Paris on a Whim

I was sitting in my favorite chair minding my own business on a dreary Thursday morning. All I needed was a pipe, slippers and a dog to make the (imaginary) image complete. Susan had just received a random email making mention of France and the next thing I knew she was humming her favorite Cole Porter tune, “I Love Paris”. I offhandedly commented, “would you like to go back to Paris someday?”, and before the sun had set, we were booked. But hey, what’s retirement if you can’t take an impulsive trip now and then?

I remember when we were so busy with work and commitments that we dreamed a day might come when we could spot a deal and take an impulsive trip to a favorite spot. Apparently that day had come and I suggested we try out the discount airline French Bee for a little jaunt. The advertised fare of $335 round trip flirted lustily with my thrifty nature and I was all in for what I expected might be an inexpensive and short little visit to Paris. We’d walk and talk, hit a few restaurants, take in a museum or two - in other words (and in my deluded mind), spend little money.

The French Bee starter fare does not include seats, luggage, carry-on or food. That Susan might set foot on a Parisian street without appropriate duds for the experience was beyond a fantasy for even me. Things quickly changed. Reality raised its ugly head. We weren’t heading off with a couple of carry-ons and a backpack. But hey, what’s a trip to Paris without dressing for the part?

As no small aside, French Bee flights are round trip from Miami, nine hours by car without stopping - that’s twelve hours for those of us who need to eat, cars that burn gas and bodies that need occasional relief. There are friends to see, relatives to visit and restaurants to enjoy. We needed at least two nights of lodging before the day of the flight. Anyway, who’s going to drive all the way to Miami and just jump on a plane?

Mercredi ~ 16,850 steps

Our first adventure was finding a completely unmarked economy parking lot for the Miami airport. After circling the terminal twice thinking we had missed a sign, we flagged down some guy who appeared to be an airport employee. He confirmed there was no signage for the lot, gave us an address and suggested we put it in our navigation system. We did just that and meandered our way to an outer lot with an open gate and a few cars. An employee shuttle bus sputtered by. We jumped on, shoving ourselves and muscling our bags in between the TSA agents, flight attendants and pilots already crammed into the packed coach. The driver instantly advised us that he would not stop at our terminal. So what? We figured a little stretch would be good for us, and after all, what’s a little extra walking before taking a long flight?

Right on time, the Bee buzzed off the runway. We arrived at Orly airport the next morning exactly as scheduled. The plane was a little tight. Economy seats (the cheap ones I had booked) stretched ten across. We were forty rows back. It took forty minutes to deplane, forty more to clear customs, retrieve our luggage and another forty by taxi to our hotel. Oh, I forgot to add that we mentioned our “quick trip” to Susan’s brother and his wife (Paul and Anne), dared them to come along and sure enough they took the bait. The good news was they had booked a room the night before we arrived, providing us a place to freshen up and change so we could hit the ground running.

Usually our first stop in Paris is L'As du Fallafel, an Israeli falafel, shawarma & kebab spot that we cannot resist. Circumstances in France are such that the door of this restaurant is blocked by a couple of burly fellows who eye up those who wish to enter. Apparently we looked harmless enough to make the cut, were offered a nod and an extended arm as permission to enter. The luncheon was fantastic as usual, and our falafel fix was complete.

With appetites satisfied and eager to stretch our legs, we walked by the newly opened Notre Dame cathedral to admire the building and made a pact to make plans to tour the interior. The waiting line was massive and we were told that up to 15,000 people have been passing through each day. We strolled all the way back to our Trocadéro neighborhood, passing by The Louvre, meandering a bit through the Tuileries Gardens and all the while being enchanted by the Eiffel Tower’s spinning beacon that pierced the clear night sky. We rewarded ourselves for making it through the long day with hot chocolates at Cafe Carette, took one last glance at the sparkling Eiffel Tower and hit the sack hard.

Jeudi ~ 17,008 steps

Before leaving home, Susan had made a late morning appointment at a little jewelry store in town. She had spotted a bracelet somewhere along the line and it turned out this particular item happened to be in stock at the company’s Paris store (surprise surprise). I knew we were in trouble after being escorted to a private room and offered champagne. Paul could see what was coming and vanished with Anne firmly in tow before I had even taken a seat. Helpless and alone with Susan and the jeweler, I drank all four of the champagnes that had been set out for us. Shortly later, I left the building with a bubbly smile and a happy wife. Besides, what’s a visit to Paris without picking up a souvenir?

Susan and Anne were visibly getting the jitters just talking about the varieties of shops and merchandise constantly beckoning their attention. We walked and talked and shopped until even the sun gave up on them.  Dinner was Iranian cuisine at Shebastan and we feasted on a wonderful spread of Persian treats. It was one of our better picks.

Moulin Rouge was on tap and we were eager to enjoy their late night cabaret show. This place has been going since the late 1800’s and we got right into the Bohemian spirit. I know it’s a tourist stop, but great fun and so very, very Paris. We got royally ripped off on the taxi ride back to our hotel - but hey, what’s a vacation without getting zinged a few times?

Vendredi ~ 18,444 steps

We slept until late in the morning and needed every minute of the extra dozing. Our day started with a visit to the Picasso museum and we marveled at dozens of paintings and sculptures spread throughout just as many rooms. I was happy to get out of the cold air and brisk wind and enjoyed every minute of the artful observations. Besides, who can go to Paris and not visit a museum?

Susan and Anne were in desperate need of a shopping fix, having not been in a store for nearly 18 hours. They decided Longchamps would do the trick. We left carrying at least five bags and they seemed to be sated.  We all needed foot massages badly and squeezed one in before dinner.

It was steak and frites night and we headed for Relais de l’Entrecôte and wow, the line outside extended for over two blocks. We grabbed a cab and tried out L'Entrecôte de Paris near the Champs-Élysées. The name, decor, menu and service were the same. The food was not. Apparently if you’ve seen one entrecôte, you haven’t seen them all. Oh well, what’s a vacation without getting a little mixed up with translations?

Samedi ~ 22,655 steps

We had an early wake up call and were off by train to Marché Maubert. It was so cold and windy that the crack of dawn seemed to be waiting for a break in the weather. Susan had signed us up for a cooking class that included selecting fresh ingredients directly from the market, then proceeding to participate in preparing and eating our own creations. I can boil water if there’s someone around to adjust the flame, but being left alone to stir a broth or cream can result in being both scalded and scolded. In between heavy yawning and the shivers, we joined five fellow wanna be’s and Chef Cyril to select vegetables and a main course. He was entertaining and apparently knowledgeable (who am I to say?) and we let him pick what he wanted - quickly. The group then made a brisk mile long walk to Cyril’s kitchen on the other bank of the Seine. We were treated to hot tea and took turns warming our hands on the ceramic teapots. The cooking experience turned out to be fun even for me. I learned a few tricks that I’ve already forgotten and we shared plenty of laughs in the kitchen while Cyril displayed his skills. Our le plat was called “dos de cabillaud en papillote” (cod fillet in parchment) and I have to say it was right up there with the best meals of our trip. And hey, what’s a fun vacation without doing something totally outside your comfort zone?

It was a four mile hike back to our neighborhood and we needed every step of it to work off the effects of the butter laden dishes. We needed a break, and this was our first chance to do absolutely nothing for an hour or so. A late dinner was planned at Le Melville. I had been pulled in by their advertised reputation as a “unique concept combining cocktails, jazz and gastronomy”. It was indeed a smooth and relaxing atmosphere to enjoy a quiet evening of cool and soothing music with nice food to boot. All we needed were some skinny cigarettes and berets to complete the picture. It was after midnight when we walked out to encounter a guard standing in the street with a semi-automatic weapon strapped across his chest. But hey, what’s a late night out in an unfamiliar town without stumbling into the wrong neighborhood?

Dimanche ~ 19,068 steps

Perhaps we slept in a bit longer than necessary, but still made our morning stop at A La Petite Marquise for croissants, pains au chocolat and espresso. Tanked up and ready to rumble, it was once again time for shopping. With only two days to go and the clock ticking, there was an obvious sense of urgency in Susan and Anne’s gaits as we proceeded one last time to the Galeries Lafayette, a vast vessel of wares, wardrobes and scents.

Susan was treated to one of the finest compliments to have ever kissed her ears when a beautiful young sales associate at a perfume counter told her that she was very chic and could pass for a Parisian. I could almost hear Susan’s heart flutter. It wasn’t false flattery. She had already bought the perfume. Je suis vraiment un homme chanceux!

Paul and I, tired of being relegated to lurking at the front doors of shop after shop, spotted a friendly looking “gastropub” called Le Pick Clops. I picked up on the pub part of the signage and we idled away the afternoon quite pleasantly, perhaps to greater expense than expected. But hey, what’s a trip to Paris without an afternoon wasted in a local bar?

In the small world department, as we walked out of a coffee shop Susan spotted a familiar face among a steady stream of passersby. She shouted out, “Melanie!", and sure enough a woman's head turned toward us. Indeed it was a mutual acquaintance of Paul and Anne's from South Carolina. This wasn't the first time such things have happened to us in our travels.

Unfortunately on this night, we had our worst dinner of the trip and to make it even worse, got lost trying to find the place. We had been to Noura Libanaisin Trocadéro just last year, but at a different location, and that apparently was all the difference in the world. It was a real disappointment and I was embarrassed that I had recommended the stop. Oh well, what’s a vacation without at least once bombing out on a restaurant?

After dinner, we had tickets to see the Dolce&Gabbana exhibition at the Grand Palais. Other than getting out of the bone chilling weather, I could have easily done without passing by hundreds of mannequins dressed in elaborate gowns, capes and outfits that could not possibly be worn by humans. While I did appreciate the incredible talent it must have taken to create these pieces of art, it did not ring my bell. But hey, what’s a family vacation that doesn’t include taking one for the team?

Lundi ~ 15,204 steps

Alas, our last day in Paris. We finally snagged reservations to see the interior of Notre Dame and marveled at how perfectly everything had been restored. By some sleight of hand, Susan and Anne were able to get in some last minute shopping. Poor Paul had to buy another suitcase to get Anne’s haul home. No such luck for even poorer me as Susan’s purchases were mostly wearables.

Chef Cyril had suggested we try to get into Les Marches, a traditional French bistro just across the river from the Eiffel Tower. It was a treat in all manner and made us all feel as close to being locals as our language skills would allow.

Mardi ~ Stepped Out

Knowing Tuesday would be an early and last visit to A La Petite Marquise, we gave each other kisses and hugs goodbye and grabbed our ride to Orly Airport. That cute little French Bee was waiting for us, took off on time and delivered us to Miami a full hour early. It was only on instinct that we were able to get back to the long term parking lot. No vehicle came by with a marking that might suggest it was headed there. We hailed an employee shuttle bus down and jumped on board.

So, what’s a vacation without one last adventure!

Galápagonian Aquaphobian

Our first full day in the Galápagos started with what I thought would be an hour walk out to Turtle Bay. It was four hours before we stumbled back into town after an up and down hike to the beach and back. The trail was lined with huge cactus trees sprouting ears the size of large serving platters. Many had trunks thick like mature trees and were easily 20 feet tall.  The trail finally opened up to a wide and deserted beach where waves crashed incessantly, pulverizing the coral, shell and lava mix into sand.  We passed splinters of a boat hull that had washed ashore as we walked toward an inlet protected from the surf.  What I had thought to be black driftwood turned out to be dozens, perhaps hundreds of dark iguanas lounging in the sun. They were big, black and mean looking animals with backs lined with razor sharp fins.  We kept our distance.  Further on, the protected bay was inviting and calm. There were a few people snorkeling or competing with sea lions for spaces on the sandy beach to relax.  We did neither and took the long trail back to town.

We had been booked on the boat “Golondrina”, but received a last minute notice moving us to the “Fragata”. The email described the change as an upgrade. Our new quarters contain two bunk sized beds separated by a narrow floor space. We have two small windows high on the starboard wall, each perhaps the size of a loaf of bread.  There’s no looking out of them, but they do let some light into the cabin.  The bathroom has a slanted wall (it’s the hull of the boat) with a cracked mirror framed in a broken ship’s wheel and almost enough room to turn around to get into the shower.

Eight days is a long time to spend on such a small vessel in cramped quarters.  The Fragata is showing her age, but seems sturdy and takes the high waves without a lot of creaking or moaning.  But when the deisel fired up, I must admit my first thought was centered on the “African Queen”. Our below deck cabin is permanently damp.  The hot water comes and goes in the shower.  The sink has one knob that turns in one direction. Cold.

Our friendly captain is William, a hefty sailor who knows his way to the galley.  I did not expect a Gavin MacLeod character dressed in a spiffy white uniform with a cap and matching white shoes and my expectations were met.  He and all the crew wore t-shirts and shorts, save for one evening when they did indeed don dress whites for a welcome cocktail party.  The assistant cook, a short and plump little fellow, looked more than most the part of a pirate with sun bleached purple shorts, bare feet, a torn tee and faded blue bandana tied in the back to cover his head.

Susan and I are the only U.S. citizens onboard.  Our fellow passengers are a Danish man traveling alone; couples from New Zealand, Germany and Holland; and two trios of families; a couple from Mexico traveling with their fifteen year old daughter and a mother, grandmother and young boy from Costa Rica.  We all settled into things at the same pace and we’ve had plenty of laughs together about the plumbing and other amenities of the Fragata. English has been the language of choice for most conversations and I’m almost able to keep up, at least with the subject matter, when Spanish is spoken.  The crew is entirely Ecuadorian.  Perfect.

This eight day sea adventure has been a ton of fun that I would not trade for anything.  The islands are beyond striking and we are far outnumbered by animals of all sorts.  We’ve seen whales, sea lions, iguanas, black tipped sharks, white tipped sharks, assorted rays, exotic fish, a snake penguins, pelicans, herons, pink flamingos and Blue Footed Booby Birds just for starters. Apparently having adapted to gawking humans not bothering them, the animals are wary of us but not afraid. It is a bit unnerving at first to be able to get so close to them, but the sensation fades quickly.

I knew the eight days onboard would feature a lot of snorkeling and I had steeled myself to take it on, despite not being much of a water person.  In fact and now that I’m thinking about it, being underwater is one of the very few things in life I will admit that I truly detest.  I got a break the afternoon of the first day. We were each fitted for and suited up in wetsuits, snorkel goggles and giant flippers. We boarded rubber sided dinghies for a “wet landing” on a sandy beach for snorkeling off the coast.  Most of our landings are “wet”, in that the dinghy gets close to shore and we passengers jump off and fight the waves and surf to the beach.  Think “The Longest Day'' absent incoming mortars, with an “Airplane” twist.  I pretended to be one of the gang for our first landing and strolled casually away to enjoy the beach and admire the sea lions lounging around.  No one was the wiser who snorkeled and who did not.  Susan, who knows me like a book she’s read a hundred times, took one look at me standing alone on the white sand in my damp black wet suit and said, “I know this is hell for you.”  She nailed it.

Day two brought no such reprieve. Now we were setting out into cold dark water to snorkel by jumping off the dinghies into the frigid sea. I once again squirmed myself into the tight synthetic leotard that clinged to my shivering body like giant cold hand. We cast off from the Fragata. As the safety of our vessel faded from view below crests of waves, I felt as if I was on my way to the gallows.  Once stopped, the experienced snorkelers happily slipped on their fins and one by one merrily jumped into the black water that I knew was teaming with thousands of gilled beasts.  I could hear the exclamations of how cold the water was and my confidence waned with each “ooh”, “whew” and “wow, that’s cold!”  I slid off the damn boat.

I wanted to shoot out of the water like a Poseiden missile, but settled for instantly grasping and crawling my way back into the dry dingy. I had lasted twenty seconds, give or take a tick or a tock.  Any remnant of desire, as if there could be any, was completely extinguished when that evening our guide showed a video he had taken a few weeks past of a killer whale chasing a turtle near the dinghies. When the whale leaped one last time for the doomed turtle, it was plain as day that the whale was larger than the dinghy.  He followed this horror movie by explaining that tomorrow he would precede the snorkeling group with a flashlight which he claimed would ward off any sharks lurking in the water.  I firmly believe we are of the species homo sapien for good reason and not classified as homo insipiens aqua.

When not snorkeling - which apparently was scheduled by Dr. Pepper - we’ve enjoyed incredible hikes offshore.  The islands are loaded with animals of every sort. Huge turtles with giant domed backs block the trails in front of us. We walk around hundreds upon hundreds of monstrously large black, tan and murky green iguanas. They ignore us.  The sea lions lounge and roam around as they wish, one even jumping on our boat when we were preparing for a landing.  They play with the snorkelers, spinning around and through the groups of humans who pretend to belong in the water.

The Galápagos Islands have been an incredible and unforgettable experience. We got exactly what we came for and were tickled pink to have been so lucky in our lives to take this trip.

I’m not sure what we will cook up to top this one.

Whipped, Winded, Worn and Wowed in Peru

You’ll recall that we had discovered a means of converting US currency to Argentine pesos on the black market at twice the official rate.  Having a few hours to kill on our last day in Buenos Aires after packing and checking out of our hotel, we took a stroll taking us down a street we had skipped in order to give the road a chance for sights we might see.  The first sight Susan saw was a blouse adorning a storefront manikin.  She liked it a lot and since I did have one last $100 bill stashed away, she retrieved it and converted the greenback to pesos.  We returned to the store. Susan bought the blouse, the matching pants and belt on the manikin and the same pants and belt in different colors.  Coincidentally, the bill came to $101. We left Argentina with three dollars in currency to our name.

For our first day in Lima, we headed out for a walk, stopping by the Incan Market. The stalls were mostly closed and the open ones selling stuff we didn’t want anyway. We then made our way to the Huaca Pucllana Site Museum, a huge mound built around the year 600. At a little park near the museum a dead man was covered with a blue tarp. We were told he had taken his own life. The police and ambulance were there tending to the situation. Onlookers paused but did not linger. We had ice cream to wait out the clock for our escort and took an English speaking tour of the restored site. The guide’s static megaphone along with her face mask and accent made the narrative rather useless. But I was still fascinated with the accomplishments of people so long ago, equipped with few tools we would recognize, able to design and erect things that remain standing today. Until the excavations in 1980 or so, this was just a big hill in town used for dumping trash and motorcycle hill climbing.  Once again, I hold to my theory that anything is possible with enough time and forced labor.  As we left, the dead man was still slumped half off a park bench and half on the ground, draped with a blue plastic tarp flapping in the breeze.

We took an Uber to Parque del Amor. It was a sweet setting overlooking the Pacific and we enjoyed it as intended. There was some sort of public engagement taking place. Several girls were in colorful costumes primping themselves. Perhaps it is customary for women in Lima to initiate engagements in public and with pizzazz.  A pretty young girl had a banner printed with “Will you be my beloved?”, or something to that effect and had even hired a film crew to record the occasion. She too was dressed in native garb and danced an enticing little jig for the groom-to-be, presenting him a box of treats and delights.  He not only declined her invitation, but also rather demonstratively tossed the box of gifts to the ground. I thought it was a show, but Susan said it was the real thing based on conversation with those involved. She yelled out, "¡déjalo!“ (leave him!) to the weeping girl.  I figured it was a good day for the girl in that she was lucky not to have attached herself to such a creep.

Our flight to Cusco was a nail biter and one of those landings where the pilot had to bank so steeply just before lining up with the runway that all we could see was ground out the left and sky out the right.  Making things a bit more thrilling, we couldn’t even see the wingtips through the dense clouds until just before making that dive away from the mountain dead ahead and toward the airport.  I was keenly aware the pilot had the same view of nothing (una vista de nada) as I reflected on the many tales of planes lost in the Andes. These incredibly rugged mountains have no single crest, but are topped with sharp jagged edges like the teeth of an old two man tree saw.

The town of Cusco is an overgrown pueblo with plenty of colonial buildings, narrow streets and a thousand souvenir shops. We’ve had our obligatory coco tea claimed to prevent altitude sickness. We haven’t noticed anything beyond being a little winded and perhaps lightheaded off and on.  We took a mile or so jaunt to a supermarket outside the tourist area and were rewarded with storefronts selling cement mixers, tillers, tractor parts, tires, batteries and accessories. The exteriors of most of the common buildings have a quaint appearance of failing stucco that makes such places so charming to us.  It’s likely the owners and occupants are not so thrilled.

We were excited to take a pre-booked tour to see the sights of the Sacred Valley, but it was a bust. The driver drove like a maniac from site to site, the guide explained very little and rushed us at every stop. We spent more time in “seeing how the natives make jewelry and mine salt” stores (where they happen to sell jewelry and mined salt) than we did at the ruins.  The buffet luncheon was in a huge dining room that catered to tour buses - our least favorite setting.  I was glad when the day ended.  So much for not making our own arrangements on the fly.

On Sunday, We caught the first train to Aguas Calientes for a scenic ride down the Urubamba River gorge.  It was incredible.  We’ve been through Glenwood Canyon many times and this ride put that truly spectacular Colorado River run solidly in second place.  I had never seen mountains so high, so steep, so ragged and so rugged.  The river current was so strong that it seemed to keep up with our clickety clacking train car until we reached the end of the line.

While buying tickets, we hired a guide who looked the part and were rewarded with a private tour by an Incan man who claimed to be descended from the common people of Machu Picchu. His soft spoken English was passable and Spanish better. The gentle young man’s native tongue was Quechua. He taught us a few handy words that I forgot within minutes.  Our guide did a great job and the experience made up for yesterday by leaps and bounds.  Machu Picchu was everything it was advertised to be. The lost city is nestled high up and into the steepest and most striking mountains you can imagine. My first view came just as we crested a knoll and the scene really did take my breath away.  Here we were!

The Incas had no written language and no European visited this place until the 1800's - about 300 years after the city was abandoned.  There are no written records of Machu Picchu while it was inhabited. The names of the buildings, their supposed uses, and the  inhabitants are all the product of archeologists.  Everything we think we know about Machu Picchu is surmised.

So who am I to describe it?

We are working this morning on finding a ride back to Cusco so we can catch our flight to Ecuador.  It was one of things I did not arrange in advance.  We'll do it on the fly.

Up The Iguazu

 

Iguazu Falls, about 800 miles north of Buenos Aires, was worth every bit of the project it was to get there. Our mid afternoon flight was delayed until nearly eleven and even then the gate agent advised us that weather might make landing difficult. She informed us the pilot would try to land, but if that didn’t work out (presumably not as an unsuccessful attempt), we would return to Buenos Aires for another try the next day. I’m convinced the training manual for gate agents does not include phrases like “try to land”. Anyway, we successfully completed the late night attempt as the pilot slammed the plane down on the runway hard enough to bottom out the shock absorbers. It was one of those flights on which passengers applaud as the plane comes to a stop.

We decided to visit the Argentine side of the falls first. It was a drizzly and damp day, but the only one we had, so off we went into the mist. Jaguars run wild in the jungle that surrounds us and we found it interesting there were so many warning signs along the highway. I suppose they don’t do well with cars. Or perhaps, the signs are warning drivers not to get out to take a break or check a tire. I didn’t ask.

I worked in Niagara Falls for a bit in the 1970’s and we visited Victoria Falls in Zambia some years ago. This monster waterfall took Niagara down several notches and rivaled Victoria in magnitude and intensity. We wound our way a half mile or more on elevated metal catwalks that were slippery from the constant mist. I was amazed they could have been built so sturdily over the rushing water. We saw our first Toucans other than in captivity or on a box of Fruit Loops. I was surprised they could fly with beaks nearly as long as their bodies. There were plenty of interesting plants and other birds that we had never seen before. We were able to get right up to the edge of the Falls and, unable to converse due to the roar, enjoyed the incredible display of nature together yet to ourselves.

On day two, we crossed the border to see the falls from the Brazilian side. I had our passports as required, but had not been informed we needed proof of vaccination. I had an image of our most recent cards on my phone but got a frown from the border agent when I produced it. Then on a hunch, I pulled up the pictures I had of Susan taken in Rome last Fall with Brazilian President Balsonero. The agent snapped up my phone with apparent glee and quickly shared the photo with her pals behind the glass wall. We got celebrity treatment from there, ushered through the line and out the door into “the land of palms”.

The Brazilian experience exceeded the previous day in proximity and pleasure. We had signed up for a boat ride that would take us not merely up to the falling water, but under it. The journey made the biggest and wildest roller coasters we’d been on seem like kiddie rides. The pilot raced up the river against the rushing water - zooming in, out, over and through huge whirlpools and giant walls of water flying at us from all directions. The rubber boat flew up, crashed down and lurched from side to side. As we approached the cascade all I could hear was Susan screaming even louder than the crushing water above us. I ducked. After we passed through the waterfall, the pilot put the vessel in reverse and drenched us again. The ride back to the dock was another flight through and over the wild rapids. We were exhilarated.

Any thought that would be the highlight was extinguished when we walked out on catwalks and platforms that took us right back to the thundering waterfalls. We were drenched again by mist and sprays and at times it seemed were part of the cascades. Iguazu was an unforgettable experience. I’d go again in a minute and wish it wasn’t so far away.

We’ve been on a steak kick ever since arriving in Argentina. I’m writing this on our sixth day here. We’ve had five steaks. I swear off the stuff every afternoon yet go back for more every night. The french fries are to die for. We’ve had the same dinner almost every night. In Iguazu, there was live music and tango in the background. Here in Buenos Aires, we’ve found a local parrilla (steak place). There's no entertainment, but the food, service and friendly reception cannot be beat. Now I know the true origin of the word “vaca-ciones”. We will need the meat break.

We learned from our hotel desk manager that we could exchange dollars for pesos on the black market and get twice the official rate. Suddenly, everything we might purchase became “half price”. Susan practically ran down the street to the money changer with every greenback she could find in her purse and my backpack. Somehow I managed to stuff nearly 50,000 pesos into my wallet and my thrifty wife set out to save as much as she possibly could in our remaining time here. 

We visited Recoleta Cemetery at the urging of several pamphlets and guides. I was skeptical, but the cost of admission (for visitation purposes only) was well worth the price. The place was filled with huge, ornate mausoleums, most decorated with mammoth sculptures of angels, nymphs and assorted religious figures. Many were built with yard thick slabs of dark and gloomy granite. There were a few low bid edifices here and there, one even appeared to be a sheet metal cellar door like one you might have ducked into to avoid a tornado. Apparently there are a number of famous military figures, politicians and business leaders interred on the premises. We did pass by Eva Peron’s spot and learned her remains are buried 26 feet below the surface to discourage grave robbers. She was buried here 26 years after she died, having spent some time in Italy, Spain and her husband’s dining room. It’s a story worth a few minutes to read if you are in the mood. My favorite was the Salvador Maria del Carril tomb. She had such a terrible time being married to her husband, that she instructed the cemetery to situate their seated statues so that they would not ever have to face each other again. And they don’t.

Coincidentally, we happened upon a Louis Vuitton store after the cemetery tour. Unfortunately, their inventory was completely depleted, preventing us from benefiting from the huge savings our newfound conversion rate could have provided.

We finished off the day at a Tango Show in the San Telmo district. We had originally booked this as a Viator tour that included dinner and transportation. Having become comfortable with getting around on our own and hefting our full bellies, we canceled the dinner, grabbed an Uber for five bucks and paid for the same show with pesos. It was a pleasant experience, but obviously produced for the tourist crowd. Locals don’t really go out casually to watch people dance and sing in such settings. It was pushing midnight and deciding not to walk the dark and unfamiliar streets so late and alone, we grabbed an Uber back to our hotel. It was a sad little wreck of a car with a bad exhaust leak, no seatbelts and a driver that took tailgating to new levels of intimacy. We should have walked.

On Sunday, this time we did walk to San Telmo for the famous weekly street fair. There were hundreds of booths to enjoy with plenty of products, crafts and artwork that were new to us. We spotted a parilla that looked inviting. The waiter cut our steak with a spoon. The fries were the best yet. We were in another meat coma as we walked the couple of miles back to our neighborhood.

Monday came and, having run out of pesos to save, returned to the money changer for more. We walked to the Plaza Serrano district this time to admire the graffiti covered walls in the alleys. It was quite a hike, and we managed to find a little spot for steaks along the way. Serrano was interesting, but nothing more to write home about than what you just read.

We have a late afternoon flight to Lima and begin our Peruvian adventures tomorrow. Catch you there.

Alaska - The Reason

 

The Reason

I’ve been putting off writing this episode of our trip until it ends, but as endings tend to do, this one has ended.

The Alaskan weather today is exactly what we expected.  It’s heavily overcast and chilly, the sky densely clouded, and Mount Drum is hidden far behind miles of dark gray fog that has settled in for a long, damp and dreary presence.  The mosquitoes don’t care and are taking it out on us.

As most of you know, I “lost” my daughter Jeni in 2002.  She wasn’t misplaced. She died.  It will be 20 years in just a few months. Long before that, in 1991, she ran off to Alaska for a summer of fun, dig the land and relish her life.  She and I corresponded by letter mail in those days.  Can you imagine how much I wish I had kept every letter?  I can. I did not.

My ulterior motive for this Alaskan summer was to connect with Jeni in ways I had not done before. My wish was granted.  I’ve felt her beside me as we drive these empty roads, walk the scratched out trails and enjoy the friendly and pleasant nature of so many people we’ve met here.

My emotions have been on edge more often than not, and it’s a feeling I’m not used to.  Soon after we arrived in Copper, we learned our dear friend Dean had suffered the untimely death of his brother.  I called him with condolences and found myself weeping over the passing of a man I’d never met.  I’ve felt my eyes welling up here and there listening to people talk about their children. With a small group of fellow veterans and a slightly larger audience in attendance, I participated in raising the flag to full mast at noon on Memorial Day. My voice cracked as I made some brief remarks in honor of those who had died serving our country.

It's no surprise that Jeni was a wild child and free spirit from the start until the very ending of her short life.  She was born at the very apex of the '60s revolution, the spawn of love struck teenagers without a whit of parenting skills. Jeni's lullabies were listening to Cass Elliot belting out ballads from the living room Kenwood.  She knew the words to “Nights In White Satin” before she learned her alphabet. She saw Jimi Hendrix when she was two. Jeni told me the first car she could remember us owning was our 1963 VW microbus.  And I can recall driving her to parks and playgrounds in that old wagon.  I wore a Nehru jacket and had a full head of hair.  We dressed Jeni in striped denim bell bottoms, madras tops and leather headbands. Jeni always found the steepest slide, fastest merry go round, and wanted to be pushed so high on the swings that the chains would slacken at the top of each climb. By the time Jeni became a teenager, she was well equipped to emulate the undisciplined, random and live for today lifestyle in which she grew up. I encouraged her to do it.

And that takes me back to the reason I wanted to spend so much time in Alaska.  I didn’t want just a trip. I needed more than a cruise stop. It could not be a vacation.  I wanted to live here, work here, suck it up and experience life in this place as she did.  I was hoping to connect with my daughter again. I wanted to feel her close to me. I needed to know that she was still more to me than a memory.  And it happened.  Jeni is. She’s not was.

I’ll let Jeni close out my Alaskan story as if it were hers with this letter she wrote me in 1991.  She was 23 and free.  How very much I wish it had been me.

July 22, 1991

Hi Dad.  I'm still just surviving here in Kenai. I finally found work on a dock pitching fish out of boats. It's only part-time, only when boats come in - which is not often enough. The work here won't be lasting too much longer either. It's quite the bummer and though the work and money situation is not as planned, I'm having a pretty decent - if not different - summer here on the coast of the Kenai peninsula. At the moment I'm relaxing in a small camper trailer with four of my newly acquired friends. We're in Kasilof, a town without a town, about 25 miles outside of Kenai off a gravel roadside. Today we've been fighting complete boredom with complete insanity. We're all quite the artists and music junkies. So after a vicious game of poker using pieces of paper as chips, I drew a different picture on each new chip acquired.  Others followed suit and soon we were all quite absorbed in drawing our different interpretations of reality.  Been listening to various alternative artists today.  Eating fried biscuits with honey and rolling Bugle Boy cigarettes. Times are hard.  Haven't had a dime for a week. My daily luxuries of Kool cigs and a few coffees is now only a dream of previous times. Raw top ramen has been my best meal this week.  Wow.  I myself feel shocked at the limits I've overcome in this eternally long period of life.

What's next? A question in my mind whenever I'm not thinking of my recent romance. The two thoughts are like night and day. One vague, confusing and unstable, the other bright, fun-loving and true. As mentioned, the carnival was not the right choice. I came back to Kenai after 4 days. I plan to leave Kenai on the first weekend in August to attend the Talkeetna Bluegrass Festival in Talkeetna. It's the best thing in Alaska to do overall. I'm not sure if I'll come back to Kenai or not. Like I said the money is nil and I don't even know if I'll be leaving Alaska by Summer's end. If I do manage to get out before October I'll take the ferry down to Seattle and then hitch back to San Fran and stay with Lilly for a while to get it together. 

But who knows? Anything could happen. Life continues on cycling and turning me in different directions as each new day begins with unlimited possibilities.

Well just thought I'd write a short note from the land of green bears and purple mountain skies.

Hope all is well and to hear from you again soon.

Alaska - Week 4

 

Gone Fishin'

With our off street parking secured at the Bear Claw, we’ve gained even more confidence in running down to Valdez for sightseeing, dining and fun.  I mention the ride as a short one, but it’s actually about two hours on a mostly deserted highway, over a mountain pass and a full time watch for both driver and copilot keeping a lookout for wildlife on the roadway.  Sunday night we encountered three moose and had to creep through heavy fog going over the pass.

Last week, we braved the trip to take a small ship out to view Columbia Glacier. We parked Wanda at the Bear Paw for $5 and felt good about the plates being off the street.  I had expected the glacier tour to be my big news of the day, but the late afternoon brought a much bigger story.

We had dinner at a Thai food truck and decided it was the best Thai in town.  It’s the only Thai in town.  Jared, the company driver, met us briefly for a chat, then we spotted two young ladies from the Lodge we call the “Alabama Girls”.  The pair, Sayleen and Tawny, might weigh in at 160 pounds if both were on the scale.  They are lanky ladies, thin as rails, have deep southern accents and came to the show with two equally scrawny young rebels to keep them warm and entertained.  We were surprised to see any of them galavanting around Valdez, knowing none had transportation.  That mystery was resolved when we bumped into the whole gang, plus a few hangers-on partying heartily in the back of a U-Haul truck in the Safeway parking lot.  The group had chipped in to rent the truck, threw some chairs in the back from the lodge and scooted down to Valdez for a night (ok, day) on the town.  Four had crammed in on the big front seat; the rest of the gang apparently hung on for dear life, dodging sliding restaurant chairs in the back of the truck for the wild and bumpy ride over Thompson Pass and into Valdez.  Oh to be young!

But two days later, our Alabama girls and their Bama Boys were on the way to Anchorage, escorted by the company security officer.  Apparently they had been playing hooky in Valdez and the party continued back at the lodge until early the next morning. of the rowdy revelers found their way to work for their shifts.

Susan and I climbed into the truck briefly and learned that word had spread that our Lodge would be closing for the season in just two weeks. The reason given at the meeting we missed, was that we were too far removed from medical facilities on the chance we might be overwhelmed with covid positives.  Susan and I know the occupancy rate, can guess at the costs of being open and know our arithmetic.  Our night auditor friend said she was called in out of bed on the first of the month to get the final numbers up to corporate.  The shut down notice was received the very next morning.  We’ve concluded the official line to be a line.  Looks like we will be out of work on the 16th unless we take them up on moving to another lodge, and we are not inclined toward that direction.

We drove back to Valdez Sunday night and were on a fishing boat before six the next morning.  It took over three hours for the captain to get us out to his fishing spots in the Gulf of Alaska.  We fished for six hours and both of us caught our limit of two halibut and four rockfish.  We also snagged some other fish that did not count toward our quota and tossed back some yummy looking cod, unable to bring them onboard as they are out of season.  Susan’s grin was as big as I’ve ever seen it.  I think I had more fun watching her than catching fish.  Another three hours back crashing and banging over every wave back to Valdez were followed by visiting the “cutters” and packing house.  We are shipping 40 pounds of fish home.

Back from the trip, we resolved that we will return home rather than go to another lodge.  We signed up specifically and only for this location due to its remote location and small footprint.

Besides that, we’ve had our kicks.  It's a long flight home.  That's plenty of time to cook up a new adventure.