France 2000: a tale of onion soup and chateaux

A generation or so ago there was a word, “putter” whose origin is close to lost, and whose use is definitely almost gone. My father used it to describe what he did on Saturday mornings in the garage, doing a bit of this, a tad of that. I like to think the word came from the sound of those early small motors, the ones that went “put put” down country lanes and streams. Not aimless, just slow and meandering.

When I describe our trip to France I think of puttering, as we followed the river Loire from the large city of Orleans to the sea. Savoring each moment, meandering on occasion. Something almost obsolete in this world where four days is a “vacation”.

My spouse knew that he had to take some “paid time off” or lose it at year end, so he assigned me to plan a “vacation”. I had “taken a package”, which is a euphemism for “laid off”, so I had the time to look for internet specials and deals. He left for a business trip in Asia that involved five cities in five days, starting with Bali, confident that I would come up with something great.

He returned to find that I had not booked anything. I had wavered between Ireland and Italy. I was bewildered by choices and tradeoffs and “hot deals” that didn’t seem too hot. Besides, those “last minute specials” were usually fully booked or had strange but mandatory requirements. Depart from Cleveland. Or stay in an unknown, unrated resort. Somehow the internet had made planning more, rather than less, difficult. Planning the trip had become worse than planning our business travel. This was no vacation. I froze.

My spouse was tired of rigid itineraries and business hotels. He remembered driving through France on business years ago, wishing he could linger. We wanted to go somewhere interesting in the off-season, but neither of us wanted to be on a set schedule. So he called American Airlines Vacations and booked tickets and a car, for not much more than my internet bargains. Done.

With only ten days notice, planning was minimal. We would find something interesting wherever we went in France, and with that philosophy, we sketched out a trip to see the chateaux of the Loire, with a side trip to Brittany. We would see as much as we could in eight days, and not worry with advance reservations. Besides, many hotels that seem fully booked weeks ahead have cancellations a day or so before one’s projected arrival. I took a couple of guidebooks for their hotel recommendations, planning to call ahead each day for the next hotel.

Now that we had decided not to plan, the pressure was off. We looked forward to discovering the unknown, the other side of France. We didn’t plan to consciously avoid tourist spots, we just freed ourselves from the “must-see” agendas we had carried as burdens for most of our adult lives. As it turned out, we saw almost no tourists. In our most “touristy” spot, Mont St. Michele, we were enchanted by six year old French children on a field trip. Their wonderment and squeals of delight as they raced up the hundreds of stone steps was tourism of the best kind.

I did not want to arrive in France without a reservation for the first night. Returning to the Internet, I used the site www.france.com to hunt for a hotel not too far from Orly Airport, yet near some point of interest. Ultimately I made a reservation at a Novotel, a holiday inn-like chain, in Fontainbleau. Since the desk clerk spoke very little English, the printed email I handed her was most useful. (The French often read more English than they speak.) Also, we used charge cards wherever possible to take advantage of their excellent exchange rate, and we used ATMs for cash in francs, always. I came home with all of the dollars that I took!

We flew into Charles DeGaulle airport, which is HUGE, easily on a par with LAX or SFO. Although we arrived at Terminal 2, all of our directions were for Terminal 1, so finding Hertz was a bit complicated. It was also raining. We finally got a very nice Puegeot that was large enough for 3 people, and with enough zoom to deal with freeways. We thought we had good directions for driving around the loop of Paris but within 5 minutes we dodged a very serious spinout in our lane, and we missed our exit. After a stressful hour we finally reached the countryside, and found our Novotel, in the middle of fields, and hidden from the highway. Good thing I had the internet directions! On the other side of the freeway I saw the Nina Ricci perfume factory, and I knew I was in France.


We booked adjoining rooms for our twentysomething daughter and ourselves (figuring with jet lag weneeded it) for about $45 each. The rooms were basic twins, a sofa that was really a bed, and a small TV and the first of a series of MORE THAN ADEQUATE bathrooms. Remembering the France of 30 years ago, I had packed wash cloths and this was one of the few places that did not supply them. But the new fiberglass shower had soap and other toiletries found in U.S. hotel chains. This Novotel had three stars in the French hotel rating system, and we quickly adapted to using those stars in our search for hotels.


Jetlagged but buoyed by the pleasant hotel, we drove into Fontainbleau, about 5 miles thru the forest. As soon as we entered the town we knew we were in Disneyland. The castle is bigger than life and dominates the town, just as Sleeping Beauty's castle looms over Mr. Toad. It was still raining buckets, so we bought the only umbrella left in town, a lovely souvenir. We devoured onion soup in a family-run café, sharing the last booth with giggling eight-year olds, the children of the proprietor. Figuring we had a few hours to kill, we toured the castle. No one else was touring on such a rainy Sunday so we raced through in less than an hour. Fontainbleau has been beautifully restored, and the paintings and furnishings gave us a good framework for imagining how the other chateaux would appear.

After retrieving our daughter from her student flight into Orly Airport, we went back into Fontainbleau for a fabulous dinner at a brasserie, one of those wonderful glass and mirror cafes that are all over France. I had moules, mussels, Joe had steak. Yumm.Until we started reading the (French) lighted sign outside the cafe, which mentioned the municipal parking lot was open until 2000 heures. Hummm. 8 PM. It was then 8:40 PM. So we finished our meal quickly, bravely murmuring to each other "We can take a taxi. No problem.” The sign was incorrect or the garage manager was lenient, because we easily retrieved our car and returned to our snug Novotel.


Our first real day in France was one of navigating through Orleans and
other smaller cities, following the Loire on a non freeway. Roundabouts
were challenging but my spouse mastered them early. We went to a supermarche
and bought jambon (ham, wonderful French ham), cheese, baguettes, orangina, and the first of a succession of bottles of wine. The wine was so
inexpensive and the labels so seductive!

We planned to picnic for lunches, and the first of these was at a city park next to a chateau. It was brisk and windy and gray, and Joe and Mary walked off the wine on the chateau grounds while I studied the map. We quickly concluded that we were not going to make it to our destination, Amboise, that day. Instead we stopped in Blois, an ancient town dominated by its huge chateau. We
stopped at the tourist office opposite the chateau and asked them to make a
reservation for us at a hotel from my guidebook, the Hotel Medici. It was really a restaurant with a hotel above. My husband grumbled mildly that it was near the train station and not in the center of town, and I worried that we should have gone to the Ibis (another chain and part of the Novotel group) nearer the Chateau.

We loved the room. It was an attic room with dormer windows opening out
on to the slate roof, with an alcove with the third bed, almost like
shipboard. (We found throughout that when we booked one room for the three of us, it was usually carved out of the attic.) The bathroom was elegant with all of the amenities. The walls were covered with a wild pink green and blue flowered print material. We saw fabric covered walls in other hotels also. We stowed
our luggage and returned to the center of town for the chateau tour.

The Chateau at Blois was an early home of Francis I, a long-lived and beloved ruler who built many of the royal residences in the Loire Valley. We exclaimed over the architecture and the decorations while reading aloud from the Michelin book on the Loire, which I had checked out of the library at home. We were the only English-speaking tourists.

Afterwards we had a 5 pm coffee break and did some casual shopping in
the medieval streets around the chateau, returning to the underground
parking garage for the car just as the rains started. Ensconced
in our attic room with the rest of the lunch time wine, we congratulated ourselves that we didn’t have far to go for dinner.

Dinner at the Café Medici was the best meal of the trip, and that is high
praise in itself. My spouse and I shared a Normandy chicken dish, cooked in a
clay pot sealed with bread dough, and then sauced with calvados brandy.
The presentation was awesome, but we were disappointed when the bread did
not come back to the table: it had been for show, not for consumption.
Don't ask why we didn't ask for it. We were spell-bound by the sights and aromas.

Our daughter had a fish cooked in a clay package, which the waiter
shattered with a hammer to release. Parchment paper also sealed in the moisture of herbs and wine. We all agreed it was the best fish ever. She had ordered “Le Menu”, the special multi-course meal which included a selection of cheeses and a souffle to finish. Her parents watched her delicately choosing three local cheeses and agreed they couldn’t have eaten a bite more.

Even with our knowledge of French, a phrase book was very useful in ordering food. Duck has at least two names in French, lobster, steak, etc all have multiple names. Sometimes the waitor could translate, more often not. But they always understood, and could provide, "pommes frites". French fries.

After such an impressive meal, we climbed our three flights of stairs to the attic and collapsed. Rain pattered on the slate roof all night and we slept very well, using the ear plugs which I brought along, having read that French hotels are
noisy with thin walls. Not so in any hotel we stayed in.

The next morning our helpful waiter of the night before had morphed into
the helpful desk clerk. We had noticed that Hotel Medici also belonged to a consortium called "Hotels and Chateaux of France”. Our choice for the next night, the Chateau de Pray, was listed in this book. Our desk clerk was quite happy to phone ahead and make a reservation for us! I was thrilled, as my previous internet inquiry had returned a “Sorry, we’re full.” And we had the whole day to amble among the chateaux!

We all agreed we wanted to start with Chambord, the largest of the
chateau, build by Francis I with the collaboration of his good friend
Leonardo de Vinci. It was build as a renaissance palace rather than a
fortified keep. A river was diverted to provide its lake. Sandstone
was brought in by river barge from other parts of France. We could
tell we were approaching a national treasure by the size of the car
parks and the number of souvenir stands. We felt like we were in
Disneyland again. Oh how I wish we had done this years ago before the commercialization of France’s treasures. (Afterwards we ate cheese and bread and ham in the parking lot, supplemented by coffee and cookies at another chateau.)

But only a couple of tour buses with daytrippers from Paris were parked in spaces intended for many more. We rented headphones (in English) and were glad we did so, as this was the only chateau with that option. The architecture was stunning, but the graffiti on the soft stone dated 1606 was even more impressive. Here we also saw many of the tapestries and some of the paintings and furnishings from the time of Napoleon.

From Chambord we drove back roads to reach the Chateau de Chenonceau,
which everyone refers to as "the one built over the water". The
French refer to it as the Chateau des Dames because HenryVII gave it to
his mistress, Diane de Poitiers, who built most of it. After Henry
died, his wife, Catherine de Medici, forced her to trade it for another
one, and Catherine enhanced the estate and put her own stamp on it. The
long gallery built over the river has its own impressive history as a negotiation site in this century’s wars. We saw more tourists here than anywhere else, almost all French. Chenonceau has an extensive park and beautiful gardens also.

During our rambles over back roads we found numerous smaller castles
and keeps and small towns and villages with wine "Caves". We were too
timid to drive right up to the vineyards and see if there was tasting,
although in a few instances we saw signs to that effect. We also drove
up to another major chateau, just by chance, Cheverney. The entire
village outside the castle walls has been restored by the French
government, and when you read their war memorials you understand why.
Many of the villages lost almost their entire male population in WWI.
So again, it was a bit like Disney.

We finally made it to Amboise in the early evening, and found the
Chateau de Pray easily. Somewhat famous people have lived there as recently
as the mid 20th century. At dinner we were seated under the painting of
Lafayette, a former inhabitant. Dinner again was a production that occupied almost three hours. No one minded. The bedroom itself was a large chamber with high ceilings and a fireplace and long windows overlooking the drive. Monogrammed linens. By the way, at none of these hotels did we buy the continental breakfast. It was usually about $10 each and we don't eat breakfast.
Or shall we say we preferred to stop at a pastry shop later and choose
something really good, like pan chocolate (a croissant stuffed with dark
chocolate). This meant that I did not always get a cup of coffee early
in the day. Our days also did not start early, since by mid October France does not get light until after 8 am. A lovely excuse to snuggle in.

This day we devoted to Amboise. The chateau itself is the one where
Francis I was raised. It has a strategic location high above the Loire
and the views are breathtaking. Lots of stairs. Tunnels where guards
spent their days lighted only by candles and flares. I could imagine a
secret dungeon. Terraces on top of the castle were once used for gardens
and parties and I could well imagine the lifestyle in the summer. In
the winter it must have been freezing.

By now the Hess trio had toured or seen about 7 chateaux and were ready for some random shopping in the medieval streets around Amboise. All of the shops close for the lunch break, so this was a challenge. A charcuterie or deli/meat store/gourmet store remained open, and we raided it for local pate in jars. Once again we were overcome by the cheapness of the Loire wine. Our daughter and I had great fun picking out wine from the regions we had driven thru the day before. So having seen Chateau Ceverny, then we looked for a wine with the same domain name (kind of like the internet, huh)...

Next stop was up the hill (and the narrow streets, the cobblestones, and
the onion soup I had for lunch made it tough walking) to the small estate
where Leonardo de Vinci spent the last three years of his life. Its size and splendor was that of a rich merchant, not a noble, of the time. We sat in the rose garden with our afternoon coffee and imagined living there. Leonardo’s good friend Francis I supposedly used those underground passages and chambers of Chatuau Amboise to come see him every day. We enjoyed the tiny chapel, the Italian garden, the gallery with its view of the Loire, and the painting of the Chataeau Amboise that Leonardo painted from the villa. The coffee was good too.

We retrieved the car determined to make some mileage, because we wanted to
reach the Atlantic Coast before dashing up to Mont St. Michel. We
made it about three miles before we were diverted by the regional wine cooperative where the vintners bring their grapes and share the huge
stainless steel vats and other machinery. In prior ages the winemakers were very
competitive and jealously guarded their grapes and secrets. Now they
recognize the value in sharing expensive facilities while still making
their own distinctive vintages. And yes we bought wine. The trunk of the car was beginning to fill up.

The rest of the afternoon was spent trying to drive around Tours and on
to Nantes. I swore never again to do a driving trip without
yellow Michelin maps, which are much more detailed than the red ones.
And we went through several rainstorms, whose huge puffy thunderheads signaled that we were near the sea. By the time we pulled into Nantes, which is a charming university town on the Loire, we were exhausted. We wished we had a hotel reservation.

After parking in the railroad parking garage we set out on foot, looking
for one of the hotels in my Frommers book. The first and largest hotel
was completely booked. We could see a huge banquet going on in the
ballroom off the lobby. We felt like grubby tourists in our jeans and tennis
shoes. Our daughter persuaded the harried desk clerk to call ahead to a nearby
hotel to see if they had a room, which they did. It was a long three
blocks to walk in the rain, but the hotel was away from the main traffic street. The Hotel Astoria was run by two charming middle-aged Frenchwomen. They thought our daughter was delightful. She admired their single gold fish on the registration counter, who happened to be named Pouchemon (one of the Pokemon characters, I understand.) They stood there giggling "Pouchemon" or whatever its name was, at each other, in perfect accord. And the ladies had an enclosed garage next door where we parked the car. Madam desk clerk opened and closed the garage doorherself. The garage was actually an extension of the hotel used for hanging towels on lines to dry when empty!

The room was another attic room with dormer windows, pink roses climbing
the wallpaper, and a lovely bathroom. Out the dormer window we could see a
gothic church and hear the choir rehearsal. I suggested we drop in but
the other two were starving. So we walked back to the main street to an Alsatian seafood restaurant. All around us diners were eating sausages and kraut, but being so close to the sea, I wanted seafood. I had a very adventuresome meal. I ordered the seafood plate, which came displayed on a three-tiered cake plate. Pink shrimp were easy to peal and eat. Gray shrimp were tiny and one wiggled so I concluded they were uncooked and I did not eat them. Joe cracked the crayfish for me. I loved the mussels, but refused to eat the snails, the little ones from my childhood. We had a local wine, and I concluded the only way to eat the meal was by "washing it down with quantities of white wine" as I had read somewhere. We all slept well and were cheerfully sent on our way the next day by the two women.


When we left Nantes we headed to Vannes, a seaport where the Loire
enters the Atlantic, and our first town in Brittany proper. Anne of
Brittany is as big a historical figure to the region as Francis I is to
the Loire. Vannes has its share of stories about her and about the
Celts who settled the region, not to mention pirates who roamed the
coast and the numerous offshore islands. We drove to to the center of town,
which has a yacht harbor and numerous seafood restaurants as well as the
tourist office. I can well imagine the hords in the summer. It was
raining and the tourist office closed for lunch so we were forced to
pick a cafe and have crepes, steak and fries, and onion soup. I had the
onion soup, of course. After lunch it was still raining so we ducked thru
a medieval arch and into a shop selling quimper, the gaily painted Breton
pottery. My husband returned from the tourist office, having found le Hotel Roof. It proved to be one of the best hotels of the trip. We had a balcony overlooking an inlet with boats and water taxis to the islands across the bay, and a magnificent sunset.

Our daughter spent the afternoon exploring the park and shore adjacent to the hotel, while my husband and I spent the afternoon chasing monoliths. When he said enroute to Vannes that he wanted to see Brittany’s equivalent of Stonehenge, I thought it would be a real wild goose chase. Not so, they were in the next town, Carnac. We drove twenty minutes up the freeway and then over a hill or two toward the ocean. The monoliths number in the hundreds, most of them larger than a person, and are built in rows aligned with some celestial markers. Impressive and deserted at this time of year. This part of the coast is also a very popular beach vacation destination in the summer, and is close to some of the legendarily snobbish French beach resorts. We just saw the monoliths and the sheep grazing among them.

Dinner at the hotel that night was the only less than perfect meal, and it was
because the menu was in Breton, a Celtic kind of French that we did
not understand. I played it safe and ordered the daily special but the others each tried something obscure and regretted it. The waiter did not speak English and our French didn't work well either. Moral: if you don't speak and read French, you will have a better meal if you have a dictionary.

The next day was our big driving day, as we had to go from the southwest
Atlantic coast to the northeast coast, to Mount St. Michel. We figured it was on the way back to Paris, sort of. Reading the map again proved to be deceptive as the roads have been renumbered to conform to the European Union, and don't match the map. Plus exits and entrances were not marked. We went round many a roundabout looking for our destination city on the signs. We enjoyed a random stop for a pastry, stumbling on a picturesque market and a gothic church. As always, the French drivers were courteous and not too fast. It was a relief from our daily commute.

The approach to Mount St. Michel is over two lane roads and through
miniscule villages, dotted with tourist accommodations. We were not
sure we were going the right way until we saw it appear on the horizon,
somewhat like catching a view of Sleeping Beauty's castle at
Disneyland. There is a causeway over the tidal flats, but a guard made us
park on the shell lot below the causeway. We put overnight things in our carry-on luggage to hike up the hill to our hotel. I had called from our previous hotel for a reservation at one of the half dozen hotels on the island. One narrow cobbled street funnels all of the visitors up to the Abbey and we found our hotel easily. We left our bags in the lobby and wandered through the ramparts and up the
hill for a couple of hours. The cobblestones were wet and slippery and
the climb was strenuous enough to cause us to stop several times. Everywhere the view was captivating and people watching was fascinating. The inevitable tourists were mostly French and young. A group of French school children, paper and pencil in hand, were obviously on a field trip. They ascended the steps in groups of five, accompanied by an adult, excitedly chattering and shrieking at the steep ascent. Disneyland.

We checked into our room after 3 pm and found ourselves climbing again,
to a hotel annex. We had no complaints, as our room was fabulous. A window seat overlooked the bay, while the breakfast alcove had a view of the spires of the abbey. Bright peach walls were covered in framed reproductions of famous signatures from the guest book. Russian grand dukes, the king of Rumania, movie stars and singers---reading them was irresistible

The big activity at Mont St. Michel is watching the tide come in. My spouse
had moved our car to the causeway once we checked in and he could show
the guard a room key. At six thirty a loud speaker came on all over the
island warning people about the incoming time, and telling them to move
their vehicles. Most people left the island at that point, and an eerie silence descended on the streets.

We lingered on the ramparts with about fifty others who were staying the
Night, to watch the oncoming tide--it is the fastest in Europe, and
moves about 12 miles an hour. The sunset reflected in the rippling expanse of water was indeed glorious.

Of course the next activity was dinner. We ordered omelets, a traditional Breton and Mont St. Michel dish, and I had raw briny oysters. We did a little shopping
but almost everything on the island shuts down by about 8 pm. The Abbey
is beautifully lighted and people were running around the ramparts until late that evening. We figured out later that we were on the island on Friday the 13th!!!

The next day we drove to Paris, a drive that my spouse had been dreading. As soon as we went inland from the coast and into the Seine Valley the weather became gray and misty. We skirted Rouen and kept to the freeway until St.
Germaine-en-Leye, where we got off and tried to find the place where
our daughter went to school as an exchange student at the age of ten. Saturday afternoon traffic was horrible, I am sure the French would agree, and we got lost trying to get back on the loop around Paris. At one point we were on surface
streets following the Seine. We knew where that would take us!

Finally we found Charles de Gaulle and turned the car in. We had seven bottles of wine in the trunk, picked up over the week in our drive! We had
considered taking the train or a bus to our hotel but we figured with
three people a taxi would be cost effective, and besides we were
stressed from the drive. Our taxi driver, however, did not know how to
find our hotel. He looked it up in a book and phoned it, then told
us that it had changed its name from Tonic Hotel Louvre to the
Victoria. In one week. I was sitting in the front seat and I looked at
the map and said "Oh, and did the street name change also?" Whereupon
he realized that we understood French, could read a map, and really did
want to go to the Tonic Hotel. Was he trying to take us to another
hotel? Yes. Was he trying to cheat us or get a kickback? Probably
no. We cheerfully congratulated him on finding the hotel, and said good riddance.

The hotel was one block off the Rue Rivoli and one block from the
Louvre. The photo on france.com had shown elegant rooms with exposed beam ceilings and original rock walls. The review on the web said it was not recommended because of the "carelessness of the staff". Hmmm. Unable to find anything else because of the international auto show, and hoping the review was old, I had booked the hotel.

The room was exactly as shown on the web, but I soon found out about the careless staff. The young lady at the desk booked us into the Bateaux Mouches,the boat trip down the Seine, called us a taxi to take us there, and collected a cash deposit. She had actually booked us into a different boat trip, which we never did find. After some haggling we did get on the boat and had a romantic trip by moonlight through the historic district of Paris, with a gourmet dinner and champagne. This was my "must do" that I had postponed from 1972 and I have to say it lived up to all my expectations. On the hour the Eiffel Tower “sparkles” as it did for the Millenium New Years, and we went topside on the boat to enjoy the spectacle. A grand evening. (We were later refunded our deposit on the other trip, but the hotel still insisted that they were “right.” Strange.)

The next morning we left my husband to sleep in, and walked over to the
Louvre, arriving just as it opened. We went to see the Venus de Milo,
the Winged Victory, and the gift shop. I had never seen the glass pyramid, and enjoyed it as much as the art. Then we left, before the influx of Sunday visitors. A great visit! Then we shopped in the touristy stores around the Louvre for the perfect Eiffel Towers and other souvenirs. Arriving back at the hotel, we picked up my spouse and set out for the Marais, one of the few areas of Paris open on Sunday.

Along the way we saw Centre Pompedieu, some intriguing antiques stalls along
Rue St. Paul, and had Sunday lunch in a brasserie. I had the best onion
soup of the trip and later remembered that we were near Les Halles, the
former market, which was famous for its soup. I bought a cut velvet scarf, and our daughter bought a velvet jacket. We saw many of the same clothes that we saw thirty years ago, finally realizing that they were used, retro fashion items.

We also saw the school where our college student son went as an exchange student when he was ten. It is one block in from the Seine, near Pont Ave Marie, on Rue Ave Maria. Very beautiful and a historic address. We were impressed, the more so since our son had taken it all in stride.

Back to the hotel to send our daughter on her way, to return to work in San Diego. She took most of the wine with her as gifts, planning to pay duty if necessary. After all, the ten per cent duty on a $4 bottle of wine was nominal. We put her in a taxi on the Rue Rivoli with many francs and asked the driver to take care of her.

Childless once more, we set off in the mist and rain to see the Eiffel Tower. Thirty years ago we tried to walk to it and failed, as it looms over much of Paris and can seem closer than it really is. This time we took a taxi and enjoyed seeing the cleaned and restored historic buildings as we went. We decided to ascend to the third level of the Tower rather than go to the top, since the mist was so strong that the view would not have been good. We stood in line for about twenty minutes even to go that far, but I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. Oh yes, we had an excellent coffee and pastry on the third level. I found that late afternoon coffee revived me enough to continue sightseeing through the evening.

For our last evening in Paris we went to a restaurant across from the
Gare du Nord that had been recommended to us by a Cisco person and former Paris resident, for its oysters (Belones #1’s). The energy of people traveling was evident in the hustle and bustle of this very nice, and reasonable, restaurant. We were caught up in the romance of the golden age of train travel, and the elegance of a bygone era of dining. We encountered our first American tourists, who eased us back into our real life by informing us that the Giants lost the playoffs and Notre Dame beat Stanford. We were ready to go home.

The next morning we woke up to a huge rainstorm. Entwined under our souvenir umbrella, we returned to a couple of shops that we had hope to visit, but nothing was open before we had to leave for the airport. So we spent a weekend in Paris with basically all the stores closed! My spouse thought it was funny.

We had a delightful trip, with enough photos and memories to last through another Northern California rainy season. We look forward to another nine or ten days to putter, dawdle and meander. A plane ticket and a car, and a different region to explore. We are so hurried and so harried in our daily lives that being without a set schedule made the trip more adventuresome. Our attitude of “Enjoy the moment” is one we should adopt at home.

Among My Memorable Trips--the Mediterranean

Color, so different and striking. Burnt Sienna and ocher walls in Rome. Mediterranean blue everywhere we looked from the balcony of our ship. Blinding white villas of the Amalfi coast. White marble hands pulsing with life in Michaelangelo’s David. Reds and greens and golds in the market in Barcelona. This was a trip that was all highlights.

We chose the Mediterranean cruise for its dates, which fit all three schedules, rather than for its itinerary. My sister and I wanted to do something special with our mother in her 80th year as we had done with her in her 70th year. And so we ended up on a cruise ship that started and ended with Rome.

We rendezvoused in Atlanta, me from the West Coast, and Mom and Margaret from Dallas. Margaret had upgraded me to Business Class with them for a birthday present, so flying was relatively pleasant and comfortable. When we landed in Rome about 9 am we had each had several hours of sleep.

We took a taxi to our hotel, the Condoti 29, near the Spanish steps. The hotel proved to be on the third floor above a shoe shop, and we were grateful to the young man of all work who carried our 8 (yes, count em) bags up in a tiny elevator. We knew the hotel was a boutique hotel, that is, a former apartment that now had six rooms, a desk in a hallway for reception, and a breakfast room with three tiny tables. Our luggage filled the room, but the staff person seemed used to it, and offered us tea or water while we registered. We then left our baggage to walk to the Vatican, which we were assured was very close.

Our first lesson in Rome walking was that it is perfectly ok to walk in the middle of the narrow street, as long as one is sensitive to mopeds and motorbikes that appear out of nowhere, whose put puts patiently nudge the walker to the side, then zip around and disappear. Everyone rides, men in business suits, lovely young women in platforms and miniskirts.

We emerged from a warrant of streets to a bridge and a view of what surely are historic buildings. Consulting our green Michelin guide, we identified the Castel d’Angelo, the fortress of the popes, adjacent to the Vatican. St. Peter’s square was teeming with people. In our search for the Sistine Chapel we ended up in St. Peter’s itself, a huge and awesome building. We saw Michaelangelo’s Pieta, surrounded by tour groups, and entered a small side chapel devoted to prayer. To reach the Sistine Chapel we had to leave St. Peter’s square and walk another kilometer. The entrance is modern and we promptly bought audio guides for the Vatican Museum and the Chapel, wandered through rooms of prices tapestries and maps and papal souvenirs of centuries gone by.

The chapel surprised me in its dimness—no artificial light—and in the clarity of the pictures, which I had last seen, uncleaned, thirty years previous. We were awed. We should have been awed by the ease with which we entered the museum—on another day we saw a line stretching around most of that kilometer walk we had taken. We were fortunate in choosing to go during the Roman lunch hour.

Leaving the chapel we headed for the first restaurant, where we ate pizza and the first of many salads of tomato and mozzarella with basil. A taxi returned us to the hotel, where we rested before going to dinner at Otello, recommended by our guide Daniella. Our reservation was for 7:30, when it opened, and we thought we were frightfully early. Not so. It was full by 7:45. Great pasta and we all ate for $30.

The next morning our guide, obtained through the internet (Daniela Ford, daniford@ftbcc.it), was prompt in arriving at the hotel. We had expected to walk but also take taxis between areas but this proved to be impractical and almost unnecessary. Daniele is an art historian who tailors her tours to the interests of her clients. She shared her Rome with us, beginning with the Spanish Steps, the Trevi fountain, and moving through the historic Piazzas of the city. We learned to distinguish corbels, to appreciate the timeless piety of the Pantheon, to look for acanthus leaves as a decorative motif, and above all, to appreciate the colors of the buildings and the purity of the fountains. We saw the imprint of the historic papal families, their symbols, their names imprinted on the city’s face. We saw the layers of history under excavation, and the beauteous excesses of the city’s Baroque churches. We learned to drink the cold clear and timeless water of Rome’s fountains.

We lunched with Daniele in the old quarter, the ghetto, at La Carbonara, in the Piazza Campo de’ Fiori (the flower market) on Roman vegetables and a fried artichoke, upstairs in the restaurant where she was courted by her American foreign service husband-to-be.

Another highlight was visiting the Jesuit churches in search of the burial place of St. Francis Xavier, since Margaret and I had had gone to a school of that name. We found the grave of St. Ignatius Loyola, his friend and great rival, and a shrine to St. Francis.
Gellato revived us at Giolitti, #40 Via Uffici del Vicario, also www.giolitti.it. We told Daniele goodby, chuckling over how well our internet transaction had turned out. Our day with Daniele set the framework for our trip, in that she educated our eyes and taught us to look at the bones of each city that we visited. That day was definitely a highlight, and I would recommend her wholeheartedly.

Dinner that night was at Alfredo’s, the original restaurant of Fettuccini Alfredo. It looked original, since the autographed photos on the walls dated from 50 years ago and the strolling musicians appeared to be the originals too. We tried to order something else and the venerable waiter said “Look, everyone comes here for the fettuccini”. Good but heavy.

We had a morning before leaving for the ship and decided we had to see the Colosseum. We stood in line for twenty minutes in the heat and decided there was not much to see when we got in. But I do intend to take another look at the movie “Gladiator”.

Our transportation to the ship, arranged on the internet by Margaret, was a young man named Max (maxle@tin.it) who spoke excellent English. We engaged him for the return trip from the ship and he was prompt and professional. He also runs a guide service. His colleague from www.romelinousineservice.com did not speak English, but he just took us to the airport on our last day.

We were quite happy that we had engaged a car to go to the ship, as those who took the train, while saving a lot of money, also had to walk with their luggage from the train station to the ship.

The ship was lovely, all glass and glittering brass. Our stateroom was a surprise to Mom==Margaret had upgraded us from two rooms low in the ship to a larger room with balcony on an upper floor. We loved being together in one room and the balcony was large enough for three chairs and a table, ideal for watching arrivals and departures from port. We even had excess storage space for our belongings in the cabin. Thank you, Margaret!!

Dinner was again a surprise and fun--a table next to the Captains Table, which was unoccupied all but one evening-- with a British couple from South Devon, and a single man from St. Louis. We all tried hard the entire week to be entertaining and it worked.

The first port of call was Naples, and we had booked a tour down the Amalfi Coast, after considerable discussion of whether to Pompeii or not to Pompeii. The drive was very dramatic, with the road falling away to tiny beaches and symmetrical rows of beach umbrellas. The vegetation was similar to California, bouganvilla and Palm trees, grapes and olives. Each home had its own kitchen garden. Veseuvius has contributed richly to the soil and everything flourished. We stopped a couple of times, once in Sorrento at a shop selling inlaid wood, and another time at a lovely cliffside restaurant for lunch, before reaching Amalfi. It was easy to see that this part of the coast had been settled for thousands of years, and the influence of the Moors and others is evident in the architecture. This was the playground of Italy in the 1960’s, during “La Dolce Vita” and was world famous. Parts of the coast are still difficult to reach except by boat. We especially liked the shopping in Amalfi, picking up lemon olive oil, “Lachrima de Christo” (Tears of Christ) wine, linen shirts, and straw hats. The day was wonderful but 9 hours on a warm bus was too much. We resolved to rent taxis at our next ports of call, and cancelled the shore excursions.

The entrance to the Malta Harbor at Valetta was fortified centuries ago and our arrival through those forts was quite dramatic. We were among the first off the ship and over to the taxi stand to negotiate for a driver for a day. Our driver was a young Maltese who told us after some time that he used to be a race car driver and has over a hundred trophies. But now he has a son….and he was certainly careful with us. We told him that we were celebrating Mom’s eightieth year on this trip, and he immediately changed from a taciturn driver to a very nice young man, anxious for us to have a good time.

He took us to St. Paul’s Bay, where we lunched on fresh fish (and moi on fresh octopus, marinated with peppers and tomatoes) in view of the rock on which St. Paul was wrecked. Margaret was fascinated. I think she hears more about the Bible than I do. After lunch he took us to the grotto under a church where St. Paul stayed for three months. I was impressed by the Bernini statue of St. Paul and the photographs of several recent popes visiting the grotto. It must be real. A highlight of the day was the old medieval city of Mdina, set high on an outcropping in the middle of the island. Brightly painted doors and unusual brass door knockers punctuate the stone buildings.

Then we spend a day at sea, my favorite part of any cruise. I hated to go indoors at all that day, but did spend some time listening to the cruise director talk about future ports, and taking part in a wine tasting. Margaret had a massage. We all sat in the sun on deck.

Barcelona is a large port with refineries and much industrial shipping. Upon arrival we were immediately aware that we were in a large city when we saw the fleet of taxis pulled up. One driver approached us but his English was very basic and we were not sure we wanted to spend the day with us. We soon found that the other drivers were not interested in competing with him, so when he approached us a second time, we gave in gracefully. He turned out to be very kind and caring. (It always helped to have Mom along. No one wanted to offend or cheat the Mother.)

First he took us to the city arboretum and zoo and told us to walk around a small lake, which we did, coming upon a magnificent Gaudi fountain. Then he drove us to the unfinished church,La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi’s masterpiece. It soared in multiple towers crowned by colorful tiles, resembling to me, a sand castle. Our driver then toured us past the undulating balconies of a Gaudi apartment building, and several other highly decorative buildings. He then took us, naturally, to his favorite leather and jewelry shop, where, naturally, we shopped. At our request we were dropped at the head of the lovely tree-lined street called Las Ramblas, intending to walk the mile or so to the Monument to Christopher Columbus, where we would catch a shuttle back to the ship.

Las Ramblas is a street with a very large meridian. At its head is the bird market where songbirds of all kinds are sold. Then comes the flower market, and news vendors. Sidewalk cafes run the length of the street, their waiters darting through traffic to the kitchens and the restaurants proper. Students were everywhere, although the university was not close. Street entertainers and mummers entranced us, but not so much that we forgot to watch out for thieves. Our driver had warned us about pickpockets and gypsies. We found the old historic St. Joseph’s market, rich with fresh fish, candies, spices, vegetables, and olives and eggs. It was beautifully arranged and kept, perhaps a symbol of this artistic and tidy people. We bought wine, Spanish rioja wine, to take back to the ship. My backpack was heavy. Lunch under the trees at one of those cafes was a pleasant interlude. We returned to the ship by a taxi shared with several of the ship’s crew, dropped our packages, and returned to the pier to spend the last of our Spanish pesetas. We were glad that our next port would not call for an early excursion.


Chapter Two

Villefranche, located 3 miles from Nice, was the kind of harbor that called for yachts, not hulking cruise ships. We were the second ship in the small harbor and some maneuvering occurred before we anchored. It was once a fishing harbor, and we saw one rustic street on the waterfront, several white sand beaches, and those famous Riviera villas climbing the hillside. A few miles inland we could see rocky imposing mountains. I had heard about the medieval city of Eze, which was perched on top of one of those mountains, and I persuaded Mom and Margaret to make a stop there. I mentioned perfume, shopping, provencal fabrics. First, of course, we sent Mom to the purser’s desk to stand in line for tender tickets, as the ship sent people off the ship in small boats. We were on the first boat off the ship, and quickly hired a driver to take us to Monte Carlo, with a stop in Eze.

Eze was a delight, a complete city topped by a church, not modern except in the shops and galleries that were everywhere. Mom didn’t feel like climbing in the heat and stayed at the bottom. Margaret and I bought tablecloths, all kinds of linens in patterns one doesn’t see at home. I also bought herbs de provence and lavender from a spice merchant. We could have stayed several more hours in Eze but Monte Carlo called.

Our driver took us to the center of Monte Carlo, a beautiful, perfect city. We had paid dutiful attention to the dress code and felt we looked presentable in our nicer pant suits and closed-toe shoes. That and a few francs bought us admission to a lovely room overlooking the sea==full of slot machines. I won, Mom and Margaret lost. We passed by some very intent and depressed looking people doing other kinds of gambling. We saw gilded baroque dining rooms, empty, and explored an elaborate ladies’ room. We didn’t see James Bond.

For our next adventure, we crossed the street and entered the historic Hotel de Paris, where we inquired about lunch in the rooftop restaurant founded by Aristotle Onasis (“He owned all Monte Carlo, you know.”) Yes, they could seat us if we went straight up.

The room was lovely, semicircular, with stone balconies overlooking the casino, the yacht harbor, and the palace, not to mention the Med just beyond. Only one other couple was lunching. We ordered divine food and a grand marnier soufflé for dessert, but it was really the Matre D’ who entertained us. He took our photo, told us yes, Princess Grace dined there, and he opened the roof window to the sky so we could see how it would look at night under the stars. For the grand finale he unlocked a suite of rooms that Winston Churchill used to write and paint in, after his retirement.

Replete, we staggered to a bus stop (recommended by our friendly Matre D’) and took a bus to Nice. We really didn’t see much of the city as we were intent on shopping for more of those lovely provencal fabrics. I bought place mats and kitchen goods. By this time it was 5 pm. In great fatigue we hired a taxi to take us to one more shop and then to the ship. When he couldn’t find the shop from our map, he decided, perhaps, that we were more trouble than we were worth, and fired us as customers. I used my only French derogatory word “Idiot!”

His loss was our gain, as we got out of the taxi right by the medieval part of the city, and happily wandered through various streets for another hour or so. When we found another taxi rank, the drivers were in the local bar, having a snack and playing chess, on their dinner break. I was forced to use my pidgen French to inquire politely if I should call a taxi company. It worked, a driver appeared, and we had a lovely ride back to Villefranche, arriving just in time for another glorious dinner on the ship. Our departure that evening was spectacular, as we followed the Riviera coast for some time, and the lights were beautiful. Margaret alleges that they shot off fireworks in the harbor also. I must have been gambling, or perhaps that was the night Mom and I went to see the show featuring Carol King’s music.

Mother had mentioned after our marathon day on the Riviera that she might stay on the ship for our last day. What, we exclaimed, miss Florence!!! We vowed to take things easier, and we were not the first people off the ship in Livorno. There were at least 20 people ahead of us.

Livorno is also an industrial port, but again there was a line of minivans waiting to take people to Florence, and they had even elected a spokesperson and had a sign with a fixed price. It was still cheaper than the shore excursion from the ship. Florence was two hours away and we were quite pleased to be assigned to a Mercedes minivan #41, driven by Mario (ask for him). Mario has children in their twenties and a house on a local beach in Livorno. He liked our story about Mom’s eightieth. “Mama Mia” he exclaimed. He took us on the scenic route, that is, the medium highway rather than the toll road, to Pisa. We admired the tower, bought some iced tea, and departed for Florence. Mario drove us to the Piazza del Duomo and arranged to meet us three hours later. When we later saw where the tour buses parked, we were doubly grateful, as we would have had to walk about a mile to the Piazza.

We had read that Florence is overrun and overwhelmed by tourists, and that the lines to see things are horrendous. We had a great time, probably because we didn’t try to see everything in one day. We stayed in a five minute line to get into the Duomo, but the line moved all of the time. The piazza filled up with tourists, but it wasn’t the crowded pushy scene we had expected. Our real coup, however, was Margaret’s internet reservations at the Academia to see Michaelangelo’s David. She presented her printed receipt and the guard waved us past the line, to the ticket counter, where she gave her name and we received our tickets.

David is awesome, hands pulsing with life, marble of a whiteness and texture that has to be seen. We had seen the Pieta in Rome but had stayed at the back of a crowd. Here we circled the statue, marveling at his pensive expression, and at the vision of the artist. The famous paintings we also saw in the Accademia are unmemorable by comparison.

Our other sublime experience in Florence was buying leather coats, all three of us, something we had not planned to do at all. We were making our way to the Ponte Vecchio down side streets and detoured into various shoe and leather shops. The coats were beautiful, the very amiable shopkeeper the son of the factory owner, and you know the rest. I will remember my wonderful trip next fall when I put on the soft luxurious and inexpensive (well, sort of) jacket.

We photographed the Ponte Vecchio, shopped a bit, and visited the old market on the way back to the Piazza and Mario. He delivered us to the ship in time to pack our suitcases and prepare to leave for Rome. Mom and I packed and then vacated the cabin so that Margaret could also pack. She had more stuff.

Our departure the next morning was a reversal of the previous week. Max picked us up and took us to the Hotel Condoti, where we were greeted with genuine smiles of welcome. Our room this time had a tiny balcony fronting on a side street and a café. We shopped for shoes on the Via del Corso, the one the Romans raced horses down. We noted that the bowling shoe look is very big. No thanks. We strolled the Via del Babuino, the art gallery section, and read some more from the guidebook about the Piazza del Poupulo. We made a hot and sweaty pilgrimage our favorite place for gelato, and then napped in cool darkness in our room. We had done Rome.

We had dinner reservations at Restaurant 34 (it took its name from the street address) for the first sitting. We soon learned why they have sittings: they shoehorn everyone in, and no one can leave until the tables clear. The food, however, was worth it. I had tubes of calamari stuffed with bread crumbs and garlic, then grilled. Margaret had the seafood platter, piled with everything from lobster to mussels.

After dinner we revisited the Spanish Steps, just around the corner from the restaurant. During our week’s absence scaffolding had been erected around the Bernini fountain, perhaps to refurbish it. We stopped for a glass of wine, reluctant to leave, and contemplated the Steps. We had never climbed them. We had not done lots of things on the trip, choosing instead to enjoy the time and each other. It has taken me many years to stop collecting museums and monuments. On this trip we collected gentle laughter and wonderful memories. Somewhere still, in the back of my mind, I continue to think, who would have ever thought the three of us would make it to Rome!

Chile trip report March 2007

The Chile that I met this last March seemed like the soft crumbling edge of a homemade cookie —light, deliciously sugary, but fragile and likely to dissolve if pressed too hard. We landed on March 6 after an overnight flight through Dallas, claimed our luggage, and were met by a car sent by the Hotel Orly. We stayed at this hotel in the Providencia district because of the raves on internet travel pages, and it was a good choice. The hotel is actually a 19th century French-inspired mansion, complete with mansard roof. We were on the third floor, under that roof. The small courtyard on the ground floor was glassed in as a lovely breakfast room. The front of the hotel housed a simple but popular café. We were in the middle of a bustling restaurant and banking district, although many of the streets were tree-lined and the ubiquitous Chilean dogs were sprawled on every corner. We grew to love the dogs, who were uniformly medium in size and healthy, so were perhaps claimed by the workers in the buildings.

On that first day we walked to the tourism office, found an ATM, bought bottled water, and went to dinner at a restaurant recommended by Joe’s Argentinean colleague, “De Cangrejo a Conejo” at Av Italia 805. At 8 pm we were the first diners, and I enjoyed my first pastel de crab---delicious!

On Day 2 we returned to the airport to pick up a rental car and attempted to drive to the canyon del Maipo. Driving in Santiago was confusing, as not all exits from the freeway are marked, and one competes for the road with horses and carts, bicycles, and erratic drivers. At one point we were driving on dirt roads through open markets teeming with people, the Andes just over there, but we were unable to strike a passage through. So by the time we were on the correct road we were road-weary and the striking vistas failed to impress. In looking back at the photos, we were in spectacular country, and we did get about forty miles into the foothills. This is a sanctuary for the residents of Santiago in the summer, a cool escape from the smog of the valley. On this early autumn day the road was nearly deserted. We stopped for lunch at fancifully crafted restaurant, part alpine chalet, part Big Sur lodge. And then we turned around.

On the way back to the city, I was intent on not getting lost again. I noticed that we would pass by the historic Cousino Macul winery, built by a prominent Chilean family in 1856. Past a round-about, behind a large and growing shopping center, we found the walled enclosure of a large estate, and behind a guardhouse we found fields of grapes and a venerable compound. We joined the end of a tour, in time to see their small museum, and to taste several of their wines. We liked Gris, a wine neither red nor white. The vault where they stored the oak barrels was huge and old and has withstood several earthquakes, although the guide said that barrels broke and the cellar was feet deep in wine. It reminded me of some of the Santa Clara Valley wineries that are now surrounded by housing.

Our return to the city was as eventful as our departure had been. We were driving along the river when 5 o’clock arrived and the traffic reversed, with all lanes going out of the city….We were stuck with our left turn signal frantically clicking, trying to turn across three lanes of oncoming traffic, with cars coming at us in our lane. It must happen very day, however, as we remained an island with cars breaking around us, until the lights changed and we could make a dash across the intersection ahead of traffic crossing the river. Dinner that night was at Isla Negra, a stylish seafood restaurant a short cab ride from our hotel.

On Wednesday we made the long drive north on the fabled Pan American Highway to La Serena. In most places it was four lanes, uncrowded, up steep inclines of the Andean foothills, on the edges of the high desert. Towns were few and not close to the road, so we saw very few people. Rest stops were modern and attractive. One of them had a sign that said “Banos” and sure enough I could hear a truck driver singing in the shower! Horses and goats grazed by the side of the road, with not a fence between us. Occasionally we passed a colorful fruit stand. Often we were in sight of the ocean, spectacular vistas drawing the eye for miles up the coast. I truly felt that we were on the edge of the continent. We stopped for lunch at the half way mark, at a truck stop/restaurant in Los Vilos that was obviously a local favorite. We were waited on by an elderly gentleman who recommended los locos, the local abalone. I thought I was in for a treat. This turned out to be the only meal I disliked in Chile. I was served four golf ball sized tough and rubbery and ultimately tasteless shellfish. I choked down what I could, so as not to disappoint our host. I could not help comparing this meal with the octopus salads I loved in Greece. A little olive oil, some herbs, and tomatoes would have helped immensely.

La Serena and its neighboring port Coquimbo are a regional destination for Chileans. The city was founded on a promontory near the mouth of the Elqui River in the 1540’s by a subordinate of patriot Pedro de Valdivia. We stopped in the town square at the tourist agency, which gave us the names of two beach hotels. The beach is a mile or so across the fields, and oh what a beach! There are actually twelve of them stretching for miles, a histortic lighthouse on the Elqui River end, and the port on the other. We chose the hotel that was oceanfront, and obtained a corner room on the second floor with views of the fields behind us, a spacious balcony, and a corner window that framed the vista down the long curving beaches. For $64 a night. We stayed for three nights, each with a glorious sunset on a deserted beach followed by a simple dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant. During the first day we explored the town, buying goat cheese and sausage and a small cooler and of course some Chilean wine.



We signed up for two guided tours that we could not have accomplished on our own. The first was that night, a trip up the Elqui Valley to the Malmucca Observatory on a very dark night round and round up a one lane road in the foothills outside of Vicuna. Our young guide had worked in tourism until recently, when he took a better-paying job in one of the world’s largest copper mines. He spent ten days at the mine, living in a bunk house, followed by four days at home, and during that offtime led tours such as ours. The tour was conducted in English and Spanish, and this was the only time that week that we heard other Americans—we can’t say that we saw them, as it was pitch dark on the hilltop. The astronomers allowed each of us to look at specific stars through the 12 inch telescope inside the dome. I saw Saturn, its rings, and a moon, the nebulus in Orion’s sword, and the Southern Cross. Afterwards we had about an hour to look at the stars outside. We brought Joe’s homemade telescope all the way from California for this opportunity. I could remember the sky being almost this bright as a child, from my own front yard in Texas. Arriving home from our star trek at 1 am, we were up again at 7 for my chosen tour—a boat trip to see the Humboldt penguins. Little did I know that my chosen trip was by far the more adventuresome.

Again on this trip we had a bilingual guide, a man who lived in Canada for thirteen years and was partially retired. We drove for an hour and a half north, first on the Pan American Highway, reduced to two lanes as soon as we left La Serena. Then we turned west on a gravel road that he assured us had been much improved. We saw the tailings of a huge abandoned copper mine, and the river it had ruined. We also saw a coastal llama, a young one in search of his herd. We passed through an olive growing village that dated from the 1500’s, alas no olives today. Then we arrived at the fishing village Punta de Choros and the jumping off point for the National Preserve of the Humboldt Penguins. We had envisioned going out in fishing boats that looked like the tugboat size shrimpers of the Texas Gulf Coast. Wrong. We went out in battered red, green, and yellow rowboats that had been belatedly fitted with outboards. Twelve of us in a boat supposedly intended to hold seven. Joe was muttering about lack of freeboard. I think he meant that we were low in the water. The wind had come up and so had the swells. I was frightened because I knew how dangerous this was. We motored for half an hour until we reached the cluster of small islands. The first one resembled volcanic tubes, with basalt caves and upthrusts clinging precariously to the edge of the continent. In the lee of the island the wind and the waves diminished, thankfully, and we were able to enjoy photographing the thousands of sea birds and seals and sea lions. We also saw a sea otter. The penguins danced for joy when they saw us.

After marveling at pelicans, several colonies of penguins, and a sea lion that performed tricks for us, we motored to a second island where we were allowed to land on a beautiful sandy crescent to explore the coves and hills. No more than fifty people are allowed on this island—Las Damas—at a time, so we felt very fortunate to be there in the off season. Our guide told us that during the summer maybe 500 people take this trip to see the penguins. Until the last several years, the gravel road took five hours to traverse, so this area is relatively undeveloped. Joe saw a penguin swimming by our boat, just a foot away, so he predicts that development will come to this beautiful remote area, driven by people who want to swim with them.

Thoughts of driving further into the foothills and the Elqui Valley were abandoned in favor of spending some time in La Serena. We explored the market, which had a number of alpaca and llama handicrafts, reflecting our closeness to the Bolivian and Peruvian borders. We were the only visitors at the archaeological museum, which contained one of the giant statues from Easter Island, six hours away by air and yet a part of this edge of the world that is Chile. The museum also contained artifacts and mummies from indigenous people of the area.

By the time we left northern Chile it was Saturday, and we needed to find a hotel close to the airport, as we needed to pick up a minivan on Sunday morning and drive to Valparaiso to connect with the Cranes and Guthiers. My Moon guide which had proved so detailed and helpful (trust me, where we went is not in Frommers) did not help. We decided to drive through another wine region, this one north of Santiago, in hopes of finding a quaint B&B. So we took a little detour along Route 60 to San Felipe. We saw grapes but the couple of wineries that we saw were not open. San Felipe was a bustling colonial town in the foothills with a fairly large military presence. Since Route 60 is one of the major portals to Argentina, such a defensive footprint made sense. But it was not romantic or charming and we didn’t see any hotels. Joe was almost ready to sprint back to Santiago and the lovely Hotel Orly, but I resisted a return to Santiago traffic. The only hotel mentioned in my guide was at some hot springs, the Termes de Colina, so we sped down the highway in their direction. Again we exited on to a gravel road that wound its way up the Andean foothills to the dead end of a canyon---and the resort. The springs fed a large public swimming pool, and there was a 20 room hotel and dining room, with the baths in a separate building behind the hotel. We checked in and congratulated ourselves on finding an interesting space with the potential for dark skies. We spent half an hour in our own white tiled bathing room, complete with a spigot directly connected to the hot spring. It felt very European, like Baden Baden in the 1930s, in this very European of South American countries. Joe swam in the pool, which was a bit too cool for me. All around us multigenerational families were packing up to return to Santiago after a day at the spa. We ate dinner in an almost deserted dining room overlooking the pool and down the canyon, Joe eating steak, and I indulging in reinata, a Chilean swordfish.

On Sunday morning we awoke very early but found that we could not check out until staff arrived to unlock the front doors. On our way to the freeway we saw a wild burro in the middle of the road and a truck totall full of fresh carrots. At the airport we picked up our red Chevy AstroVan, affectionately known as Le Bus, and sped on our way to Vina del Mar and our hotel, the Cap Ducal.

We chose this particular hotel because it is shaped like a ship grounded on the beach. All of the rooms have spectacular views out to sea—ours in particular was in the front part of the “ship” and had a balcony and 180 degree views of the ocean. This was easily the most spectacular hotel I have stayed in, ever. Our friends Dan and Patt were having coffee in the restaurant just off the lobby and spotted us as soon as we came in the door. The had been on a cruise with our other Rice/Navy friends, Steve and Candy. The cruise began in Buenos Aires and took them around Cape Horn to Valparaiso. They were staying in the Sheraton a hundred yards down the beach from us, so we quickly rendezvoused and set off back to Valparaiso for some sightseeing.

Valparaiso is a city that time forgot. Its boom time was during the California Gold Rush of the 1850’s, when ships rounded Cape Horn en route to the gold fields, and stopped in Valparaiso to reprovision. Once the Panama Canal opened, a short cut between the Atlantic and Pacific, almost all traffic around the Cape took that route. So the city remains in large part unchanged, its architecture mostly European, its neighborhoods around the ports still full of bars and rooming houses. We were fascinated by the pastels of the buildings, and by the funiculars that take one up and down Valparaiso’s hills. Here too the dogs are everywhere, curious and friendly and confident in their approaches to strangers. One of them followed me on to the funicular as I chatted sweet nothings to it, and then stuck his nose in my face. I took his picture, and would have taken him too. I have to hope that these dogs have somewhere to hang their heads at night.

Our destination at the top of the hill was the Chilean Navy Museum, formerly the home of their greatest war hero, Lord Cochran. Lord Cochran was an English naval officer known for his daring and wild exploits, who fled Europe over some of these same exploits, landing in Chile. He was a hero in Chile’s war against Peru, going up against formidable iron clad steamers. The museum is rich in Chile’s history—it was like visiting Mount Vernon—and we could have spent all day in it. Of course the men were all former naval officers, so they pored over the models and the actual torpedoes scattered over the grounds.

Our second stop was at Isla Negra, the seaside home of the Nobel Laureate poet and politician Pablo Neruda. The house is a fanciful tribute to his many interests and collections, including a number of ships figureheads. I tried to read my friends from Neruda’s works while we sipped pisco sours in the café, but they said they would have preferred to hear his own voice in his own Spanish. Oh well. All in good fun.

That evening we had the first of three wonderful meals at the Cap Ducal. And lots of good wine.

Monday was our day to tour the Casablanca Wineries. Some of them were closed, so we realized we needed to check before we went. With the help of the lovely desk clerk we made reservations for a tour of the Casas del Bosque winery, a family owned and run boutique winery. It is on the west side of the Valley, and we were fortunate to have an excellent tour from a knowledgeable young woman. We were at the very beginning of the harvest, and she encouraged us to taste the grapes on the vine. The grapes were tiny but concentrated. Like the essence of grape. We tasted several of their premium wines. Their Pinot Noir has been ranked “best of” Chile with 87 points, and in 2004 their Sauvignon Blanc was ranked best in Chile.

In the village near the winery, Santa Maria, I think, we trooped into a super Mercado to buy goat cheese, sausage and a flat bread similar to ciabatta. Oh yes, and lots of wine. Just before getting back on the highway we stopped at a fruit stand where Dan and Steve negotiated for blueberries. We drove to the east end of the valley, to Verramonte Winery, stopping en route at a picnic area where we drank lovely wine and devoured the food.

Verramonte was obviously a corporate product. The young lady who poured our tasting was from the US, taking a sabbatical before law school. She knew little about the wine. We found a bin of Simi (California) wine and inquired about it. Verramonte had been a joint venture with some US winemakers. It was founded in 1990 and the vineyard is the largest contiguous planting in Chile. But the founder pioneered the Casablanca wine region and the Valley has greatly benefited from the industry.

Again, a lovely dinner overlooking the ocean with strains of Frank Sinatra in the background. The Chilean reinata is my very favorite fish. It compares, supposedly, to a pippin, which is another fish I have not heard of. We quickly learned that fish have different names, or the same named fish has a different character, in Chile.

I must mention our fascination with lapis lazuli, the blue stone found only in Chile and China. I bought a lapis penguin from a street vendor in Valparaiso on Sunday for $20. On Tuesday we went to the Central Mercado to look for lapis jewelry. Joe bought a replacement for his wedding ring, which was worn out. We all bought souvenirs. The lapis story will continue.

We were proceeding toward our lunch destination, a town up the coast, when a car cut directly in front of El Bus. Joe was driving El Bus, as he was the insured renter at that point. I think the driver thought we were turning right, when in fact we were staying in that lane. Or he passed us and cut back in too close. In any event, he ripped the front bumper off, smashed the left headlight, and ended up with only a dented door himself. But it was off to Alamo to report the incident. They sent us to the police to report the accident. El Bus could be driven and the police gave us a form in case we were stopped en route to Santiago. Lunch was long delayed, and the jokes about Joe’s possible incarceration were many.

After our police encounter we dropped the Guthiers off in Vina, as they had to depart for the airport in just a couple of hours. We suspected they were spooked by the possibilities of further delays, causing them to miss their flight home. We then drove north about forty-five minutes to Horcon, a combination fishing village and artist’s colony for a delightful lunch. The streets were narrow and cobbled, and the artists had gone elsewhere for the winter, but the scenery was spectacular.

On Wednesday we said goodbye to the Cap Ducal and Vina del Mar and returned El Bus, a sadly damaged El Bus, to the Santiago Airport. Patt identified a sporty semisuv with leather seats that we gracefully accepted in exchange, and Dan became the driver of record. This time we sped south on the Pan American, again the center or lifeline of the country. We saw one whole village whose vendors of brooms were lined up beside the road. In another village stalls held wooden furniture. The Andes marched south right along beside us, on our left. Occasionally we saw a fruit stand and meant to stop. Finally we exited at Rancagua, in search of lunch. We didn’t find a restaurant partly because traffic was difficult. We did see several wagons being pulled by horses, still used in this center for agricultural distribution. Our conclusion was that indeed most commerce is alongside the PanAmerican, and sure enough, when we returned to the highway we spotted a café that promised lunch for $2500 pesos, or about $5. As soon as we saw steak on the menu, we tossed the idea of the cheap lunch. For about $7 we each had more steak than we could eat.

We turned off the main highway at San Fernando and drove west along the Ruta del Vino de Colchagua to the small town of Santa Cruz. Along the way we stopped at a fruit stand and bought some undernourished red grapes, presumably from the vines just over the fence. Those grapes were the sweetest most grapey grapes we ever had. For whatever reason they escaped the wine vat.

We were booked into a modern hotel on the town square, the Hotel Santa Cruz. This seems to be the place that everyone stays in, especially groups touring this very popular wine region. It is a rambling colonial style umber building with tile roofs, balconies, a huge dining room to accommodate groups, and a courtyard of outbuildings. Two doors down on the square is a municipal building that dates from the 1700’s, so something equally historic must have been demolished or incorporated into the hotel. Arms merchant Carlos Cardoen built the adjacent Museo de Colchagua to house his collections of pre-Columbian artifacts, arts, and historical materials. We could have spent the entire day in the museum, and in fact the Cranes returned for a two hour audio tour.

The town of Santa Cruz, centered around the square, caters to tourists but also seems to be a regional center for shopping. We enjoyed visiting a shop where they were making leather goods and cowboy hats for working folk. Silver jewelry and lapis were popular, as well as copper. We met tourists from Japan, there to taste the wine. Busloads pulled up and disgorged English tourists.

We decided to tour one of the vineyards and we sent by the hotel to Montes,in the Apalta valley. The wine has a seraphim on its label, and the original sculpture graces an ultra modern lobby. The winery is newly build to the specifications of feng shui. Grapes are taken to the roof so that gravity propels them into the crusher. The barrels are stored in a shadowy vault and Gregorian chants are played through speakers, softly, to make for tranquil wine. Spooky. After the tour, which was given by a German woman doing an internship through a wine importer, we asked if we could picnic on their back terrace overlooking the vines. After some hesitation at this very American request, she hunted up four glasses, we purchased our bottle, and hauled in our cheese and fruit. We could see up and down the valley, grapes almost at their peak, some of the finest plantings in the world, and not a soul in sight. That was a privileged meal. As we departed I almost wanted to tiptoe through the deserted winery, out to our lonely vehicle in an empty parking lot.

We thought it easy to take a small detour in returning to Santa Cruz, but found that Chile’s dirt roads and changing maps are deceptive. We were sort of lost for about two hours, but discovered brand new wineries in adjacent valleys, and plantings that could only be a couple of years old. The railroad has been in these valleys for generations, and the old stations built of adobe are as yet in their original state. I am sure that a return to this area in a few years will reveal gentrification and economic progress. I am glad we came when we did.

Dinner that night on the other side of the square at the classic Santa Cruz Social Club was on a terrace, under vines with grapes cascading through the pergola. We may have been the only diners, as the touristas were all at the hotel.

Friday we drove to Santiago, checking in to the massive Sheraton as planned. The Sheraton is set on a campus of greenery by the river, with a dining pavilion by the pool and dozens of lounge chairs in the shade. From this point on we did not drive. We took a car to the local Epson office to thank Dan’s associate for her help in booking the Vina, Santa Cruz and Sheraton hotels. Our taxi then dropped us at the Lastarria area, downtown, where we found a charming sidewalk pizzeria. Around the corner we discovered Cerro Santa Lucia, an historic hill with a fort and a small handicrafts market. From there we taxied to the Avenida Bellavista to look at lapis. Here we found our greatest bargains, and the best quality.

Saturday was our last day. My goal was to go to the Central Fish Market and look for the Patagonian toothfish. The building itself is worth a visit, as it is a century old and has been a market for all that time. High lofty ceilings with a dim latticework of windows and columns give the brightly illuminated stalls the appearance of movie sets. Colorful sellers bark their specials, while housewives jostle to purchase their best fish. Dozens of fish mongers have stalls and hundreds of Santiagans shop for the freshest of fish. Most of the fish are unknown in this country. Sea urchins, really ugly sea urchins, are a delicacy. King crab is sold whole. Conger fish, with its eel like tail, is a local specialty. Fish restaurants are tucked in corners of the building. We chose to eat upstairs in airconditioned comfort. Dan ate the sea urchin, which he has previously eaten as sushi in Japan. In this case he had many times the amount served as sashimi. Gross to me.

On leaving the market I was busy photographing the central train station next door, designed by the Eifel of the Eifel Tower, when I tripped over a paving stone and went down very solidly over the curb and into the street. A painful cab ride later, I was in bed with ice packs and four ibuprofen.

For the rest of that day and the next I enjoyed the comforts of the Sheraton. A farewell toast to the sunset over the Andes from their club level restaurant. Four movies in the room. A lazy Sunday in the shade around their pool. My leg was not broken, I could walk on it in pain, but the swelling was alarming and I was grateful to make it through the long flights home with no complications. Six weeks later there is still some swelling a bit of pain when I press the flesh.

Still, it was a wonderful trip to an enchanting, fragile landscape.

January in San Francisco

A Monday afternoon in January, in Golden Gate Park. A fine golf game with Jon.

Hess Times 2006

Hess Times
2006

The Eliasons
Mary, David, and Drew continue to enjoy perfect weather and outdoor living in San Diego. Last March Drew entered a new preschool/day care at the University of San Diego, where Mom is a third year law student. He chatters, he runs, and is an affectionate and charming three year old. (His grandparents might say “perfect” but we recognize our bias.) David continues to work as an engineer for Kyocera-Wireless, was promoted in April, spends lots of time with Drew, and is a strong support for Mary. She worked for the Scripps Research Institute, and for a professor, studied, played soccer, swam, and chased Drew. She will be interning for a federal judge next semester. Mary hopes to take the bar in July, adjourn to Hawaii with family for much-needed rest, and then enter of world of intellectual property law or administrative law. Mary and Dave joined Joe and Virginia for a beautiful wedding in Toronto in July, and a few days in Ontario and Niagara Falls afterwards. With their usual zest for life, they rode Maid of the Mist in the very front of the boat. They took Drew on his first visits to Yosemite and to Disneyland. Pirates of the Caribbean was a big hit. The family will be here for Christmas and then head to the snow for a few days.

Jon Drew Hess
Jon lives and works in San Francisco, and makes a cameo appearance every few weeks in Los Altos. We keep our subscription to the soccer channel just in case, and we send him home with all kinds of food. We know him as Jon but others know him as Drew. If you are in the Borders in Union Square, ask for Drew. He took a screenwriting course at Stanford and is working in a bookstore but it would be great if the next big thing dropped in his lap. So he is looking around for his next opportunity. He plays soccer, and softball, snowboards, and boogie boards, and enjoys the rich and diverse cultural life of the City. He (and his friend Courtney) joined Joe and Virginia in Kauai in October, drove them everywhere, and cooked fish on the grill almost every night We could get used to this. He has offered his services on future trips, especially to tropical climes. Visitors please note that his room on Vineyard Court is morphing into a true guest room.


Joe
Most years Joe just works, with a few adventures playing golf or building telescopes. Not this year. Joe will have traveled over 100,000 miles on one airline this year, sometimes with 24 hours notice, at times with 24 hours between trips. When 2006 began he was traveling to Calgary and Montreal. Then he went to Buenos Aires and Santiago, followed by Sao Paulo and Rio and Campinas. In less than one week. He liked brushing up on his Spanish but didn’t appreciate the four attempts to mug him in Argentina. In Chile, he managed to rent a car and visit the coastal city of Vina del Mar, driving through a bit of their wine country. Joe enjoyed Chile and plans to take Virginia there on vacation. May –during the immigration marches in the U.S. —found him in Mexico City, encountering two anti-American demonstrations. We have lost track of whether it has been 8 or 10 trips to Latin America this year, but do know his passport will soon need extra pages. Virginia was fortunate to accompany him on one trip to Buenos Aires in August, and they took a weekend trip to Iguacu Falls on the border of Argentina and Brazil. In addition to hiking very close to the falls, they explored the rain forest. Joe played golf with Jon on the side of a Kauai mountain, and with Mary and Dave he rode a cigar boat through the rapids of the Niagara River. He played the piano with Andrew and talks to him often on the phone. Oh and he did build a new telescope for the Hawaii trip, but it was too big for the luggage.

Virginia

A pleasurable year. Much of it was spent in Los Altos, either while Joe traveled or was on call to travel. In late January she attended a Rice Alumni Association (ARA) meeting in Houston, followed by a trip with her sister Margaret, Mom, and cousin Ann to a ranch southwest of Dallas. March brought baseball Spring Training in Scottsdale with Joe and her Mom— a good escape from Northern California. Joe and Virginia spent a precious Easter in San Diego with Drew and his parents. In early May she went to Sea Island, Georgia, where her sister recently built a house. With Margaret and her Mom she spent a tranquil week on the beach, mesmerized each evening by the sunset over the marsh. On the way back west she stopped in Houston for the ARA meeting. Virginia greatly enjoys serving on the ARA board, as the people are cordial, and the university president and others seem to appreciate the advice. Her own high point was Disneyland with Drew, although returning to Argentina after 29 years was a thrill also. Fall usually means Stanford football, and this year the tailgates with long-time Stanford friends were much better than the team. Virginia’s birthday trip to Kauai was postponed from June to October, just in time to celebrate Jon’s 26th birthday with him. Kauai is more laid-back than Maui, has excellent snorkeling and hidden beaches, and has become her new favorite island. Book club, an occasional blog, bridge, gardening, and photography—she pursued them all. More than a year after this second retirement, she can confirm that she does not have the housekeeping gene in her body, and will also look for “the next big thing” in 2007.

Homer
Homer sends best wishes to all of his friends, those who think he is a Wheaton terrier instead of, ahem, a mix, as well as those whom he greats with leaps and bounds and doggy smiles. He is our home’s heart, an always cheerful greeter who loves to follow his humans from room to room. He still chases Mr. Squirrel and loves to bark at the Big Brown UPS Truck. He especially wishes happy holidays to the people who compete to dog sit when we travel, to Jon’s friends from high school who still get a frenzied recognition, and to our houseguests whom he awakens with a friendly face lick.

Peace and health to all in 2007.
Virginia (vfhess@alumni.rice.edu) and Joe (joehess@speakeasy.net

dirty little companies

some musings in the wake of the hewlett-packard scandel.

if this is happening to large revered firms--and by "this" I mean a collapse of ethics at the highest levels--can smaller, less secure and more obscure companies be far behind? Here are some of the practices that one hears about in the heart of silicon valley. Some were heard over coffee at Starbucks, some in supermarket aisles, some late at night from ones closest companions.

What does it take to get a job at these dirty little companies? Sometimes often, payola. You either pay the headhunter a "finders fee" for recommending you to management, or worse, pay the manager who hires you, again, again and again. So that the top management is pulling down grossly inflated salaries, which are then redistributed among the top levels.....How can this be? Well,the same HR consultant assures the board of directors that these salaries are necessary....and they aren't about to rock the boat that pays them a director' s fee.

Dirty Little Company Practice #2--Hold down two jobs, for real. We read about the entrepreneurs who build two startups at once, and somehow they are to be admired. Not so admirable is the IT professional or the Sales Engineer who is on the payroll of two companies, contributing only a token effort to each. How do you find these people? You don't. The person you can never find is the one who is doubledipping.

Dirty Little Company Practice #3 --Delay booking sales until your personal objectives are met. Maybe until the commission falls into your pocket or into your buddy's pocket. Or worse, until you move to a competitor and can snatch that sale from your old company. Most often practiced at the vp level.

Dirty Little Company Practice #4--Send in a sales engineer to call on a company outside the US, carrying product that "accidentally" gets left behind. Kind of an export business, wouldn't you say? Just wait until the "mule" gets caught and has his passport lifted, or worse.

Well, those are all of the dirty little secrets for today. Hold on. It gets better.

Aloha, finally

We are returned from a nearly perfect trip to Kauai. The only nonperfect thing was how it started out. We got to the airport at 6 for a 7:30 flight. We had trouble getting our bags up to the American kiosks because we had two golf bags filled with clubs, snorkels etc and a boogie board, so we wouldn't fit in the elevator. So that took fifteen minutes or so. Joe was leaving the car so I wasn't going to check in for him. The woman monitoring the checkins said I should but I said we had an hour....but we didn't because American had changed the schedule and I had not gotten the message. By the time Courtney, Jon's girlfriend swiped her card it was 6:32, and it rejected her because presumable there wouldn't be time to check her luggage. Panic. They gave her a boarding pass anyway, and told her to carry on her bag. Which had medicines, cleansers, and a VERY expensive bottle of champagne to celebrate Jon's birthday. Jon made it thru security but they held her up. I found her a large baggie for her medicines and she tossed the cleansers and we gave the champagne to the American lady who had helped us. Then I waited for Joe who ambled in at 6:50 for a 7 am flight. Off we ran thru security and of course our gate was way at the end. Jon had tried unsuccessfully to hold the flight. They were calling our names and Joe ran for the flight, and they waited for me.

We connected in LA for a direct flight to Kauai. An hour before landing the pilot announced that there had been a 6.5 earthquake in Hawaii and power was out everywhere except....Kauai. So we landed without incident and went to our condo on the east shore. If we had been routed thru Honolulu we would have been stranded for days. We loved the condo--oceanfront on a sandy beach with no development on one side and close to a state park with a nice snorkeling beach. We have lots of photos of sunrise on this beach. We spent the next two days exploring the north shore, with its rain forests and lush vegetation and lovely beaches.

On the fourth day we played golf a very scenic course on the south side and then moved to a very luxurious condo ocean front, with a pool that is suspended over the water. We saw lots of sea turtles, and a rare Hawaiian monk seal on the rocks. Joe set up his telescope and we had awesome star shows, as the sky over the ocean was quite dark. Every night we were in Kauai we barbecued fresh fish, mostly ahi tuna, and what you might call wahoo, a swordfish.

We were in walking distance of good surfing beaches and an excellent snorkeling beach at Poipu State Park. Several times Joe and Jon played 9 holes of golf after a full day of beach and pool. Courtney played golf and really enjoyed the snorkeling, both of which were new to her. She grew up going to Nantucket with family and family friends every summer, so she is a beach person but had never been to Hawaii.

We celebrated Jon's birthday while we were there with a lovely dinner in Lihue, the main town on the island. On our last day we snorkeled until 5 pm, drove into town for one more fish dinner and mai tais, and then went to the airport for a 10 pm flight. Yesterday was rough, as we didn't sleep much on the flight, but today things are getting back to normal.

First tailgate

Bright sunny day. Good food, good company. Terrible football.

To See a Tango

After 29 years Joe and I were returning to Argentina. The first trip was taken when Joe finished Stanford Business School. He offered me an emerald ring for having put him through school, I asked for an emerald from South America instead. We spent three weeks on our own personal tour of South America, from Peru thru Bolivia to Paraguay and Uraguay, Argentina, Brazil, and Columbia. We were arrested for breaking curfew in Cuzco, helped push our bus across the Andes, and generally had the adventure of a lifetime. Children came along shortly thereafter and the adventure trips were replaced by beach trips to Hawaii. Then, this year, Joe began traveling to South America on business and I finally got to tag along. We really would only have the weekend to sightsee, and I would be on my own for the other days.

We left on Monday August 14, through Dallas. The flight to Buenos Aires out of Dallas was only about 2/3 full, so I ended up with two seats together, and Joe was in the two seats in front of me. This enabled me to almost stretch out and sleep but it was still very uncomfortable, and even with the aid of over the counter sleeping pills I only slept about four hours of the ten and one half hour flight. This was a week of hard work for Joe and at the outset I wondered if the vacation part would be worth the trouble.

Arriving in Buenos Aires to gray and cool weather, we had about a half hour taxi drive to the Hilton in the Puerto Maderos Barrio of Buenos Aires. This hotel welcomed Joe as a Hilton “gold” member at its eighth floor member desk, and we checked in to our spacious room. Because of his “gold” status we had the use of a large club room on the eighth floor, with complimentary breakfast buffet, afternoon tea, and happy hour drinks. The hotel is in the redeveloped port area and is surrounded by water, and also by red brick docks that have been reborn as trendy restaurants. We were a little away from the center of town but in a very safe, popular area. Taxis were cheap but the drivers were wild, and we were careful to take “Radio Taxi”s or have the hotel call us one.

Joe had a late morning appointment so I unpacked and actually napped a bit. I also visited the concierge to arrange a tour of the city for Wednesday, and a tour of the Delta of the River Plate for Thursday, both for myself only, as Joe had meetings. We inquired about the possibility of a package to Iguazu Falls, and he came back with flights and a stay at the only hotel in the National Park, for Friday and Saturday, when Joe had no appointments While Joe went to his afternoon appointment I closed with the concierge and bought the falls view package, assuming if we only went once…..Around 6 pm we took a taxi to the Galleries Pacifico, a very upscale shopping center. I was there to price, but did a little shopping. Joe was impressed with the polo stores and said he figured out where Ralph Lauren got his inspiration. We strolled Florida Avenue, once one of the most posh streets in the world. We saw a tango being performed by an older couple to boom box rhythms. We walked to dinner at a very nice restaurant in an old dock building, called Cabana des Lillas. The lomo, or filet, was enormous and the salad equally good. We had no trouble sleeping that night.

The next morning we left the hotel shortly after nine, Joe to his appointment, and I for my three hour city tour. There was only one other person on the tour, so we felt as if Christina, our guide was our very own. She had traveled to the US many times she said, and had spent a month driving the West Coast. The tour agency is called Friendly Visit, and I would recommend them to anyone visiting BA.

First we stopped in the Plaza de Mayo, the traditional square with a statue of San Martin, who brought freedom to several South American countries. One end is anchored by the Casa Rosada, the government house where the President works, and the scene of many of Eva Peron’s speeches from its balcony. This is also the plaza where the mothers marched every Thursday during the time when so many young men disappeared from Argentina, in the 1970’s. We went into the national Cathedral and saw the grave of San Martin. We then drove through the cobblestone streets of San Telmo to reach the original port of BA, La Boca. It is the home of the famous “futbol” team the Boca Juniors, and also the immigrant settlements, and the home of the Tango. We walked Caminito, the famous street with multicolored houses built by Italian and other European immigrants. Often twenty families would live in these houses, one to a room, sharing a common kitchen and bath. We saw a couple doing the tango in the street. From La Boca we passed by the original port, then went to Recoleta and saw the elaborate tombs of prominent Argentineans, including Eva Duarte Peron. We passed Little Ben, a clock given by England to Argentina on its centennial in 1916, which ironically faces the monument to those who died in the Falklands War with England.


After a half hour’s rest at the hotel, I phoned the concierge for information about buying leather. Instead of going to the leather district some distance away, on his recommendation I was picked up by a representative of Gonzales Leather Factory and driven somewhere far south at great speed to a district that looked that Tijuana to me. I worried that I was lost, perhaps abducted for ransom, but then we stopped at a small storefront where a young woman unlocked a glass door for me to enter. Shoes. I stopped at 3 pair. Wallets, I didn’t buy enough. Jacket. He offered to tailor one for me and to deliver it to the hotel the next evening. It is reversible sued and leather and just right for the Bay Area.

That night we returned to the docks area in Puerto Madero and ate at an Italian restaurant whose name in translation is “The Mistress”. Too much food again.

Thursday I left a bit early as the guide was early, and I soon found out why. We had to be in Tigre to catch our boat tour of the delta by 10:30. Again, there was only one other person on the tour—a woman from Berkeley! We drove parallel to the widest river in the world, the River Plate, past colonial houses of the last century, through the scenic roads of San Isidro to the riverside town of Tigre. The river boats were shallow, wide wooden craft, designed to navigate the islands and shallow waterways of the silty Plate. I have many many photos of the vacation houses of the portenos, as the residents of BA call themselves. There are boats that deliver groceries and water and haul away garbage. In the summer the pocket beaches (made with imported sand) are crowded with families escaping the heat of the city. After the boat tour we had a lovely lunch in a century old house that is now a four room hotel, and returned to BA.

Joe wanted to recreate our dinner of 29 years ago at the Palace Hotel. So we took a taxi to this old and expensive hotel—where the restaurant no longer exists as the London Grill, and even has no memory in employees of twenty years. So we settled for a very expensive drink in their rococo bar and watched the people. Afterwards we took a taxi to the Café Tortoni, where the maitre d’ seated us at one of the last tables. The café has been there since 1858 and was the haunt of BA’s famous writers and artists, some of whom are depicted in lifesize mannequins. We ordered hearts of palm and celery salad, the dish we would have had at the London Grill, if it still existed. This was a young and multinational crowd and we enjoyed watching the activity. We could hear the tango show in the adjacent room. By the time we left there were lines outside the door. Our taxi driver was the wildest yet, and we were glad to get back to our hotel.

Friday morning meant a trip to the domestic airport for our flight to Igauzu Falls. South Americans as travelers are more anxious and pushy than North Americans, perhaps they travel less. In any event we had a two hour flight to the top of Argentina, right on the Brazilian border. We were met by a travel agent and taken to the Sheraton, the only hotel in the National Park. Our room opened to a balcony with a dramatic view of the falls. In the short time that we were in Iguazu, the falls view mesmerized me, with its constantly changing plume of spray and vapor. The Brazilian side has the more dramatic view, but because the water level was relatively low, it didn’t matter. That first afternoon we hiked through the hotel grounds to a small open air train, and rode to the entrance of a trailhead that was built out over the river. A half mile walk over islands and streams took us to the very edge of the largest falls, where we were suspended ten feet over the precipice.

I watched the sunset on my balcony while Joe made business calls, and then we went to dinner in the hotel restaurant. A harpist played while we ate the best hearts of palm salad ever—it was a trio of chopped palm, topped with a mousse of palm, crowned with deep fried palm. When our waiter saw how much we liked it he brought us some palm flowers to eat also. The next day on our jungle tour we learned that Argentina has no native palmitos suitable for harvest, so I have to wonder where the flowers came from.

Saturday morning we were packed and had our luggage stored by 10 am, and walked again through the hotel grounds to embark on our jungle/boat expedition. Not knowing quite what to expect, we were pleased to see the large jeeplike trucks with benches, an ideal way to see the animals and rain forest. Except that we didn’t see any animals. Disappointing since the sliding glass door in our hotel room had a sign asking us not to feed the monkeys. But the vegetation was lush and blooming and the vines made us think Tarzan was out there swinging.

The truck stopped at a clearing and we found—surprise—that we had to walk down several hundred steps to a dock and a rather large inflatable boat. This was not Maid of the Mist. This was Jacques Cousteau meets Jet Boat. Fortunately the water was low enough that I knew we couldn’t go all the way upstream to the falls. But we did go fast, and we did “fly a pontoon” several times, getting seriously wet in the process. Joe had more fun than I have seen in many a year. That was worth it. The ride out of the jungle was definitely an anticlimactic.

We spent lunchtime in the visitor center and browsing the handicrafts. Once I would have shopped for carvings and brightly striped weavings but I just purchased a small toucan for my Christmas tree. Back to the hotel, where we sat on the terrace and practiced waterfall meditation until time for our pickup to go to the airport and back to Buenos Aires. Somethere between the hotel and BA I lost my digital camera with two day’s worth of photos.

Sunday was our last day, a gray cold day that made us realize how fortunate we had been in our weather to date. We set out for the antiques market in San Telmo, which was interesting. Cobblestone steeets with mimes and musicians and booths filled with the detritus of Argentina’s twentieth century. Old books and medals and crystal. Chocolate vendors and women selling crocheted scarves. No tourists. Again, I didn’t buy the silver and china that I once would have coveted. From the market we went to the Eva Peron Museum, set in a house she once owned in Palermo, traditionally a barrio for the wealthy portenos. This was a find, an only-in-BA experience. From her hats to her shoes, the museum contained possessions cherished by her family, and shared in this memorial that they sponsored. We saw news reels of her speeches, her very high heels, her dresses elegant and mostly black. We read about her work on women’s rights, and the vote for women. Some think it a one-sided presentation of a controversial figure, but it is well done.

Once we were at the airport we separated, me to take American Airlines home, Joe to find that he had a reservation for Rio de Janeiro but no seat. He was forced to spend another night in BA before moving on to his work week in Brazil. My trip home was not as difficult as the trip down had been. And I have found again my sense of adventure in traveling the world. Sign me up for the next trip.

"Golden Dumbo" "AAARGH" "Ho Ho Ho Ho a Pirate's Life for Me" "It's a Small, Small, World"

Drew loved Disneyland. Everything about the trip was Disneyland, the hotel (excellent), the pool, the food, but oh the rides. Meeting Mickey was a big deal too. Dumbo was far and away the favorite. Pirates of the Caribeean was a little scairy at first but he liked the dog, and learned to make pirate sounds "AAARGH". Autopia with Dad was fun, and the rocket ships were awesome.

This message is from Homer the dog: It was a traumatic weekend. Andrew came to visit and wanted to hug and kiss and treat me like a person, and I wanted to treat him like a dog somewhat larger than I am, which means I wanted to run and hide. Several times the family had to put on a search for me because I retreated to the pool house to hide. And it was very hot, with no remedy for a dog who hates water. Saturday night at Joe's birthday there were two small boys and lots of big people so I hid as long as I could. They hung a sprinkler hose from the pergola (yes, my vocabulary is very good, even better than Andrew's) and I finally got so hot I pretended it was rain and ran back and forth getting wet and muddy. The big people thought I was looking for critters, which was the only way to disguise my willingness to get wet. Jon didn't like my mud and he threw me in the pool, which was very traumatic. THEN he put me in Virginia's shower and washed me with eeowwwee Herbal Essence shampoo.

The birthday party was very successful for the bigger people although Andew expressed the opinion that there were too many people there. You can see the pictures at www.virginiahess.shutterfly.com

I'm not in the pictures, because, naturally, I was in hiding.

Toronto Wedding July 2006

I had not been to Canada in 29 years. We went to a beautiful and joyous wedding of the son of lifelong friends. The wedding itself was set on an island in Lake Ontario, very Gatsbyish, elegant, relaxed. That evening there was an elaborate Chinese banquet that lasted past midnight.
On the next day we drove to Niagara Falls, the Canadian side, and rode both a jet boat down to the whirlpool, and the Maid of Mist to directly under the falls.

The things I wish to record here are what we noted that was different from the US. A giant and hokey souvenir store with two entrances and no exits. Don't want to miss any possible tourists. Maps with freeway exits marked. Hotels that rabidly enforced no smoking (not that we would). Lovely courteous people in service positions. The Canadian flag everywhere. Litter bags in the rental car. A sense of Canadian history that we somehow know nothing about. A very large country. Two languages, always. Strong ties to England, still. Great diversity in its population. Here is a link to all of the photos:
http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=9AZsWbVy3ZsnI

Here I am on my birthday

How to Lose a Football Fan

I was there in 1975 when Stanford banished the Indian as its mascot and the fans adopted the band’s Tree as its new symbol. I was in Berkeley for The Play in 1984 when the Cal Bears ran through a prematurely celebrating Stanford band, to win the Big Game. I sat through rainy chilly nights in November and obscenely hot September afternoons. I celebrated NewYear’s Eve of the Millinium by watching game films with the team in Long Beach as a prelude to the Rose Bowl. But now, as the new Stanford Stadium nears completion, it looks as if I won’t be there next fall.

This is not an important story,but it is a sad one about a thirty year relationship gone bad. We loved our football seats. We were on the top row,on the aisle, under the flagpole, on the fifty yard line. When Stanford announced that they were tearing down the stadium to build a new one, our first reaction was “Why?” We were told that Stanford needed to boost season ticket sales, but we could have told them that winning football games was more important to attendance than new seats. Then we were told that to sit between the forty five yard lines we would have to cough up an extra $1000 per seat. I was invited to a focus group discussion—one of a dozen or so—of season ticket holders. We told them that college athletics is not a big ticket event, rather it is a family and community outing. We cherish the people we sat with, the tailgates, the visiting under the oaks, even the dusty, unpaved parking lot where we jockeyed for lawn chair and cooler space on game days. We were assured that the parking would not be affected, but that the ticket price would go up. We told Stanford not to expect us to join the Buck Club (truly its name) to sit on the fifty yard line.

The Athletic Department listened to our feedback about our long time seatmates, and offered us an option, to sign up for seats with others, in “neighborhoods.” Aha, we thought. Something good may come out of all this change. We can plan for the rest of our lives by getting a block together that we can share and trade, and grow old together. Our young adult children began to plan on inheriting these tickets. Just think, said I, only 20 more years and we will celebrate 50 years of Stanford football, together. Our tailgate of about thirty people was composed of classmates from the 70’s, both undergrad and grad school. In March we signed up as a neighborhood and paid $560 a couple to Stanford--a 38 per cent increase in ticket prices over the prior year. Our designated neighborhood leader met several times with our own personal liaison from the Athletic Department, who assured us that with our longevity as season ticket holders, our history of donations to the university, and the number of alumni in our group, we should have very good seats indeed. We began to hope for the 40 plus yard line. And then we waited.

Shortly after the deadline for returning season ticket holders, Stanford issued a press release in which they revised the parking plan around the Stadium. Only the Buck Club folks—the $1000 or 2000 a seat folks—would be allowed to park in the lot immediately adjacent to the Stadium, known as Lot 2. In the lot where we had been tailgating since 1975. The regular season ticket holders would be banished across a four lane road, with no rest rooms and more importantly, no history. Yes, we felt betrayed, second class citizens, but we also felt that we couldn’t complain because we didn’t have our seat assignments yet. Enough people did complain that several weeks later the Athletic Department returned half of Lot 2 to us normal season ticket holders.

Finally we got our seat assignments , 5 months after the focus groups began. We weren’t in the 30 to 45 yard section. We weren’t all together. And others were listed in our neighborhood who had listed other preferences. One couple was seated in the end zone. (They have PhDs from Stanford, a son with degrees from Stanford, and are founders of a publicly traded company. ) I began to feel very bad about this. I called the Ticket Office. I asked to speak to our personal liaison, the architect of our fate, the person who had sentenced 30 loyal fans to the twenty-something yard line for the rest of our lives. I was told that I could only speak to the young lady responsible for this undesirable section. She told me our seats could be worse, and that lots of people would like to have them.

Today I am going on an invitation-only tour of the new Stadium, supposedly an effort to convince me our seats aren’t so bad. It won’t work. You can’t talk to me about sight lines or feet from the field. I participated in a long and onerous process, followed all of the rules and was treated poorly. The relationship is hanging by a thread.


And so I envision an end to this fan’s participation in the game day experience. Watching it on my big screen tv, having my old friends over for barbecue, and clicking the remote when Stanford plays poorly—it sounds better and better.


‘

Bunny Hops

Easter in San Diego featured an egg hunt, candy, and the same bunny as last year. Andrew loved the Easter Bunny, and got up close and personal.

Stanford Football Boots Season Ticket Holders from Cherished Tailgate Lot

Stanford University is not known for treating its community well. Relations with surrounding Palo Alto once deteriorated to the the point that the university had to assign a community relations officer and institute a Community Day to improve relations. They have done it again with their long-time football fans, many of them alumni and many of whom are simply people who enjoy college football.

In tearing down the venerable Stanford Stadium, which really had nothing wrong with it according to many observers, Stanford knew they had a public relations problem with their season ticket holders. The Athletic Department held focus groups with season ticket holders to find out what would attract them to a revamped Game Day experience. Many of the attendees of these focus groups were senior citizens, on fixed incomes, with over twenty years of attending Stanford football games, in the same seats and with the same neighbors for decades. Some of them were second and third generation fans. They were told up front that the best seats in the new stadium, between the 45 yard lines, would go to those who would pay an annual premium of $1000 or $2000, above and beyond the ticket price. And the ticket price would go up also. This didn't go over well.

The focus group attendees swallowed the bad news but tried to advise the Stanford Athletics staff in a rational way. They said, keep the tailgate experience the same, don't pave the parking lot or assign tailgate spots. Keep the Game Day experience a family experience, affordable for the community, an activity for young people. The staff assured them that nothing would change about the tailgate area and that provision would be made for a family plan ticket.

On April 3 Stanford announced that the prime tailgate field, next to the stadium would be barred to all but the 5 percent of the fams who paid the Buck Club premium. http://www.stanfordstadium.com/press/040306.html
Season ticket holders would be sent to park across a major street, a longer walk from the stadium and less accessible.

Most season ticket holders, having already agonized over losing their cherished 50 yard line seats, view this as just another Stanford attempt to please its heavy hitters. For many it's a "well, what are you going to do" situation. And yes, many of them will adapt to a more crowded, less atmospheric place in which to gather before the game. The candelabras and flower arrangements and banners might seem a little silly over there. They'll have to stop partying much sooner to allow time to get into the stadium. And they will have to walk past their old haunts, past the heavy hitters in their Winnebagos, who have paid to be insulated from them. It will be less tempting on those torrid September afternoons to go out at the half and have a cold one. Much easier just to go across the street and get in the car and finish the game on the radio.

Who are these season ticket holders? There is a group of thirty or so of them, all from the class of 1970, who have been attending games ever since they were in the band. There is another set of band alumni from 1982. There are PhD's from the electric engineering department. There are adult children of alumni and staff, who grew up on Stanford football, and who now bring their own children to the games. There are Stanford Business School Graduates from the 70's who give to Stanford but chose not to buy the premium seats. And there are the younger alumni who fit Stanford football in between their children's weekend activities.



And what about the Chosen Few, who have paid their money and inhabit the seats formerly owned by those lesser beings, the season ticket holders? They are all members of the Buck Club, which last year presented a check to the Atletic Department for sever million dollars. They have bought in to the concept used by pro football teams, of an elite "club level" experience. They will have separate entrances, separate concessions, and of course all of the best seats. This concept has worked well in college situations where the college dominates the town, and the game is the only game in town. Say small town Oregon.

And what is Stanford giving these Buck Club donors, in giving them Lot 2 next to the Stadium? They are giving them a dusty, sometimes muddy, field nestled between El Camino and the Stadium, dominated by live oaks, with a few dumpsters strategically placed for their refuse. Venerable rest rooms. On Game Day Field #2 became a village, with season ticket holders politely vying for their favorite tree, under which they set up tables and tents and barbecues and folding chairs. Sometimes a zydeco musician would entertain. Stanford Indian banners flew to commenorate the now=banned mascot. Many folks arrived for breakfast to hold the spot of the members of their tailgate. Oh the tailgates. The menus ranged from beef tenderloin to cracked crab. Burgers and dogs for the children, who seemed to enjoy the outdoor meal even more than the adults. More than once young alumni flew in lobsters and boiled them up on site. Silver candelabra and red and while ribbons decorated linen covered tables. Flower arrangements were popular, in red and white of course. It was all very Stanford. In a bad football year, and there have been many of late, the season ticket holders could rejoice on the success of their tailgates at Field #2. No more. That uniquely Stanfor experience has been booted.

You may argue that the party will continue across the street and a few blocks away. But the people who made up the event are now segregated and scattered. Not every tailgate opted to pay the price for the "club level" seats. Even families are split, with older fans on fixed income not able to pay the price, and young people unwilling to spend their discretionary money to sit with heavy hitters. The tailgate would have kept the party going, kept the Stanford tradition alive, despite seat locations.

And what of the Heavy Hitters, those Buck Club folks who now have Lot #2 all to themselves. They may notice that they have lots of space to spread out, that it is quieter in the parking lot. Their adult children and grandchildren won't be hanging out and throwing the football==they will be across the street. Oh they might stop by on their way in to the stadium, but they won't be hauling in the barbecue and charcoal, the coolers of soda and beer. If these Heavy Hitters want to host a tailgate in Lot #2 they will have lots of hefting and hauling to do. Not to mention cooking. But then maybe they don't care. Maybe they will be like the Cal gentleman last year, who was invited to step out of his trailer (in Lot#2) and join a Stanford tailgate. He declined, politely, as his caterers were about to arrive.

A Stanford football game has always been a contrarian event. It was once said that the sound of crackers with brie being crunched at the tailgates would drown out the sound of the game. In this elite setting dress down was the thing, and a dusty field was a cherished site for elegant meals and fine wine. But no one ever argued that winning was not important. The Stanford football team has not had a winning season in almost half a decade. The university has angered its fan base by fixing a stadium that was not broken, by changing the rules about who could sit where, and by breaking its promise about the tailgating experience. The season ticket holders, who this year were asked to pay an extra $80 per ticket with no promises of a Big Game ticket, might just decide to pass on the experience. Wonder what the tickets will bring on EBay?

I have recently acquired a small bundle of old family photos--some over 100 years old. One photo is of my grandfather, Thomas Edwards Mills, in 1887, aged about three. He is wearing a dress, and has shoulder length curls. The back of the photo is inscribed: "Tommie E. Mills, to his dear Grandpa" in faint, almost indecipherabole copperplate. So this piece of cardboard thad I hold was written on by his parent, probably his mother, my great-grandmother. The photograph is faded but I can see that little Tommie is bracing himself against a table that holds a vase of flowers. Photography in those days took several minutes. I'll bet it was hard for him to hold still. His right hand--the unbraced one--is a bit blurred against the white of his dress--perhaps he moved it. His face is severe, concentrating, I imagine, on the immense effort of staying still. I imagine that three was the earliest age that one could ask Tommie to stay still for a picture.

Leap forward several generations and more than 100 years. I am using a scanner and computer to capture the photograph in digital form. I have the technology to enhance the photo, to increase the resolution and the brightness, so that we can see details long lost in the original version. I see his chubby fingers spread out on the tabletop, I observer that Tommie is wearing little high top leather shoes--they must have been expensive. The face that looks out at me now is the face of the sixty year old grandfather that I remember so fondly. I am so pleased that I have recovered the details of his three year old self--and yet, as I look back at the original, faded cardboard, there I seem to see the real Tommie E. Mills. For he is indeed faded in my heart and indeed is lost to almost everyone still living. The mother who dressed him for the photograph lived only 9 more years, and no picture remains of her, just the copperplate and the look on Tommie's face as he stood so still for his mother.

Birthdays and learning to blow raspberries

Drew drove Homer to sit in Virginia's lap for protection, but when Owen arrived for a crab fest and to inaugurate a week long celebration of his third birthday, Homer disappeared. So no photos of the alpha dog today. Just two little boys with the same high pitched giggle we remember from their mother's childhood.

Texas

I left for Dallas on Sunday the 22nd, to stay with my sister. I caught an earlier flight but my baggage came in on a later one, over an hour later. So my sister and I shopped at the outlets near DFW. My mom drove down that same afternoon (she is still driving, but picks her time of day. On Monday we went to the Hunt family ranch, Game Creek Ranch, stopping at DFW to pick up my cousin Ann from Tucson. This was a surprise for Mom, as we had told her we were picking up the ranch managers wife as a favor to him. The ranch itself is very beautiful, 5000 acres plus or minus, with a 14 suite ranch house situated on a hill that overlooks the property. We stayed until Thursday, hiking, shopping, lunching at Rough Creek Ranch, which Conde Nast declared the "best lodge in North America 2005). I think Game Creek rivals it. We saw elk, oryx,sable, and deer on the Hunt Ranch, and buffalo at Rough Creek. We also saw hunters, and if I ever thought hunting was cruel and weird, I reinforced that impression. To hunt "mixed bag" the hunter dons an orange hat and walks into a field with a couple of dogs. He finds a likely bush and circles it with the dogs, hoping to flush a quail or pheasant. When the bird flies he shoots at it, often just a yard or tow away. This is sport? On our way into Rough Creek on a one lane blacktop road we saw a beautiful pheasant standing by the side of the road. On our way out the same pheasant was lying in the same spot--road kill or hunter kill, I can't say which.

We celebrated Mom's 85th birthday Thursday night with dinner at Margarets in Dallas, and on Friday I flew to Houston for the board of directors meeting for the Rice Alumni Association. I love being a part of this group. Friday night we had cocktails at the Rice President's house--he is David Leebron, formerly dean of Columbia Law--met all day Saturday, and on Sunday Karen Rogers picked me up for breakfast and a ride to the airport. All in all it was a great trip.

January used to be a month of darkness and gloom. Now I am just grateful to have the time to hibernate, yes, but also to get out in the short sun. Last weekend we went to Santa Cruz, to Steamer Lane, to see the high surf. It was actually Homer's trip. Here are the photos:
Things I have done so far in January 2006: bottled wine, lunch at Stanford, played bridge, went to book club, Chinatown in San Francisco, planted primroses

Sunday I go to Texas for my Mom's 85th and a minireunion with sister and cousin. And then to Houston for the Rice Alumni Board meeting and a visit with Karen.