Zealand, ‘time out’ becomes a necessity after a while. But we wanted to waste no time getting into the experience of living in Denmark. Although we all tended to sleep later in the morning than was our habit at home, our first full day included shopping for food, and a trip south of Copenhagen to a contemporary museum, at Arkan on the beach. The building was memorable - the collection was not - and we had accomplished something on our first day! (There were few people in the museum, and when we later told Danish acquaintances that we had been there, some expressed surprise - it evidently doesn’t rank very high on the ‘must see’ list. For us, finding it was a rite of passage which somehow gave us confidence for more complicated expeditions.)
The above was written shortly after our return, but left unfinished.
Rather than try to recapture the impressions and emotions that were fresh in 2003, I decided to finish the story by transcribing my journal notes.
Wednesday, July 3, 2003 - A heavy, steady rain is falling at 7:30 p.m. on our first day in Bronsjoi, a Copenhagen neighborhood west of downtown.
We overlapped for an hour at the airport with our Danish hosts, who were flying out of the same gate we came in on. They have two very attractive adopted Korean daughters, and the couple themselves seem very pleasant.
The taxi ride in from the airport was uneventful - we saw some of the city but had no idea what we were seeing!
Saturday and Monday, July 5 and 7 - I’m having trouble finding the time and energy to write. Without a set schedule, we have been staying in bed until nine - it is now 9:40. Stanzie has not yet emerged, JH is reading more
travel brochures and Carol is making breakfast.
We were fortunate to contact Sam Berman’s first cousin, Paul Bergmann, the day after we arrived on Friday. An invitation to his daughter’s summer home for Saturday turned into a sumptuous Danish lunch for nine: smoked herring, smoked halibut, smoked salmon in phyllo dough, potato salad, egg salad, wonderful bread and SCHNAPPS and beer.
We stayed until seven in the evening!
Friday, we had shopped for food and visited a contemporary art museum at Arkan on the beach south of Copenhagen. Food prices seem high, mostly due to the 25% VAT (Value Added Tax) which is tacked on to virtually everything.
There were showers on and off on Friday, but Saturday was a gorgeous summer day. Before going north to the Bergmann’s home in Dronningsmolle, a resort town north of Copenhagen on the Kattegat, the bay separates Denmark from Sweden, we spent a couple of hours at a craft fair in downtown Copenhagen, navigating the streets and figuring out the parking issues.
Virtually everyone we met in Copenhagen speaks English and we have encountered nothing but help. Yesterday, Sunday, a friend of the Schultzes (our hosts) came by. He is a journalist who has been working for one of the political parties, but has quit to become a full time freelancer. He will take us on a tour of Parliament later in the trip.
His take on Danish society: not much “vertical space”. People tend to all reach about the same level, and the very high taxes, and the socialistic society keeps ambition at bay, since accumulating capital is very difficult with the high tax level.
We have met part of the Bergmann family - two of Paul’s daughters were at the Saturday luncheon, along with his wife and one son-in-law, and eventually two grandsons turned up, alas, a little too old for Stanzie.
I had forgotten how many people smoke in Europe, including Paul’s daughters and son-in-law - but at least they do so outside the house, but not quite far enough away.
Everyone was most hospitable - Paul seemed to welcome the diversion of having Americans around to show off his family and city to.
He is coming in half an hour to take us on a tour of the town.
Tuesday, July 8th, 4 p.m. - I write sitting at a table outdoors in a square in downtown Copenhagen near the canal and Parliament buildings. The ladies have gone off shopping, leaving me half an hour to myself. The sun has been out and is still - not always the case. But there is a breeze off the water which keeps the temperature in the low 60’s.
To get downtown, we took a bus this morning, walking half a mile to reach the stop in the shopping street nearest the house. The initial day’s object was the Round Tower -one of the taller buildings in a city where there are no skyscrapers and four or five stories is the norm.
Rundetaarn (The Round Tower) was built on the initiative of King
Christian IV (1588-1648) with Hans Steenwinkel the Younger as the architect. On July 7th -1637, the foundation stone for Rundetaarn was laid. The tower was the first stage of the Trinitatis complex, which was to gather three important facilities for the scholars of the seventeenth century: an astronomical observatory, a student church and a university library.
The internal spiral walk is reportedly unique in European architecture. The more than 600 foot long spiral ramp winds itself 7.5 times round the hollow core of the tower, forming the only connection between the individual parts of the building complex.
From the platform, more than 110 feet above the street, we had a magnificent view of the old part of Copenhagen. Rundetaarn is the oldest functioning observatory in Europe. Until 1861 it was used by the University of Copenhagen, but today, anyone can observe the night sky through the fine astronomical telescope of the tower in the winter period.
A gallery in the building featured paper art, some of which was quite lovely and some I found indecipherable. Lunch was atop the Post and Telegraph Museum outdoors - a great view but pricey, as is almost everything we do.
Yesterday, Paul and Gerda came to pick up us - in two cars we drove north to Hillebro to the Fredensborg Slot (castle) in the town of Fredensborg on the river Esrumo. We toured the castle, the spring and summer home of the Danish Royal Family, and the magnificent surrounding grounds, and had a lovely lunch with the Bergmanns.
On the way back, we stopped for coffee at the home of the Bergmann’s third daughter, in Rungsted. She and her family were in France on holiday. Paul proudly showed us the masonry and carpentry he had performed on the place. He is quite skilled with his hands, and appears to have much more energy than I do.
We got home about nine, completely exhausted after taking a couple of wrong turns on the way. I’m learning my way about Copenhagen, but the road system outside the city is still baffling at times. Street signs are on buildings, not freestanding, and difficult to make out in many cases.
JH, the designated driver in most circumstances, is not always willing to take direction.
I have had my free half hour - time to join the ladies if I can find them.
A long discussion took place today on when and how to go to Sweden, just across the water by either bridge or twenty-minute ferry. The plan originally was to drive to Stockholm in two days, stay there for two days and drive back, again in two days.
We looked at taking the train - but the fare turned out to be $200 each for the round trip. That put a crimp in the plans to take the train -
and then we learned that John Godoy (who grew up in Lexington and played soccer with Harry) lives about 2 1/2 hours southwest of Stockholm.
JoHannah dispatched an e-mail to him tonight to see if he is available to see us either coming or going to Stockholm. That will determine the travel mode.
I am having trouble with how expensive this trip has become, and I guess it is showing to JH and Carol as well. Although I was aware that Denmark was going to be costly, the exchange rate has worsened in the past six months.
But the real culprit is the VAT (value added tax) of 25% and which is tacked onto virtually everything we buy.
In contrast to New Zealand where we were interacting with the local people continually, our contacts so far have been only with the Bergmanns, and with our host’s friend Ebbe, a journalist who escorted us through Parliament. It has been difficult for us to grasp the essential elements of Danish society and culture.
The number of museums and castle is overwhelming - we will never cover half the things we would like to see, even in a month here.
July 9, 2003 - 6:05 p.m. A sunny but breezy day - Carol freezing one minute when the clouds obscured the sun and taking off her sweater the next. But it has been a lovely day anyway.
We got a very late start for Roskilde, a very ancient town just 25 kilometers west of here; it took just a half hour. There was a grand cathedral we chose to ignore to concentrate on the Viking Ship Museum, containing the reconstructed remains of five Viking ships dating from 1000 to 1050, which had been sunk in the harbor of Roskilde to deter invaders.
In 1960, the what remained of the ships was dredged up and the boats put together from hundreds of pieces. Shipwrights employed by the Museum are also building new ships, using the same types of materials and same tools and methods employed a thousand years ago.
The highlight of the day for me was a visit to a summer home/palace built 250 years ago and still lived in and owned by the same family. There were few visitors around, plenty of space and a sense of human scale in both the building and grounds surrounding it.
Totally relaxed, I even sacked out for twenty minutes on the soft grass in the garden. (For some reason, I neglected to record the name of the place, possibly the result of too much relaxation.)
We chatted briefly with a Danish couple who had a child who looked like my great nephew, Eli, but who turned out to be Filipino rather than
Guatemalan like Eli. Adoption of children from the Far East is apparently as
prevalent in Denmark as in the States.
STOCKHOLM
July 12/03 Saturday 3:35 p.m. I am sitting on a bench, drinking coffee, in the square in front of the Nobel Museum. I have a blessed half hour to myself with everyone else off shopping - the same thing we have been doing since ten this morning.
We arrived in Stockholm yesterday afternoon after shopping at the IKEA superstore in Linkoping with John and Marita Godoy. It is an amazing store - capable of furnishing and entire home - as well as providing the lumber to build it with.
Even I succumbed to temptation and bought a cheese slicer, pot holders and rubber gloves! A real shopping spree, for me. JH spent serious money.
After a battle with the directions from Linkoping to Stockholm, we found the hotel at which we had made reservations. It was adequate, with its prime attraction being situated on a quiet square where we were able to leave the car safely on the street.’
A half hour walk down hill brought us to the harbor for a two hour cruise around the islands which make up Stockholm. Lovely evening, good commentary during the ride with much history, well edited.
A poor choice of restaurants for a cheap dinner and back to the hotel about ten - a shower and oblivion.
Here in the square as I write, a Japanese tour group has raised their umbrellas - against the sun, which has finally come out after a day of clouds and showers.
Most of today we have been in Old Town, an island which was the original site of the city. We lucked out and happened on the changing of the guard at the royal Palace, complete with a band concert by a wonderfully professional band.
This is an area of very narrow streets and four and five story buildings, with the town hall at one end and the Royal Palace at the other. Thousands of shops with some great values - prices are lower than in Denmark and the exchange rate is 10% better. Carol is having a wonderful time shopping.
CONTRAST: Stockholm is much larger, noisier and dirtier than Copenhagen, but less accessible in of a feeling of community. Our impression is that Danes are friendlier, but that is based on very short observation.
Lots to see and do but we won’t get more than a brief sample. We leave late tomorrow to spend Sunday night with the Godoys, displacing their children once again.
Our visit with the Godoys on Thursday and Friday was very warm and comfortable. John and Marita have two daughters and a son - 19, 17, 15. We were late getting in on Thursday because of a screw-up at the ferry from Helsingfor (Denmark) to Helsingbor (Sweden). The ferry ride is only twenty minutes, but the attendant put us in the wrong line and we missed getting on the proper boat .
The Godoys live in a small town called Ljungsbro near a small city called Linkoping, about 200 kilometers from Stockholm, and a four to five hour ride from the ferry.
A barbecue awaited us, with Peruvian rice and Guatemalan schnapps and Spanish wine in a box. Grilled steak, grilled chicken to go with the rice and salad and great bread.
The children stayed elsewhere with friends to make room for us.
Marita is a district nurse, working nights and weekends. John multitasks - he teaches optometry at Kalmar University, four hours away by train, and works at an eye clinic two hours away. In his spare time, he founded Vision For All, a non-governmental organization which provides eyeglasses for unserved poor populations in various places around the world.
He was just back from a stay in Guatemala, where Marita worked with him. His work has taken him to other countries in South America and in Africa. He is particularly interested in Eritrea, where he hopes to establish a school for optometrists.
In his garage are not automobiles but thousands of pairs of donated eye glasses, which are carefully cleaned and labeled - John has a portable device which determines the diopters of each lens, and his train time is often spent testing and labeling the glasses.
He and the other volunteers - opticians, optometrists, and opthamologists - take the glasses along in large, hard-sided suitcases when they make their trips abroad.
A walking tour began our short stay in Stockholm, covering both the main city and Old Town, situated on another of the islands that make up the capital.
Saturday was walking, walking, and drinking coffee. Dinner was in a small restaurant near the hotel. The hotel itself was on a quiet, garden square on the north side of the city.
Breakfast was very generous and included in the price of the room - hard and soft boiled eggs,a dozen kinds of bread,meat , cheeses, cereals, fruit juices and coffee, tea and breakfast] pastries. On Sunday morning, we walked away with the basics for lunch, which no one seemed to mind.
With too many choices and only a day to see the rest of what the
town had to offer, we chose the VASA ship museum and the
Dronninghom Castle.
The VASA was a great war vessel which was built - overbuilt, actually, because the king of Sweden overruled the naval architect and added upper decks that could not be supported. She was launched in 1628, and sank in the outer harbor of Stockholm after sailing just over a mile.
The vessel was raised from the bottom in 1961, virtually intact, and is now housed in a permanent museum on the waterfront. The ship is spectacular, and certainly rank as one of most memorable sights of the trip for me.
I succumbed to the blandishments of the rest of the party, and let them buy me a baseball cap and a tee shirt celebrating the great vessel.
The palace grounds were equally spectacular, and then it was two hours on the road back to Ljungsbro, where John and family had prepared an outdoor dinner party for seven or eight friends, mostly people involved with his Vision foundation.
Among them were Jane and Frederick Bernhardt, their closest friends. She grew up in Connecticut and is a professor of environmental studies at the local university at Linkoping. Her husband is an architect.
As with the Bergmanns, alcohol is a very important part of any festivities. In the case of the Godoys, Guatemalan run was the drink of choice, along with wine and beer.
Since daylight continues until almost eleven at that latitude, we all sat outdoors until late, in an astonishingly bug free atmosphere - so much so that most windows don’t have screens.
After a breakfast of muesli, strawberries and yogurt - which is standard for many Scandinavians, we were told - we walked to the Bernhardt’s home, about 2 1/2 miles away. The route lay along a canal which forms part of the waterway that extends from Stockholm on the east coast to Gothenburg on the west.
The canal was dug by Russian prisoners of war in the early 19th century, for boats carrying freight from one side of the country to the other. It is maintained now for pleasure boats and swimmers, with paths for walkers and bicycles lining both sides of the canal.
The path led us by a series of locks to the tiny town of Berg, and from there to a large lake with a series of seven locks stepping the water down. There were lots of sailboats, including a Hallberg-Rassy hull similar to the Weiss’ craft.
The lock keepers were teenagers, and the canal was full of swimmers of all ages.
Another outdoor lunch, this time at the Bernhardts, who live in a 1911 home which they have added to and updated, but kept the the porcelain fireplaces, five in all - that were torn out and discarded from many homes in the past.
It is bright airy house with wonderfully proportioned rooms and a small outside deck on the second floor facing the lake.
Visiting the Bernhardts was a wonderful coda to our Swedish excursion.
Thursday, July 17, 2003 - We drove back Monday afternoon from the Godoys, catching the Scanlines ferry to Helsingfors from Helsingborg, across the narrow strait separating the two cities. We avoided the H and H Line on which we had had such a poor experience on our way to Sweden
(Despite our having had a reservation for the trip to Sweden, the clerk at the loading kiosk sent us to the unreserved lane - unknown to us - and we were the first car not to get on the next ferry, which was already half an hour late.
To add to my frustration, the clerk was quite rude when we remonstrated with her. Clearly, I was very annoyed, still steaming a week or more after the event.)
Scanlines did a much better job - at a 20% higher price - and we were home by 9:30 p.m.
Tuesday was a layday (the term is used primarily in series yacht racing like the America’s Cup to indicate a day with no racing - but it seems to fit here) - laundry, walking the neighborhood, a little shopping, catching our breath. The side mirror on the car was hit in Stockholm and needed replacement. The mechanic Ebbe suggested came through and will replace it.
Thursday, July 17, 2003 - 7:30 p.m. The storm that hit Texas some days ago has landed in Denmark, and the warm sunny day we have been enjoying is about to disappear as the storm comes in.
I am having trouble keeping this journal up-to-date, because I don’t seem to be able to leave time to do so. I keep starting the write and then I get pulled away onto something else that seems to have a higher priority.
Wednesday, we headed west a short ride to Trelleborg, Zealand, A preserved fortress from the reign of Harald Bluetooth. Trelleborg was probably built around 980. The circular compound is remarkable for the mathematical precision of its construction.
The ramparts of the compound have been preserved. They originally enclosed a military base from the end of the first millennium, and now have enclose a sheep pasture with the concomitant dung spread far and wide.
A small stream evidently served as a means of provisioning the soldiers stationed at the site. There were some rudimentary reenactments of Viking activities, not done very realistically - but it was pleasant couple of hours.
Trelleborg is not very high on the to-do list, but it does give a sense of how long people with well-defined skills have been living in Denmark.
From Trelleborg to a nearby glass artifacts factory, where I made one of my few purchases: a pair of blown glass salt and pepper shakers, with the artisan who created them sitting nearby.
Finally, we headed south in the afternoon to the island of Mons, due south of Copenhagen. Our destination was the tall chalk cliffs - calcenious deposits from eons of clam shells, lifted high in the air when the earth’s crust shifted.
They rise nearly 200 meters in the air from the edge of the sea, and a 497 step stairway has been built from the top down to the beach. It is an extremely popular attraction - more people than we had seen anywhere along the way.
I made it back up the stairs after deciding a lengthy walk along the beach and a steep trail up - the only alternative to the parking lot - was the greater of two evils. With moral support from Carol, and lots of rest stops, I made it to the top without incident, but my right knee feels it today, two days after the climb. particular attraction of the cliffs is finding sea fossils in the chalk. (I think we pried some loose, but if we did, they have disappeared.)
With distances much shorter in Denmark, we did all that and were back in Bronsjoi by 9:30 in the evening.
On Wednesday, Paul called just at 8 in the morning, and invited us to their summer house for a swim - our first, a lovely, wide, fine grained sand beach and cool water - 17 to 18 degrees Centigrade (62-64 F).
Not unexpectedly, there was a certain amount of toplessness among the bathers. But I guess I am getting old - no turn on.
We would have stayed longer in the water, but Paul was impatient for lunch. Back to the house we went, for a long, wet lunch with a wine I had not had before, “Vino Frisante”, a light Italian white with a mild amount of bubbles.
It began with herring, of course, - three kinds, now that the Bergmanns know we like herring. In addition, there was salad nicoise, cheese, quiche,and the usual wonderful bread.
They would have kept us all day, but JH was a little restless and we left about four for a quiet evening. Carol and I watched an old Western - “For Few Dollars More”, we think, but we never saw the title. Clint Eastwood starred, in a bloody opus that would be laughed at today, but it still gripped our attention.
This morning, rain. The car was repaired in quick order and we were on the road to the west a little after nine, for a more extended trip, Odense the first stop. A couple of museums which were not particularly interesting .
My impression is that there are too many museums with not enough material to keep them all in business. Carol suggested they are started to attract tourists rather than to fill a real need. We seem to be a little museumed-out at this point. The smaller museums have very little English on
their placards and often don’t have adequate English printed materials, despite the fact that the overwhelming number of visitors are much more likely to speak English than Danish.;
Tonight, we are in a five star hotel in Valje we found through the local tourist office. JH is delighted, as I think the rest of us are. Dinner shortly.
We are having problems setting daily agenda, mostly because everyone makes way for the others. which makes decision making difficult. Out in the countryside, it isn’t as clear as it is in Copenhagen what the priorities ought to be, so we waste some time trying to figure out what to do each day.
After the weekend our days are numbered. We go to Oslo, Norway, Monday night, returning Wednesday morning. We then have Thursday and Friday to see what else we want to see, and then fly out Sunday to Iceland.
Paul wants to see us again, Carol has a friend she wants to have lunch with, and the time is almost gone. Stanzie has been quite willful and moody at times, creating a certain amount of tension. I am sure it is difficult to be without someone her own age to interact with, for this long a time.
Monday morning, 7/21/03. It is cloudy with light showers. A minor problem with the left car door was fixed without incident by the family mechanic, and JH and I went off to do some interim food shopping.
OBSERVATIONS: (1) Danes almost never jaywalk - all the corners with lights have audible signals for pedestrians.
(2) As drivers in the open countryside, Danes leave much to be desired. As with other Europeans, they tend to rush up from the rear, well over the speed limit, and pass as quickly as possible, often honking in the process, impatient on the road generally.
(3) Bicycles are everywhere and there are bike lanes not only in the cities and towns, but in the countryside as well. National bike routes are shown prominently on road maps. There is no age limits on riders - we saw people who appeared well into their 70s and 80s, riding sedately with groceries in the front basket. With the terrain essentially flat, many bikes are gearless or of the three-sped variety now obsolete in the US. But there are plenty of racers on the road as well.
Bikers are generally very well mannered and riding appears much safer than in the US, with more space for the bikes and more attention paid by motorists.
We are now sitting down to lunch at a Danish IKEA, a second visit which resulted in a hugh purchase by JH . (I found a garlic press I like better than the one I have.) It is an amazing store. (At the time, IKEA had only a single store in the US, in Maryland, as I recall, so none of us had been exposed to the IKEA experience.)
At five this afternoon, we will set sail for Oslo, Norway, to spend 16 hours at sea - with all four of us in one cabin. It should be interesting. We will have 8 hours in Oslo, using the boat as our hotel. We have been told we can leave our belongings aboard.
I would not have chosen to add Oslo to the trip but JH had her heart set on the visit. In doing so, we will have bagged the capitals of Denmark, Norway and Sweden - only Finland remains to be conquered.
ASIDE: I have learned almost nothing of spoken Danish, but I can now recognize many words and can decode most signs. It doesn't appear to be an extraordinarily difficult language to learn, once the pronunciations have been sorted out. The Danish tend to slur their words, which doesn’t help.
Fortunately, as we have learned, almost everyone in Copenhagen speaks English - and people is shops and service positions often speak quite good, even colloquial language.
Tuesday evening - 7/22/03. Catching up seems unlikely. We spent 8 hours in Oslo, and as much as I was doubtful about the utility of this three-day mini-cruise, the sculptures at The Vigeland Sculpture Park absolutely floored me.
The 80 acre park in which the sculptures are placed was secured by the city and given over to Vigeland’s work. Vigeland entered into an agreement with the Oslo City Council in 1921. He made over to the city all his sculptures, drawings and woodcuts as well as the original models of all future works. In return, the council agreed to build him a studio and support his work.
In 1924 Vigeland moved into his new studio which included living quarters above. This was his home until his death in 1943. According to his own wish, his ashes are kept in the tower of the building.
The more than 200 full size works are stunningly life-affirming, focused as they are on all the stages of man’s existence, from babyhood top the decrepitude of old age.
Our city tour by bus included a visit to the Folk Museum - with its ancient buildings brought from all over Norway to be re-erected. We ended the day walking from the center of the city back to the boat, where we had left our belongings.
I haven’t paced it off, but our cabin measures no more than 8 feet in width and 9 feet in length, with a bath atone end. It is an inside state room but the air conditioning is excellent.
The whole tab was DK 1914, a bargain in Danish terms, about $300, but eating aboard the ferry was very expensive. We managed to have
dinner from the bread, cheese, and fruit we brought aboard, replenishing the fruit at a stand near the Folk Museum.
There was lots of drinking and lots of drunks, and lots of families with shrieking kids. Danish laws on alcohol consumption are much looser than the rest of Scandinavian countries and the Swedes and Norwegians stock up on a Danish boat.
ASIDE: There are museums everywhere in Denmark, - even the little suburb of Bronsjoi where we are staying has a little three-room museum into which Carol and I poked our noses in Monday.
Many are poorly maintained, with signage in English on a hit or miss basis, in most cases. Many of the sites we have visited seem to suffer from a lack of money or indifferent management or both.
Given how few visitors speak the native languages in Scandinavia, and the universality of English in the world, it is odd that more effort isn’t put into rending at least minimal information for those us unversed in the local languages.
On the return voyage, we again passed through the fjord of Oslo, and then out into the Skaggerat with a lighthouse to starboard. The wind is very strong out of the west, but the ferry, at 500 plus feet in length, doesn't feel the motion.
Only the muted throb of the engines can be felt away from the open decks. “Ferry” is a bit of a misnomer. With nearly a dozen decks, three or four different dining areas, and hundreds of cabins, it is very much an ocean liner.
OSLO IMPRESSIONS: Looks like wonderful public transit. Lots of impressive public buildings. A summer palace that is a working farm as well as a royal residence. Lots of greenery in Oslo - and easy to get out of the city.
I’ve been getting lots of walking exercise, and despite the bread, which is so good I eat more than I should, I don’t think I have gained much weight.
Often there have been stairs to climb, starting with 500+ at Mons Klint. That wa followed by by 200+ at the hotel at Valje. Today, there were many at the sculpture park, as well as up and down to the top boat decks.
The ferry has eleven decks in all with elevators that take one to the point where two fairly steep outdoor flights of stairs lead to the top sun decks.
OBSERVATION: We have heard a lot of American speech on the boat, and we have noted Americans in Copenhagen and Stockholm. But once we leave the major cities, the tourists are from Scandinavia or Europe, not the US or England.
I have managed a lot of walking and my hip has not felt this good in a long time. I’ve been taking my medications regularly, for a change, and perhaps that is making the difference.
OBSERVATION: The tall handsome women of Sweden made me feel short for the first time in my life. Stockholm was a sea of shapely blonde goddesses, each more comely than the last.
Copenhagen is in Denmark’s easternmost province, on the island of Zealand, and the early part of our stay was occupied with day trips around Zealand. To reach the other provinces required longer journeys, complete with relatively short ferry trips from island to island, and finally to the western peninsular of Jutland, an extension north of the European mainland.
I left out the details of the trip beyond Odense (the major city of the island of Fyn) to Jutland. Our first night was at a great hotel in Vejle, which we stumbled across by calling the local tourist bureau.
It was situated high above an arm of the sea, with 200 or more steps leading down to a trail which ends up on the beach. Then in the morning, we were off to Legoland, which is an amusement park promoting Legos, and catering to hordes of children.
But for adults, there were fascinating miniature representations of Copenhagen harbor, Amsterdam, complete with canals and Copenhagen airport.
That evening, we found a hotel in Arhus, the second largest city in Denmark. It was a lovely old building, but situated on ab busy street and an all night party across the street woke us at various times during the night.
I managed to spill beer on JoHannah’s clothes bag, which rightfully infuriated her.
OBSERVATION: As in most of Europe, breakfast is included in the price of the room., and depending on the hotel, it can be a great deal. At Vejle, the four-star hotel we were directed to apparently caters to businessmen. Faced with slow business on weekends, it offered a bargain - dinner and breakfast with a double room at DK975, which meant we paid the equivalent of about $5.00 for an enormous buffet dinner. I pigged out on dessert for the first time on the trip.
We wandered around Arhus, heard some jazz, had a good supper at a bar. The next day we split up. JH and Stanzie went off to see a nature park at Randers, a small town due north of Arhus, while Carol and I went sightseeing around the city.
After lunch, we found our way to a beach on Jutland’s east coast for a swim in water than seemed warmer - or perhaps less cold - than we had experienced at the Bergmanns on Zealand.
Finally, a ferry back to Zealand and 108 kilometers to Copenhagen.
On Wednesday, Paul called just at 8 in the morning and invited us up to the summer house for a swim. A lovely wide fine sand beach and cool water - 17-18 degrees Celsius. As expected there was a certain amount of toplessness. Most who went topless certainly did it for the sake of the sun on their skins - in most cases, I found it a turn off, not a turn on.
We were happy to stay for the day, but Paul was a little impatient for lunch. We returned to the house for a lazy, wet repast, featuring vino frisante, an Italian wine with a slight fizz I had not tasted before. Three kinds of herring, now that the Bergmann’s know we like herring, salad Nicoise, cheese, quiche, and the usual wonderful bread.
They would have liked to keep us all day, but by four, JH was getting nudgy - and we left. A quiet evening - Carol and I watched an old Western - “For Few Dollars”, I think - but we never saw the title. Clint Eastwood starred in a bloody opus that would be hooted at today, but gripped our attention anyway.
This morning, rain, but we had the car repaired with little difficulty and we were on the road to Odense a little after nine., to visit a couple of museums that were not particularly interesting.
My impression is there are too many museums with not enough material to keep them all in business. Carol suggested they are started to attract tourists rather than to fill a real need.
I think we are a little museumed out, at this point - particularly as the smaller museums have very little English in their placards and often don’t have adequate English printed materials.
We are having some problems setting daily agendas - mostly with everyone making way for others, which makes decisions slow to evolve. Out in the countryside, it isn’t as clear as in Copenhagen what the priorities should be. We spend time trying to get agreement on what to do each day.
After the weekend, our days here are numbered. We go to Oslo Monday night, and return on Wednesday. That leaves the rest of the week to do and see what else we want before flying out Iceland on Sunday.
Paul wants to see us again, Carol has a friend she wants to have lunch with, and the time is almost gone.
Monday morning, 7/21/03. (I suppose, since it is Denmark, I should be writing 21/7/03.) It is cloudy with light showers. A minor problem with a left passenger door, which the mechanic fixed without incident, while JH and I did some food shopping.
OBSERVATION: Danes almost never jaywalk. All the corners with traffic lights have audible signals for pedestrians. But as drivers in the open country, the Danes leave much to be desired. As with other Europeans, they tend to rush up from the rear, well over the speed limit,and pass as quickly as possible, often honking in the process - impatient on the road, generally.
Bicycles are everywhere, and there are special bike lanes not only in the cities and towns, but through the country, with the national bicycle routes shown prominently on road maps.
There is no age limit - we saw people who appeared well into their seventies and eighties riding sedately with groceries in the front basket. With the terrain essentially flat, many bikes are gearless or the now obsolete 3-speed variety that was the object of desire when I first learned to ride.
Bur racing is not neglected, and we saw many club riders on the roads.
I write this in an IKEA in Denmark, where we are having lunch, a second visit which resulted in another huge purchase by Jo Hannah. It is an amazing store.
One of the most moving experiences of the entire trip was a visit to the Resist Museum in Copenhagen, and I left wanting to know much more about Denmark’s role in World War II. Paul and his family escaped to Sweden in 1942 when someone in the German administration warned the small Jewish population of about 7000 that deportations were coming.
Most of the Jews got out - less than 500 ended in concentration camps. The Danes generally treated the Jews well but as always, there were those who collaborated and many of those were liquidated by the resistance movement.
In our last week, the weather continues warm and pleasant, and the vegetation is very lush here in the garden, where I am sitting and writing. We ate outdoors tonight as we have done on a number of occasions.
Although the homes in the area are built on what we would think of as small lots, they ten to be surrounded by hedges in addition or instead of fences in many cases, and most houses are surrounded by a variety of flowers and shrubbery - the gardens are very informal.
Saturday, 7/26/03 - 5:45 p.m. Stanzie has zonked out, holding our plans for dinner in downtown Copenhagen in abeyance. We may get there - but who knows?
Today was cleaning and packing day. We have ended up with three banana cartons, courtesy of John Godoy., who uses them to store his eyeglasses. Jo Hannah is using them to transport that fruit of her IKEA forays.
Hopefully, along with the rest of our luggage, everything will fit into the cab we will take to the airport in the morning. The other issue is whether we can check our luggage at there airport in Iceland, rather than take it into Reykjavik where we will spend a few days.
Since Icelandic Airlines doesn’t answer the phone on weekends, we were left without an answer.
We leave behind a house with lots of stuff - two desk top computers, at least three laptops, all connected to the Internet. A fax machine. TWo printers. A scanner.
Monday, 7/28/03 - The last leg - Reykjavik, Iceland. We have a very funky apartment close to the center of the city - one block from the main shopping street, Laugavegur.
Tuesday, 7/29/03 - Next to the last day. Iceland has ben a mixed bag. Stanzie has not been feeling well, and while we managed to get things done the day we arrived and yesterday, she has sp[ most of today sleeping or watching her DVD player, pretty much out of it.
Our first afternoon, we walked around the town center and got oriented. Reykjavik, in many ways, resembles an small American city in the West, with a facade of kept up buildings on the main shopping street and sleaze behind.
The older part of town is full of buildings built of vertical aluminum siding and stucco covered cement block. There is virtually no native lumber in Iceland - the standard joke: if you are lost in the woods, stand up!
The government buildings are in good shape, and the new industrial area and housing estates to the east of the older parts of town are very modern, attractive and well kept.
Prices are the highest I’ve every experienced, particularly for food and lodging, but for virtually everything else as well. The cab ride in from the airport, about 25 miles, was close to $100 - with the luggage we were carrying (we were unable to check anything at the airport) there was no practical alternative.
We had not planned to rent a car but it turned out to be the thing to do. Prices for rental cars have dropped recently. While daily tours for four people can easily run $200, we got a car for about $80 a day.
Yesterday, we took off midmorning for the so-called Golden Circle - a series of stops east of Reykavik. beginning with the site of Iceland’s first parliamentary, the Althing, nearly 1000 years ago, a place called Thingvellir.
Running through the area is the rift between the tectonic plates separating Europe from the Americas. The place is rife with Icelandic history, There were tourists galore, but we walked extensively over the area and happened on the Secretary General of NATO holding a meeting on his final visit to Iceland.
Stanzie and JH were thrilled when the Secretary of State of Iceland said hello to them! We talked at length with a helpful policeman who filled us in on some details.
At our next stop, a hot springs, there were a dozen “suits”, arriving and leaving by helicopter. The original GEYSER which lent its name to all subsequent geysers, is out of business, but a companion merrily spouts away.
Unfortunately, for Americans who have been to Yellowstone, Iceland’s area of hot spots is not impressive. A few miles away, the truly impressive double waterfalls at Gullfoss make up for it. Behind the falls was a a brief rainbow, which shown before the sun went behind the clouds.
Weather in Iceland can change from minute to minute. We have been lucky to have two comparatively mild days on Sunday and Monday, with lots of sunshine yesterday.
This morning, we awoke to drizzle that hung around until late morning. Since then, it has been cool and windy. Jacket weather for the first time on the trip. Now, about five in the afternoon, the sun has come out - but will disappear shortly, I am sure.
A highlight of yesterday was a visit to a contemporary church, built on a site where churches have stood since 1000 AD. Inside, a magnificent mosaic behind the altar and stained glass everywhere.
Serendipity: in the church, a string ensemble with harpsichord was rehearsing Beethoven under the direction of a Dutch musician in what is evidently a summer music school program. We sat for twenty minutes listening to the group of very talented musicians, entranced.
The place is called Skatholt. By arriving very late in the afternoon, we avoided the tour busses, which arrive in hordes to see the mosaic, and got the unexpected bonus of the music.
A long day - and we split up for dinner as Stanzie wanted lobster, expecting the Maine variety. Carol and I opted for a seafood buffet that was adequate, but no more. At $26, it was about double what we could expect to pay in the States.
Today has been walking and exploring Reykjavik, including the National Gallery with a few wonderful things by Icelandic artists, but not much else of note. A photo exhibit by a French-Vietnamese photographer featuring Icelandic scenes was better.
But one picture at the National Gallery struck me - it depicted Thingvellir in 1901 - and perfectly caught some of the landscape we had seen yesterday. I broke down and bought a poster.
Lots more walking today - my hip seems to be working fine.
On balance, perhaps adding Iceland for three days was overkill but the countryside has some wonderful vistas - including a huge ice field we saw from the road yesterday. - and we have seen only a tiny portion of this country.
Ideal would be a a week to ten day tour along Route 1, a ring road around the entire country. The interior is uninhabited and uninhabitable - and many roads need four wheel drive.
Probably, I will never make it back to Iceland. Too many other things to do. But the pictures in my mind from the day out on the land are very strong. Amazing how often I was reminded of sites in Montana.
Transcribing the notes I made four years ago reminded me of the superb hospitality of the Bergmanns. In so many ways, they were major contributors to my very positive impressions of Denmark. Paul is about my age and as Sam Bermans first cousin, brought with him much of Sam and Sam’s background.
Three generations traveling together worked pretty well I think it was hardest for Stanzie, with no one her own age around, but she handled it well.
Carol and I have done one more house exchange since 2003 woih great success, and would probablydo more, if the opportunity arose. Again, what made a huge differebce was a local family (in France this time) who adopted us for the time we were there, and provided the backbone of our experience.
Another trip to Scandanavia is not likely - but I still think about Iceland, and am still reading about the country and its history and its people. Perhaps ---
Home exchanges require a suspension of distrust - how else can you turn over your house and its contents, as well as, perhaps, your car, to a family you know only by name and address, plus the sparse details that come through on the International Vacations website (www.intervac.com)?
But urged by friends who have had a number of exchanges, and buoyed by the thought of being able to spend enough time in one place to begin to understand it, we embarked on our Danish adventure on July 2, 2003.
Having been incautious enough to promise my granddaughter a trip to Europe upon high school graduation, when time came to make good on the promise, a house exchange to Italy appeared to satisfy the spirit and the letter of the commitment.
Alas, as I sifted through the Italian exchanges offered, Bush’s Iraqi misadventure was in the offing. Italians appeared to want nothing to do with America, and a number of inquiries produced no results.
But from the listing on-line of my own house, I began to get e-mails from Ireland, England and Scandinavia. Northern Europe evidently didn’t share Southern Europe’s distaste for America and its foreign policy.
Denmark won out over the others - it would be a little more foreign, but we heard that virtually everyone spoke English (which turned out to be accurate) - and Copenhagen, where we would be living, was very high on the list of “best places” of most people we talked with about the trip.
So, the trip began to take on a life of its own. Both ourselves - me, my daughter Jo Hannah, my granddaughter Stanzie, and my friend Carol Miller - and the exchanging family would fly Iceland Air via Reykjavik, arriving in each other’s communities on the same day.
Iceland Air has a single gate at the Copenhagen Airport, and we were able to spend a brief time after our arrival with the departing family that would be coming to Lexington. Given the six hour time difference between Boston and Copenhagen, they still got to Lexington on the 3rd.
Denmark has, so far, refused to adopt the euro, the new currency which is supposed to replace all the traditional European marks, and pounds, and pesetas, and lire. Kroner (crown) is used in all the Scandinavian countries - but to make life as complicated as possible, each kroner has a different value, both against the dollar and against each other.
The taxi ride into the Bronsjoi (pronounced approximately ‘brounshoy’)
section of Copenhagen, our new home, confirmed Denmark’s reputation as one of the most expensive countries in Europe.
But we were there at last, and the house was very much as our hosts had described it in the e-mails we had exchanged - three bedrooms, one bath with a second lavatory in the finished basement, a kitchen/dining room, living room, and the prize: a garden with a covered patio off the kitchen where we often ate.
Lots in Bronsjoi are small by our standards, but virtually every one is alive with flowers, small trees, bushes, and shrubs. Sitting in our garden, we could see only the roofs of neighboring houses, despite their nearness.
The surrounding streets were quiet, with little through traffic and few pedestrians - but many bicycles, about which I will have more to say.
Streets are narrow and not generally laid out in easy-to-understand patterns. Our first venture to the food markets recommended by our hosts resulted in our getting lost, despite the excellent maps we were left. Getting lost became the norm, at least in part because the street names were so unfamiliar.
Copenhagen, and most of Denmark, is much farther north than Boston, and we were blessed with light until after ten o’clock in the evening in July. Unfortunately for the Danes, in winter the day ends before four o’clock in the afternoon, the other half of the cycle.
Our marketing venture that first day brought us our initial instance of Danes going far beyond the norm to help us out. As we wandered the unfamiliar aisles of the small supermarket, trying to understand kilos and liters amid the array of never-before-seen labels, another customer became our guardian, with advice and comments that were very helpful. That experience was replicated with almost no exceptions throughout our stay.
Unlike many major cities in the United States, Copenhagen has a superb transportation system, with buses everywhere. Between excellent public transit service, the nearly universal use of bicycles, and gasoline priced at nearly $5 a gallon, the automobile is not nearly as ubiquitous as here.
Housewives carrying their groceries home from the market, businessmen in suits and ties, children of all ages, grandfathers and grandmothers on errands - all ride bikes. With the country predominantly flat - the highest point in Denmark is just over 500 feet above sea level - highly geared bikes are a novelty, and many looked very much like the single speed balloon-tired affairs I learned to ride on seventy years ago.
Major streets are laid out with sidewalks for pedestrians, then a parking lane for cars, next a bicycle lane and finally two or four traffic lanes. A driver from the U.S. finds it unnerving to need to watch for the thousands of bikes that are running along on his right. (They do drive on the right side of the road, however, so we avoided the learning curve needed in some other countries with a different orientation.)
Stanzie was fascinated by the variety of automobiles - Russian,
Spanish, Czech among other imports - many with brand names we knew but models we had never seen in America. As a corollary to the price of gasoline, most cars are small by American standards, which may be why so many were new to us.
When we arrived back in Lexington, we learned that the exchange family rested and relaxed for two or three days before venturing out into the wilds of New England. But that is not the mode of Americans in Europe, even those like us with four weeks ahead of us.
Making the most of every day and opportunity seems to me peculiarly American. Perhaps it is just a carryover from the felt need of immigrants and children of immigrants, like my parents and myself, to work extra hard to gain recognition and acceptance.
From my experience traveling a month in New Zealand, ‘time out’ becomes a necessity after a while. But we wanted to waste no time getting into the experience of living in Denmark. Although we all tended to sleep later in the morning than was our habit at home, our first full day included shopping for food, and a trip south of Copenhagen to a contemporary museum, at Arkan on the beach. The building was memorable - the collection was not - and we had accomplished something on our first day! (There were few people in the museum, and when we later told Danish acquaintances that we had been there, some expressed surprise - it evidently doesn’t rank very high on the ‘must see’ list. For us, finding it was a rite of passage which somehow gave us confidence for more complicated expeditions.)
The above was written shortly after our return, but left unfinished.
Rather than try to recapture the impressions and emotions that were fresh in 2003, I decided to finish the story by transcribing my journal notes.
Wednesday, July 3, 2003 - A heavy, steady rain is falling at 7:30 p.m. on our first day in Bronsjoi, a Copenhagen neighborhood west of downtown.
We overlapped for an hour at the airport with our Danish hosts, who were flying out of the same gate we came in on. They have two very attractive adopted Korean daughters, and the couple themselves seem very pleasant.
The taxi ride in from the airport was uneventful - we saw some of the city but had no idea what we were seeing!
Saturday and Monday, July 5 and 7 - I’m having trouble finding the time and energy to write. Without a set schedule, we have been staying in bed until nine - it is now 9:40. Stanzie has not yet emerged, JH is reading more
travel brochures and Carol is making breakfast.
We were fortunate to contact Sam Berman’s first cousin, Paul Bergmann, the day after we arrived on Friday. An invitation to his daughter’s summer home for Saturday turned into a sumptuous Danish lunch for nine: smoked herring, smoked halibut, smoked salmon in phyllo dough, potato salad, egg salad, wonderful bread and SCHNAPPS and beer.
We stayed until seven in the evening!
Friday, we had shopped for food and visited a contemporary art museum at Arkan on the beach south of Copenhagen. Food prices seem high, mostly due to the 25% VAT (Value Added Tax) which is tacked on to virtually everything.
There were showers on and off on Friday, but Saturday was a gorgeous summer day. Before going north to the Bergmann’s home in Dronningsmolle, a resort town north of Copenhagen on the Kattegat, the bay separates Denmark from Sweden, we spent a couple of hours at a craft fair in downtown Copenhagen, navigating the streets and figuring out the parking issues.
Virtually everyone we met in Copenhagen speaks English and we have encountered nothing but help. Yesterday, Sunday, a friend of the Schultzes (our hosts) came by. He is a journalist who has been working for one of the political parties, but has quit to become a full time freelancer. He will take us on a tour of Parliament later in the trip.
His take on Danish society: not much “vertical space”. People tend to all reach about the same level, and the very high taxes, and the socialistic society keeps ambition at bay, since accumulating capital is very difficult with the high tax level.
We have met part of the Bergmann family - two of Paul’s daughters were at the Saturday luncheon, along with his wife and one son-in-law, and eventually two grandsons turned up, alas, a little too old for Stanzie.
I had forgotten how many people smoke in Europe, including Paul’s daughters and son-in-law - but at least they do so outside the house, but not quite far enough away.
Everyone was most hospitable - Paul seemed to welcome the diversion of having Americans around to show off his family and city to.
He is coming in half an hour to take us on a tour of the town.
Tuesday, July 8th, 4 p.m. - I write sitting at a table outdoors in a square in downtown Copenhagen near the canal and Parliament buildings. The ladies have gone off shopping, leaving me half an hour to myself. The sun has been out and is still - not always the case. But there is a breeze off the water which keeps the temperature in the low 60’s.
To get downtown, we took a bus this morning, walking half a mile to reach the stop in the shopping street nearest the house. The initial day’s object was the Round Tower -one of the taller buildings in a city where there are no skyscrapers and four or five stories is the norm.
Rundetaarn (The Round Tower) was built on the initiative of King
Christian IV (1588-1648) with Hans Steenwinkel the Younger as the architect. On July 7th -1637, the foundation stone for Rundetaarn was laid. The tower was the first stage of the Trinitatis complex, which was to gather three important facilities for the scholars of the seventeenth century: an astronomical observatory, a student church and a university library.
The internal spiral walk is reportedly unique in European architecture. The more than 600 foot long spiral ramp winds itself 7.5 times round the hollow core of the tower, forming the only connection between the individual parts of the building complex.
From the platform, more than 110 feet above the street, we had a magnificent view of the old part of Copenhagen. Rundetaarn is the oldest functioning observatory in Europe. Until 1861 it was used by the University of Copenhagen, but today, anyone can observe the night sky through the fine astronomical telescope of the tower in the winter period.
A gallery in the building featured paper art, some of which was quite lovely and some I found indecipherable. Lunch was atop the Post and Telegraph Museum outdoors - a great view but pricey, as is almost everything we do.
Yesterday, Paul and Gerda came to pick up us - in two cars we drove north to Hillebro to the Fredensborg Slot (castle) in the town of Fredensborg on the river Esrumo. We toured the castle, the spring and summer home of the Danish Royal Family, and the magnificent surrounding grounds, and had a lovely lunch with the Bergmanns.
On the way back, we stopped for coffee at the home of the Bergmann’s third daughter, in Rungsted. She and her family were in France on holiday. Paul proudly showed us the masonry and carpentry he had performed on the place. He is quite skilled with his hands, and appears to have much more energy than I do.
We got home about nine, completely exhausted after taking a couple of wrong turns on the way. I’m learning my way about Copenhagen, but the road system outside the city is still baffling at times. Street signs are on buildings, not freestanding, and difficult to make out in many cases.
JH, the designated driver in most circumstances, is not always willing to take direction.
I have had my free half hour - time to join the ladies if I can find them.
A long discussion took place today on when and how to go to Sweden, just across the water by either bridge or twenty-minute ferry. The plan originally was to drive to Stockholm in two days, stay there for two days and drive back, again in two days.
We looked at taking the train - but the fare turned out to be $200 each for the round trip. That put a crimp in the plans to take the train -
and then we learned that John Godoy (who grew up in Lexington and played soccer with Harry) lives about 2 1/2 hours southwest of Stockholm.
JoHannah dispatched an e-mail to him tonight to see if he is available to see us either coming or going to Stockholm. That will determine the travel mode.
I am having trouble with how expensive this trip has become, and I guess it is showing to JH and Carol as well. Although I was aware that Denmark was going to be costly, the exchange rate has worsened in the past six months.
But the real culprit is the VAT (value added tax) of 25% and which is tacked onto virtually everything we buy.
In contrast to New Zealand where we were interacting with the local people continually, our contacts so far have been only with the Bergmanns, and with our host’s friend Ebbe, a journalist who escorted us through Parliament. It has been difficult for us to grasp the essential elements of Danish society and culture.
The number of museums and castle is overwhelming - we will never cover half the things we would like to see, even in a month here.
July 9, 2003 - 6:05 p.m. A sunny but breezy day - Carol freezing one minute when the clouds obscured the sun and taking off her sweater the next. But it has been a lovely day anyway.
We got a very late start for Roskilde, a very ancient town just 25 kilometers west of here; it took just a half hour. There was a grand cathedral we chose to ignore to concentrate on the Viking Ship Museum, containing the reconstructed remains of five Viking ships dating from 1000 to 1050, which had been sunk in the harbor of Roskilde to deter invaders.
In 1960, the what remained of the ships was dredged up and the boats put together from hundreds of pieces. Shipwrights employed by the Museum are also building new ships, using the same types of materials and same tools and methods employed a thousand years ago.
The highlight of the day for me was a visit to a summer home/palace built 250 years ago and still lived in and owned by the same family. There were few visitors around, plenty of space and a sense of human scale in both the building and grounds surrounding it.
Totally relaxed, I even sacked out for twenty minutes on the soft grass in the garden. (For some reason, I neglected to record the name of the place, possibly the result of too much relaxation.)
We chatted briefly with a Danish couple who had a child who looked like my great nephew, Eli, but who turned out to be Filipino rather than
Guatemalan like Eli. Adoption of children from the Far East is apparently as
prevalent in Denmark as in the States.
STOCKHOLM
July 12/03 Saturday 3:35 p.m. I am sitting on a bench, drinking coffee, in the square in front of the Nobel Museum. I have a blessed half hour to myself with everyone else off shopping - the same thing we have been doing since ten this morning.
We arrived in Stockholm yesterday afternoon after shopping at the IKEA superstore in Linkoping with John and Marita Godoy. It is an amazing store - capable of furnishing and entire home - as well as providing the lumber to build it with.
Even I succumbed to temptation and bought a cheese slicer, pot holders and rubber gloves! A real shopping spree, for me. JH spent serious money.
After a battle with the directions from Linkoping to Stockholm, we found the hotel at which we had made reservations. It was adequate, with its prime attraction being situated on a quiet square where we were able to leave the car safely on the street.’
A half hour walk down hill brought us to the harbor for a two hour cruise around the islands which make up Stockholm. Lovely evening, good commentary during the ride with much history, well edited.
A poor choice of restaurants for a cheap dinner and back to the hotel about ten - a shower and oblivion.
Here in the square as I write, a Japanese tour group has raised their umbrellas - against the sun, which has finally come out after a day of clouds and showers.
Most of today we have been in Old Town, an island which was the original site of the city. We lucked out and happened on the changing of the guard at the royal Palace, complete with a band concert by a wonderfully professional band.
This is an area of very narrow streets and four and five story buildings, with the town hall at one end and the Royal Palace at the other. Thousands of shops with some great values - prices are lower than in Denmark and the exchange rate is 10% better. Carol is having a wonderful time shopping.
CONTRAST: Stockholm is much larger, noisier and dirtier than Copenhagen, but less accessible in of a feeling of community. Our impression is that Danes are friendlier, but that is based on very short observation.
Lots to see and do but we won’t get more than a brief sample. We leave late tomorrow to spend Sunday night with the Godoys, displacing their children once again.
Our visit with the Godoys on Thursday and Friday was very warm and comfortable. John and Marita have two daughters and a son - 19, 17, 15. We were late getting in on Thursday because of a screw-up at the ferry from Helsingfor (Denmark) to Helsingbor (Sweden). The ferry ride is only twenty minutes, but the attendant put us in the wrong line and we missed getting on the proper boat .
The Godoys live in a small town called Ljungsbro near a small city called Linkoping, about 200 kilometers from Stockholm, and a four to five hour ride from the ferry.
A barbecue awaited us, with Peruvian rice and Guatemalan schnapps and Spanish wine in a box. Grilled steak, grilled chicken to go with the rice and salad and great bread.
The children stayed elsewhere with friends to make room for us.
Marita is a district nurse, working nights and weekends. John multitasks - he teaches optometry at Kalmar University, four hours away by train, and works at an eye clinic two hours away. In his spare time, he founded Vision For All, a non-governmental organization which provides eyeglasses for unserved poor populations in various places around the world.
He was just back from a stay in Guatemala, where Marita worked with him. His work has taken him to other countries in South America and in Africa. He is particularly interested in Eritrea, where he hopes to establish a school for optometrists.
In his garage are not automobiles but thousands of pairs of donated eye glasses, which are carefully cleaned and labeled - John has a portable device which determines the diopters of each lens, and his train time is often spent testing and labeling the glasses.
He and the other volunteers - opticians, optometrists, and opthamologists - take the glasses along in large, hard-sided suitcases when they make their trips abroad.
A walking tour began our short stay in Stockholm, covering both the main city and Old Town, situated on another of the islands that make up the capital.
Saturday was walking, walking, and drinking coffee. Dinner was in a small restaurant near the hotel. The hotel itself was on a quiet, garden square on the north side of the city.
Breakfast was very generous and included in the price of the room - hard and soft boiled eggs,a dozen kinds of bread,meat , cheeses, cereals, fruit juices and coffee, tea and breakfast] pastries. On Sunday morning, we walked away with the basics for lunch, which no one seemed to mind.
With too many choices and only a day to see the rest of what the
town had to offer, we chose the VASA ship museum and the
Dronninghom Castle.
The VASA was a great war vessel which was built - overbuilt, actually, because the king of Sweden overruled the naval architect and added upper decks that could not be supported. She was launched in 1628, and sank in the outer harbor of Stockholm after sailing just over a mile.
The vessel was raised from the bottom in 1961, virtually intact, and is now housed in a permanent museum on the waterfront. The ship is spectacular, and certainly rank as one of most memorable sights of the trip for me.
I succumbed to the blandishments of the rest of the party, and let them buy me a baseball cap and a tee shirt celebrating the great vessel.
The palace grounds were equally spectacular, and then it was two hours on the road back to Ljungsbro, where John and family had prepared an outdoor dinner party for seven or eight friends, mostly people involved with his Vision foundation.
Among them were Jane and Frederick Bernhardt, their closest friends. She grew up in Connecticut and is a professor of environmental studies at the local university at Linkoping. Her husband is an architect.
As with the Bergmanns, alcohol is a very important part of any festivities. In the case of the Godoys, Guatemalan run was the drink of choice, along with wine and beer.
Since daylight continues until almost eleven at that latitude, we all sat outdoors until late, in an astonishingly bug free atmosphere - so much so that most windows don’t have screens.
After a breakfast of muesli, strawberries and yogurt - which is standard for many Scandinavians, we were told - we walked to the Bernhardt’s home, about 2 1/2 miles away. The route lay along a canal which forms part of the waterway that extends from Stockholm on the east coast to Gothenburg on the west.
The canal was dug by Russian prisoners of war in the early 19th century, for boats carrying freight from one side of the country to the other. It is maintained now for pleasure boats and swimmers, with paths for walkers and bicycles lining both sides of the canal.
The path led us by a series of locks to the tiny town of Berg, and from there to a large lake with a series of seven locks stepping the water down. There were lots of sailboats, including a Hallberg-Rassy hull similar to the Weiss’ craft.
The lock keepers were teenagers, and the canal was full of swimmers of all ages.
Another outdoor lunch, this time at the Bernhardts, who live in a 1911 home which they have added to and updated, but kept the the porcelain fireplaces, five in all - that were torn out and discarded from many homes in the past.
It is bright airy house with wonderfully proportioned rooms and a small outside deck on the second floor facing the lake.
Visiting the Bernhardts was a wonderful coda to our Swedish excursion.
Thursday, July 17, 2003 - We drove back Monday afternoon from the Godoys, catching the Scanlines ferry to Helsingfors from Helsingborg, across the narrow strait separating the two cities. We avoided the H and H Line on which we had had such a poor experience on our way to Sweden
(Despite our having had a reservation for the trip to Sweden, the clerk at the loading kiosk sent us to the unreserved lane - unknown to us - and we were the first car not to get on the next ferry, which was already half an hour late.
To add to my frustration, the clerk was quite rude when we remonstrated with her. Clearly, I was very annoyed, still steaming a week or more after the event.)
Scanlines did a much better job - at a 20% higher price - and we were home by 9:30 p.m.
Tuesday was a layday (the term is used primarily in series yacht racing like the America’s Cup to indicate a day with no racing - but it seems to fit here) - laundry, walking the neighborhood, a little shopping, catching our breath. The side mirror on the car was hit in Stockholm and needed replacement. The mechanic Ebbe suggested came through and will replace it.
Thursday, July 17, 2003 - 7:30 p.m. The storm that hit Texas some days ago has landed in Denmark, and the warm sunny day we have been enjoying is about to disappear as the storm comes in.
I am having trouble keeping this journal up-to-date, because I don’t seem to be able to leave time to do so. I keep starting the write and then I get pulled away onto something else that seems to have a higher priority.
Wednesday, we headed west a short ride to Trelleborg, Zealand, A preserved fortress from the reign of Harald Bluetooth. Trelleborg was probably built around 980. The circular compound is remarkable for the mathematical precision of its construction.
The ramparts of the compound have been preserved. They originally enclosed a military base from the end of the first millennium, and now have enclose a sheep pasture with the concomitant dung spread far and wide.
A small stream evidently served as a means of provisioning the soldiers stationed at the site. There were some rudimentary reenactments of Viking activities, not done very realistically - but it was pleasant couple of hours.
Trelleborg is not very high on the to-do list, but it does give a sense of how long people with well-defined skills have been living in Denmark.
From Trelleborg to a nearby glass artifacts factory, where I made one of my few purchases: a pair of blown glass salt and pepper shakers, with the artisan who created them sitting nearby.
Finally, we headed south in the afternoon to the island of Mons, due south of Copenhagen. Our destination was the tall chalk cliffs - calcenious deposits from eons of clam shells, lifted high in the air when the earth’s crust shifted.
They rise nearly 200 meters in the air from the edge of the sea, and a 497 step stairway has been built from the top down to the beach. It is an extremely popular attraction - more people than we had seen anywhere along the way.
I made it back up the stairs after deciding a lengthy walk along the beach and a steep trail up - the only alternative to the parking lot - was the greater of two evils. With moral support from Carol, and lots of rest stops, I made it to the top without incident, but my right knee feels it today, two days after the climb. particular attraction of the cliffs is finding sea fossils in the chalk. (I think we pried some loose, but if we did, they have disappeared.)
With distances much shorter in Denmark, we did all that and were back in Bronsjoi by 9:30 in the evening.
On Wednesday, Paul called just at 8 in the morning, and invited us to their summer house for a swim - our first, a lovely, wide, fine grained sand beach and cool water - 17 to 18 degrees Centigrade (62-64 F).
Not unexpectedly, there was a certain amount of toplessness among the bathers. But I guess I am getting old - no turn on.
We would have stayed longer in the water, but Paul was impatient for lunch. Back to the house we went, for a long, wet lunch with a wine I had not had before, “Vino Frisante”, a light Italian white with a mild amount of bubbles.
It began with herring, of course, - three kinds, now that the Bergmanns know we like herring. In addition, there was salad nicoise, cheese, quiche,and the usual wonderful bread.
They would have kept us all day, but JH was a little restless and we left about four for a quiet evening. Carol and I watched an old Western - “For Few Dollars More”, we think, but we never saw the title. Clint Eastwood starred, in a bloody opus that would be laughed at today, but it still gripped our attention.
This morning, rain. The car was repaired in quick order and we were on the road to the west a little after nine, for a more extended trip, Odense the first stop. A couple of museums which were not particularly interesting .
My impression is that there are too many museums with not enough material to keep them all in business. Carol suggested they are started to attract tourists rather than to fill a real need. We seem to be a little museumed-out at this point. The smaller museums have very little English on
their placards and often don’t have adequate English printed materials, despite the fact that the overwhelming number of visitors are much more likely to speak English than Danish.;
Tonight, we are in a five star hotel in Valje we found through the local tourist office. JH is delighted, as I think the rest of us are. Dinner shortly.
We are having problems setting daily agenda, mostly because everyone makes way for the others. which makes decision making difficult. Out in the countryside, it isn’t as clear as it is in Copenhagen what the priorities ought to be, so we waste some time trying to figure out what to do each day.
After the weekend our days are numbered. We go to Oslo, Norway, Monday night, returning Wednesday morning. We then have Thursday and Friday to see what else we want to see, and then fly out Sunday to Iceland.
Paul wants to see us again, Carol has a friend she wants to have lunch with, and the time is almost gone. Stanzie has been quite willful and moody at times, creating a certain amount of tension. I am sure it is difficult to be without someone her own age to interact with, for this long a time.
Monday morning, 7/21/03. It is cloudy with light showers. A minor problem with the left car door was fixed without incident by the family mechanic, and JH and I went off to do some interim food shopping.
OBSERVATIONS: (1) Danes almost never jaywalk - all the corners with lights have audible signals for pedestrians.
(2) As drivers in the open countryside, Danes leave much to be desired. As with other Europeans, they tend to rush up from the rear, well over the speed limit, and pass as quickly as possible, often honking in the process, impatient on the road generally.
(3) Bicycles are everywhere and there are bike lanes not only in the cities and towns, but in the countryside as well. National bike routes are shown prominently on road maps. There is no age limits on riders - we saw people who appeared well into their 70s and 80s, riding sedately with groceries in the front basket. With the terrain essentially flat, many bikes are gearless or of the three-sped variety now obsolete in the US. But there are plenty of racers on the road as well.
Bikers are generally very well mannered and riding appears much safer than in the US, with more space for the bikes and more attention paid by motorists.
We are now sitting down to lunch at a Danish IKEA, a second visit which resulted in a hugh purchase by JH . (I found a garlic press I like better than the one I have.) It is an amazing store. (At the time, IKEA had only a single store in the US, in Maryland, as I recall, so none of us had been exposed to the IKEA experience.)
At five this afternoon, we will set sail for Oslo, Norway, to spend 16 hours at sea - with all four of us in one cabin. It should be interesting. We will have 8 hours in Oslo, using the boat as our hotel. We have been told we can leave our belongings aboard.
I would not have chosen to add Oslo to the trip but JH had her heart set on the visit. In doing so, we will have bagged the capitals of Denmark, Norway and Sweden - only Finland remains to be conquered.
ASIDE: I have learned almost nothing of spoken Danish, but I can now recognize many words and can decode most signs. It doesn't appear to be an extraordinarily difficult language to learn, once the pronunciations have been sorted out. The Danish tend to slur their words, which doesn’t help.
Fortunately, as we have learned, almost everyone in Copenhagen speaks English - and people is shops and service positions often speak quite good, even colloquial language.
Tuesday evening - 7/22/03. Catching up seems unlikely. We spent 8 hours in Oslo, and as much as I was doubtful about the utility of this three-day mini-cruise, the sculptures at The Vigeland Sculpture Park absolutely floored me.
The 80 acre park in which the sculptures are placed was secured by the city and given over to Vigeland’s work. Vigeland entered into an agreement with the Oslo City Council in 1921. He made over to the city all his sculptures, drawings and woodcuts as well as the original models of all future works. In return, the council agreed to build him a studio and support his work.
In 1924 Vigeland moved into his new studio which included living quarters above. This was his home until his death in 1943. According to his own wish, his ashes are kept in the tower of the building.
The more than 200 full size works are stunningly life-affirming, focused as they are on all the stages of man’s existence, from babyhood top the decrepitude of old age.
Our city tour by bus included a visit to the Folk Museum - with its ancient buildings brought from all over Norway to be re-erected. We ended the day walking from the center of the city back to the boat, where we had left our belongings.
I haven’t paced it off, but our cabin measures no more than 8 feet in width and 9 feet in length, with a bath atone end. It is an inside state room but the air conditioning is excellent.
The whole tab was DK 1914, a bargain in Danish terms, about $300, but eating aboard the ferry was very expensive. We managed to have
dinner from the bread, cheese, and fruit we brought aboard, replenishing the fruit at a stand near the Folk Museum.
There was lots of drinking and lots of drunks, and lots of families with shrieking kids. Danish laws on alcohol consumption are much looser than the rest of Scandinavian countries and the Swedes and Norwegians stock up on a Danish boat.
ASIDE: There are museums everywhere in Denmark, - even the little suburb of Bronsjoi where we are staying has a little three-room museum into which Carol and I poked our noses in Monday.
Many are poorly maintained, with signage in English on a hit or miss basis, in most cases. Many of the sites we have visited seem to suffer from a lack of money or indifferent management or both.
Given how few visitors speak the native languages in Scandinavia, and the universality of English in the world, it is odd that more effort isn’t put into rending at least minimal information for those us unversed in the local languages.
On the return voyage, we again passed through the fjord of Oslo, and then out into the Skaggerat with a lighthouse to starboard. The wind is very strong out of the west, but the ferry, at 500 plus feet in length, doesn't feel the motion.
Only the muted throb of the engines can be felt away from the open decks. “Ferry” is a bit of a misnomer. With nearly a dozen decks, three or four different dining areas, and hundreds of cabins, it is very much an ocean liner.
OSLO IMPRESSIONS: Looks like wonderful public transit. Lots of impressive public buildings. A summer palace that is a working farm as well as a royal residence. Lots of greenery in Oslo - and easy to get out of the city.
I’ve been getting lots of walking exercise, and despite the bread, which is so good I eat more than I should, I don’t think I have gained much weight.
Often there have been stairs to climb, starting with 500+ at Mons Klint. That wa followed by by 200+ at the hotel at Valje. Today, there were many at the sculpture park, as well as up and down to the top boat decks.
The ferry has eleven decks in all with elevators that take one to the point where two fairly steep outdoor flights of stairs lead to the top sun decks.
OBSERVATION: We have heard a lot of American speech on the boat, and we have noted Americans in Copenhagen and Stockholm. But once we leave the major cities, the tourists are from Scandinavia or Europe, not the US or England.
I have managed a lot of walking and my hip has not felt this good in a long time. I’ve been taking my medications regularly, for a change, and perhaps that is making the difference.
OBSERVATION: The tall handsome women of Sweden made me feel short for the first time in my life. Stockholm was a sea of shapely blonde goddesses, each more comely than the last.
Copenhagen is in Denmark’s easternmost province, on the island of Zealand, and the early part of our stay was occupied with day trips around Zealand. To reach the other provinces required longer journeys, complete with relatively short ferry trips from island to island, and finally to the western peninsular of Jutland, an extension north of the European mainland.
I left out the details of the trip beyond Odense (the major city of the island of Fyn) to Jutland. Our first night was at a great hotel in Vejle, which we stumbled across by calling the local tourist bureau.
It was situated high above an arm of the sea, with 200 or more steps leading down to a trail which ends up on the beach. Then in the morning, we were off to Legoland, which is an amusement park promoting Legos, and catering to hordes of children.
But for adults, there were fascinating miniature representations of Copenhagen harbor, Amsterdam, complete with canals and Copenhagen airport.
That evening, we found a hotel in Arhus, the second largest city in Denmark. It was a lovely old building, but situated on ab busy street and an all night party across the street woke us at various times during the night.
I managed to spill beer on JoHannah’s clothes bag, which rightfully infuriated her.
OBSERVATION: As in most of Europe, breakfast is included in the price of the room., and depending on the hotel, it can be a great deal. At Vejle, the four-star hotel we were directed to apparently caters to businessmen. Faced with slow business on weekends, it offered a bargain - dinner and breakfast with a double room at DK975, which meant we paid the equivalent of about $5.00 for an enormous buffet dinner. I pigged out on dessert for the first time on the trip.
We wandered around Arhus, heard some jazz, had a good supper at a bar. The next day we split up. JH and Stanzie went off to see a nature park at Randers, a small town due north of Arhus, while Carol and I went sightseeing around the city.
After lunch, we found our way to a beach on Jutland’s east coast for a swim in water than seemed warmer - or perhaps less cold - than we had experienced at the Bergmanns on Zealand.
Finally, a ferry back to Zealand and 108 kilometers to Copenhagen.
On Wednesday, Paul called just at 8 in the morning and invited us up to the summer house for a swim. A lovely wide fine sand beach and cool water - 17-18 degrees Celsius. As expected there was a certain amount of toplessness. Most who went topless certainly did it for the sake of the sun on their skins - in most cases, I found it a turn off, not a turn on.
We were happy to stay for the day, but Paul was a little impatient for lunch. We returned to the house for a lazy, wet repast, featuring vino frisante, an Italian wine with a slight fizz I had not tasted before. Three kinds of herring, now that the Bergmann’s know we like herring, salad Nicoise, cheese, quiche, and the usual wonderful bread.
They would have liked to keep us all day, but by four, JH was getting nudgy - and we left. A quiet evening - Carol and I watched an old Western - “For Few Dollars”, I think - but we never saw the title. Clint Eastwood starred in a bloody opus that would be hooted at today, but gripped our attention anyway.
This morning, rain, but we had the car repaired with little difficulty and we were on the road to Odense a little after nine., to visit a couple of museums that were not particularly interesting.
My impression is there are too many museums with not enough material to keep them all in business. Carol suggested they are started to attract tourists rather than to fill a real need.
I think we are a little museumed out, at this point - particularly as the smaller museums have very little English in their placards and often don’t have adequate English printed materials.
We are having some problems setting daily agendas - mostly with everyone making way for others, which makes decisions slow to evolve. Out in the countryside, it isn’t as clear as in Copenhagen what the priorities should be. We spend time trying to get agreement on what to do each day.
After the weekend, our days here are numbered. We go to Oslo Monday night, and return on Wednesday. That leaves the rest of the week to do and see what else we want before flying out Iceland on Sunday.
Paul wants to see us again, Carol has a friend she wants to have lunch with, and the time is almost gone.
Monday morning, 7/21/03. (I suppose, since it is Denmark, I should be writing 21/7/03.) It is cloudy with light showers. A minor problem with a left passenger door, which the mechanic fixed without incident, while JH and I did some food shopping.
OBSERVATION: Danes almost never jaywalk. All the corners with traffic lights have audible signals for pedestrians. But as drivers in the open country, the Danes leave much to be desired. As with other Europeans, they tend to rush up from the rear, well over the speed limit,and pass as quickly as possible, often honking in the process - impatient on the road, generally.
Bicycles are everywhere, and there are special bike lanes not only in the cities and towns, but through the country, with the national bicycle routes shown prominently on road maps.
There is no age limit - we saw people who appeared well into their seventies and eighties riding sedately with groceries in the front basket. With the terrain essentially flat, many bikes are gearless or the now obsolete 3-speed variety that was the object of desire when I first learned to ride.
Bur racing is not neglected, and we saw many club riders on the roads.
I write this in an IKEA in Denmark, where we are having lunch, a second visit which resulted in another huge purchase by Jo Hannah. It is an amazing store.
One of the most moving experiences of the entire trip was a visit to the Resist Museum in Copenhagen, and I left wanting to know much more about Denmark’s role in World War II. Paul and his family escaped to Sweden in 1942 when someone in the German administration warned the small Jewish population of about 7000 that deportations were coming.
Most of the Jews got out - less than 500 ended in concentration camps. The Danes generally treated the Jews well but as always, there were those who collaborated and many of those were liquidated by the resistance movement.
In our last week, the weather continues warm and pleasant, and the vegetation is very lush here in the garden, where I am sitting and writing. We ate outdoors tonight as we have done on a number of occasions.
Although the homes in the area are built on what we would think of as small lots, they ten to be surrounded by hedges in addition or instead of fences in many cases, and most houses are surrounded by a variety of flowers and shrubbery - the gardens are very informal.
Saturday, 7/26/03 - 5:45 p.m. Stanzie has zonked out, holding our plans for dinner in downtown Copenhagen in abeyance. We may get there - but who knows?
Today was cleaning and packing day. We have ended up with three banana cartons, courtesy of John Godoy., who uses them to store his eyeglasses. Jo Hannah is using them to transport that fruit of her IKEA forays.
Hopefully, along with the rest of our luggage, everything will fit into the cab we will take to the airport in the morning. The other issue is whether we can check our luggage at there airport in Iceland, rather than take it into Reykjavik where we will spend a few days.
Since Icelandic Airlines doesn’t answer the phone on weekends, we were left without an answer.
We leave behind a house with lots of stuff - two desk top computers, at least three laptops, all connected to the Internet. A fax machine. TWo printers. A scanner.
Monday, 7/28/03 - The last leg - Reykjavik, Iceland. We have a very funky apartment close to the center of the city - one block from the main shopping street, Laugavegur.
Tuesday, 7/29/03 - Next to the last day. Iceland has ben a mixed bag. Stanzie has not been feeling well, and while we managed to get things done the day we arrived and yesterday, she has sp[ most of today sleeping or watching her DVD player, pretty much out of it.
Our first afternoon, we walked around the town center and got oriented. Reykjavik, in many ways, resembles an small American city in the West, with a facade of kept up buildings on the main shopping street and sleaze behind.
The older part of town is full of buildings built of vertical aluminum siding and stucco covered cement block. There is virtually no native lumber in Iceland - the standard joke: if you are lost in the woods, stand up!
The government buildings are in good shape, and the new industrial area and housing estates to the east of the older parts of town are very modern, attractive and well kept.
Prices are the highest I’ve every experienced, particularly for food and lodging, but for virtually everything else as well. The cab ride in from the airport, about 25 miles, was close to $100 - with the luggage we were carrying (we were unable to check anything at the airport) there was no practical alternative.
We had not planned to rent a car but it turned out to be the thing to do. Prices for rental cars have dropped recently. While daily tours for four people can easily run $200, we got a car for about $80 a day.
Yesterday, we took off midmorning for the so-called Golden Circle - a series of stops east of Reykavik. beginning with the site of Iceland’s first parliamentary, the Althing, nearly 1000 years ago, a place called Thingvellir.
Running through the area is the rift between the tectonic plates separating Europe from the Americas. The place is rife with Icelandic history, There were tourists galore, but we walked extensively over the area and happened on the Secretary General of NATO holding a meeting on his final visit to Iceland.
Stanzie and JH were thrilled when the Secretary of State of Iceland said hello to them! We talked at length with a helpful policeman who filled us in on some details.
At our next stop, a hot springs, there were a dozen “suits”, arriving and leaving by helicopter. The original GEYSER which lent its name to all subsequent geysers, is out of business, but a companion merrily spouts away.
Unfortunately, for Americans who have been to Yellowstone, Iceland’s area of hot spots is not impressive. A few miles away, the truly impressive double waterfalls at Gullfoss make up for it. Behind the falls was a a brief rainbow, which shown before the sun went behind the clouds.
Weather in Iceland can change from minute to minute. We have been lucky to have two comparatively mild days on Sunday and Monday, with lots of sunshine yesterday.
This morning, we awoke to drizzle that hung around until late morning. Since then, it has been cool and windy. Jacket weather for the first time on the trip. Now, about five in the afternoon, the sun has come out - but will disappear shortly, I am sure.
A highlight of yesterday was a visit to a contemporary church, built on a site where churches have stood since 1000 AD. Inside, a magnificent mosaic behind the altar and stained glass everywhere.
Serendipity: in the church, a string ensemble with harpsichord was rehearsing Beethoven under the direction of a Dutch musician in what is evidently a summer music school program. We sat for twenty minutes listening to the group of very talented musicians, entranced.
The place is called Skatholt. By arriving very late in the afternoon, we avoided the tour busses, which arrive in hordes to see the mosaic, and got the unexpected bonus of the music.
A long day - and we split up for dinner as Stanzie wanted lobster, expecting the Maine variety. Carol and I opted for a seafood buffet that was adequate, but no more. At $26, it was about double what we could expect to pay in the States.
Today has been walking and exploring Reykjavik, including the National Gallery with a few wonderful things by Icelandic artists, but not much else of note. A photo exhibit by a French-Vietnamese photographer featuring Icelandic scenes was better.
But one picture at the National Gallery struck me - it depicted Thingvellir in 1901 - and perfectly caught some of the landscape we had seen yesterday. I broke down and bought a poster.
Lots more walking today - my hip seems to be working fine.
On balance, perhaps adding Iceland for three days was overkill but the countryside has some wonderful vistas - including a huge ice field we saw from the road yesterday. - and we have seen only a tiny portion of this country.
Ideal would be a a week to ten day tour along Route 1, a ring road around the entire country. The interior is uninhabited and uninhabitable - and many roads need four wheel drive.
Probably, I will never make it back to Iceland. Too many other things to do. But the pictures in my mind from the day out on the land are very strong. Amazing how often I was reminded of sites in Montana.
Transcribing the notes I made four years ago reminded me of the superb hospitality of the Bergmanns. In so many ways, they were major contributors to my very positive impressions of Denmark. Paul is about my age and as Sam Bermans first cousin, brought with him much of Sam and Sam’s background.
Three generations traveling together worked pretty well I think it was hardest for Stanzie, with no one her own age around, but she handled it well.
Carol and I have done one more house exchange since 2003 woih great success, and would probablydo more, if the opportunity arose. Again, what made a huge differebce was a local family (in France this time) who adopted us for the time we were there, and provided the backbone of our experience.
Another trip to Scandanavia is not likely - but I still think about Iceland, and am still reading about the country and its history and its people. Perhaps ---
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