I couldn't believe it. Our 16 hour flight back to California had us on one plane to NYC, and there were so many empty seats we had 3 each. Relative comfort. Then the flight to SF was similar, only everything cost money and there were no pillows. But plenty of seats. I've been riding in full airplanes so long that it seemed like a miracle to find enough space to be comfortable.

But the real miracle was that we got to SF over 1 hour early. I went down and got my bags, said goodbye to Karen and Zena, walked upstairs and across the road to the hotel shuttle, and there it was: the Citigarden shuttle, door open and driver waiting to lift my suitcase into the rack. Couldn't have done better with limo service.

Final touch, the car started right up. It had been parked almost a month, and it didn't even sputter. Turned the key, heard the motor. Good hot bath, good nights sleep, and I was ready to drive home. Even skipped rush hour. Wonderful to be home.

In the afternoon Karen and I set forth for Gaudi’s Parc Guell, an outdoor area he had designed as world war one was breaking (which sank the financing for the real estate scheme that was the reason for the park). Using my newly reinforced Metro skills, we were soon on the L-3 heading for Vallcarca, a station I selected because it seemed like it might drop us on the high side of the park – which is on a steep hillside. We emerged on to a street of buildings showing the effects of deferred maintenance, right by the Slovakia club (closed). Wall painters had been busy, and “The Sleeper” was my favorite of several that I saw.



A problem with Metro emergences is that you never know which direction you are facing. Was the Parc to the left, or the right? Our street was in a kind of gully so gradient was not determinative. Karen suggested walking down the street, which my instincts warned against since I knew it was an uphill climb to the park but not having any better reason to object, I threw in the towel. Within 2 blocks we found a Park Guell sign pointing to the left, up an increasingly steep street. I looked and couldn’t believe my eyes. There, glimmering in the distance in the middle of the street, was an escalator moving people up the hill. Beyond it, further up the hill, another one; and yet a 3rd. We rode.

Between escalators 2 and 3 we stopped for lunch at a little bakery & sandwich shop. I had an empanada con carne, or beef pie, Karen settled on ham and cheese. Add a coke each and we sat on two of the four small seats in the place and watched the business while we ate. Custom was steady, but alas all conducted in either Catalan or Spanish so I have no idea what was said but the parties appeared stimulated and happy with the exchanges, the baker emerged with new bread in long loaves, and lunch passed pleasantly.

We entered the park, spotted the park map, and looked around assessing our triumph before moving forward. Houses border the park, and one gaily painted home caught my attention. It reminded me of some basic advertising maxims. First if you want people to see your message, put it where they are. Check. Second, make it noticeable and eye-catching. Check. Third, Convey the essence of your message briefly and clearly. Not exactly check. The non-English part might mean “Occupy and Resist” – house squatters. But the rest of the message is in English. There I feel more at home, I’m part of the target audience. I assume that many youth here speak English. Many older folks do not. English comprehension has been rare in the restaurants and shops except the main tourist stops. My problem is that I’m not clear on the meaning behind the English slogans. Perhaps a reader more cognizant of Barcelonan politics can help out?



We rounded a bend and there were the Gaudi buildings at the main entrance – we never dropped that far down for fear of having to climb back up, but here are the roof top views.



What we did was walk across the park at the middle level to reach the large, flat area where most people congregate. On arrival we were struck by the sight of by a large number of people doing what was apparently the Lindy Hop, a dance that got its name from Charles A. Lindberg’s solo fight across the Atlantic way back in the 20th century (see the Memphis Jug Band “oh baby how can it be, you done gone way cross the sea, to keep from doing that Lindberg hop with me?”) They had recorded music and a large “Lindy in the Park” sign. Looked like 50’s dancing to me.

There was lots more to see. A guy making huge bubbles which a mob of little kids would run across the park chasing, vendors with their wares on blankets –mostly African, but at least one woman who seemed Tibetan or Mongolian, and lovers. Lovers with cell phones. Here’s my best cell phone couple shot. Maybe they were texting each other.



A 4 piece white reggae band set up and played and sang a song in English which seemed to be about peace and love. Great dancing guitarist & lead singer, who would leap around in great bursts of energy, standup bassist, rather sedate, coronet (? Some kind of muted horn), and a girl sitting straddling a wooden box with a round hole at the back, which she played as a drum while making some of the most astonishingly sexual movements I’ve ever seen in public. They were not suggestive in the usual sense of inviting participation, and probably not even conscious, yet her costume enhanced them so the effect could have been intentional….well, you had to be there. It was intensely fascinating, yet, or because, it was so embarrassing that it was hard to either watch or look away. Fortunately, some people walked between the band and me and broke the spell.

Up the hill & round the bend was a Brazilian band, amidst these giant planters Gaudi designed.



Throughout the park young women were having their photos taken by their friends near one feature or another. Few faced front and smiled. Most adopted a fashion magazine pose with arms at strange angles and in some degree of profile. They were not being ironic. I think the “here I am in front of the Empire State Building” photo may be in danger of going extinct.

Finally we rounded a bend and reached the top of the park. It is a stone tower, perhaps 25’ tall, with crosses at the top. A stone stair winds round to get you up and down. There is a partial railing on the inside wall to cling to, and no rail at all on the top. Naturally having your photo taken while on top is a popular idea. Two young women I watched stepped along side the outer most cross, smiling, then one realized she was in a crowd about 6” from the edge of a long drop and began clinging to the cross with a strength that would gladden a preacher’s heart. When in Rome, you know, so here is Karen a top the park tower.

Raining today, flight home early tomorrow.

Still a bit wobbly on my legs and uncertain about the stability of my guts I went for a solo excursion after our party checked into the Hotel Pelayo again. My goal was to find a quiet place to sit and review the Barcelona pages from the Mediterranean Cruise Guide (all I have left of it as I abandoned the rest in a luggage weight reduction program) and decide what to do. The day was overcast, but I retreated into the subway system – the wonderful Metro –got a decafe latte and croissant at the Café Kilmanjaro in the Plaza Catalunya station, and came up with a plan. My trusted guide, Zena, had walked to the station with me and boldly taken the real train (same station) to visit some friends for the day, Karen was resting, and I was alone in Barcelona for the first time.

I decided to take a 2-line subway trip to nail down my travel skills, and see about the aerial tram from the water to Montjuic, way above the city. I love the Metro – there are many lines interconnecting in a maze of subterranean passages below the city –with some well laid out signage that will get you to the one you want without any knowledge of the local languages. But first, to determine my route, and get a ticket.

I went to the large system map. I’ve looked at a lot of Barcelona maps and let me say from the start there is no map which shows public transportation and street names. Both systems are complex and to show all data requires way too much detail. So my guide book let me know the tram station is in Barcelonetta – a waterfront area – and I found, miraclus dictus, a Metro station by the same name. Bingo. The Metro map indicated a potential route. The L-1, or red route, to Urquinasona, then the L-4 to Barceloneta. No problem. Well, largely no problem. The lines run two ways, of course, and it would be time saving to get on the train going the right way the first time. How to do it? The line directions are indicated by the name of the station at the end of the line. I wanted the L-1 Fondo, I looked up and there was a sign with a red L-1 Fondo and a big arrow pointing left. Home run first time out, only its on the other side of the turnstyle. I need a ticket.

The ticket machine is touch screen and makes change. I poked it and a screen full of ticket possibilities came up. I could get 1 ticket, 10 tickets, a ticket good for 30 days, a ticket good for more than 1 zone-you get the picture. I picked 1 ticket for E-1.40, slid a E20 bill into the slot and quick as a flash – the machine spit out my bill. I tried again, same result. Puzzling over things a bit (while other commuters, more hip to the system, used a second machine) I found a display indicating that the machine would not break anything larger than a E10 bill for 1 ticket. Nuts. I wanted change. Instead I put my last two E coins in. A E1 and and E.50. Happy, the machine dumped E.10 and my ticket into a bin rather like that on the coke machines.

The deal is you put the ticket into the turnstyle, it processes it and gives it back, letting you in. You get on the train. No one on the train wants to see the ticket, you can change lines without getting outside the turnstyles, so you don’t use it to transfer,and you don’t use it to exit the system. Getting caught in zone 2 with a zone 1 only ticket is apparently bad news for you, but since I had no way of telling where zone 2 (3,4,5 or 6) were relative to me, and no one was going to check anyway, I decided Barcelona is all one zona, as we say in hip-hop. I was through the turnstyle, down the corridor, and on my way to L-1 Fondo.

The corridors twist and turn, go up stairs and down stairs, have side tunnels connect with people running in and out of your tunnel. It’s a trip. There are plenty of good signs showing the L-1 Fondo route, the stops on it beyond the current station, and which way to go. And the place is clean. There are a few people sleeping there, or wandering around muttering, but compared with New York it’s a dream system. I got to the platform for L-1 Fondo and an electronic display said a ‘Proper tren’ would be there in 2:08 minutes, and sure enough it was. They were running this Sunday morning every 4 minutes it seemed. The next trick is getting on and off. Each line has a different door opening system. The L-1, as I recall, has a green spot on the door, and when it glows, you punch it, and the door opens. Luckily at this station people were getting off and so they opened the door. I just went in, grabbed the handle and watched the display telling me when the Urquinasona station was coming up. It was coming up next since it was only one stop away. It came, the door spot glowed, I punched and I was on the platform looking for the L-4 La Pau signs. I really hated to go back to the surface when I got to Barceloneta.

I emerged to find a lot of men in red vests standing on a dirt court, looking very serious. Order began to emerge as I stared at them. They were in pairs, and each pair had an opposing pair standing facing them about 30’ across the court. On the ground between each foursome was a tiny ball, and one pair or the other would be throwing larger metal balls (about tennis ball size) towards the small one. You could call it throwing. It was the oddest thing I ever saw. The tosser would hold the ball in one hand, upside down – i.e. hand above the ball and kind of flip the ball down the court. Kind of an upside down underhand throw if that brings any image to find. This allows almost no force to be applied to the ball, which must be why the court is so small. I tried to get a photo of a ball in hand ready to toss, but everyone looked so serious that after 2 or 3 failures, I just gave it up. I couldn’t tell what the tosser’s purpose was either, but once one guy had the large ball roll up to the small ball and his teammate slapped hands with him in a kind of low five manner. I’m almost positive it was a bocce ball game.

More adventures when I get back from dinner.

Sorry to be off air again, but its been a tough week. After travelling 2 weeks on the ship with up to 200 people down with the Norovirus, I was congratulating myself on having avoid it. Then I got to Agadir, second stop in Morocco. Had to leave the bus before I threw up on everyone, taxi to the ship up to the room and I’m really only fully emerging today. I missed Agadir, Las Palmas, Funchal, Malaga, and a couple of days at sea. It wasn’t all the virus. It wasn’t even mostly the virus, that was over in about 36-48 hours. It was the aftereffects of either the virus or the meds for it. My insides went on strike. No vomiting, no diarrhea, no nothing. My belly became swollen and I couldn’t eat, no appetite. Remember the computer motto GIGO? I was on NINO – nothing in, nothing out. It’s a difficult but effective diet. I found out later that no one else was on it. Everyone else had their virus and emerged laughing 24 to 48 hours later.
The ship’s doctors got interested, listened to my stomach and said encouraging things, gave me an xray and some pills. I like it when the doctor listens to my insides, and does other western medicine like things. It gives me confidence. Its an approach that has worked for almost 70 years now, no reason to give it up today. Sure enough, next morning my jeans were really loose, swelling down, appetite still miniscule but I got a cracker an hour down, along with some jello and a table spoon of rice and some more Gatorade (got sugar in it). Next day, double rations and a bite of banana too, each hour. Got up to chicken noodle soup for lunch today and I’m going to the dining room for dinner. For one thing I’ve got a lot of wine left. We bought a wine package figuring it would last the whole trip and were doing pretty good at using it up until Agadir. Have to take some shore and see if we can finish it in Barcelona I guess. (We had 3 bottles on the table for the 3 of us this evening, got some stares, but then other people started ordering wine so maybe we started a trend. Drank 1, giving 1 as a gift to friends of Zena in Barcelona, bringing the other one home.
But, no pix since I haven’t been anywhere since Casablanca. My companions have been seeing the fabled Atlantic resort islands – so many Swedes go to the Canary Islands that the Swedes printed their own stamps to be used on post cards home (cause a bit of an international postal dust-up). They rode down the mountain in wicker baskets. I was a basket case. But it was baskets just the same, as the old song says.
We’re staying a couple of days in Barcelona then enduring the 16 hour flights home via NYC. The thing I hate most about cruises is the airplanes. But whatcha gonna do? I’ve been getting updates from home: lots and lots of rain, which my sweetheart loves, she sends me news of the dog laying before the woodstove, cat perched on the back of my stuffed chair wondering where that lap is that used to show up in the evenings, brightly colored birds showing up at the feeders. I’m eager to get back. I think 2-3 weeks is my max vacation, travel included. Gotta remember that next time. Of course it would have been more fun with my sweetheart here with me. We’ve must quit this getting sick. Its never a great idea.

Our Motto

“We will know where we have gone--we will recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations; nor when we attempt to describe any particular scene, will we begin quarreling about its relative situation – Elizabeth Bennet in Jane Austin’s Pride and Prejudice.