Stephen Mark Rainey's Blog, page 67

Mediterranean Sojourn Pt 6: Barcelona... What a Riot

Old Rodan at Casa Batlló
October 26, 2019: Farewell to Rhapsody of the Seas
For years, the people of Catalonia—the region in northeastern Spain encompassing Barcelona, the Pyrenees Mountains, Montserrat, Costa Brava, and more—have sought independence from Spain. In recent weeks, massive demonstrations have shaken Barcelona, with hundreds of thousands of protestors in the streets. Most have been relatively peaceful, though violence has broken out on several occasions. The week prior to our group's arrival in Spain, protestors closed down Barcelona's El Prat Airport—from which our flight was scheduled to take us home at the end of this trip. But since Barcelona was our ship's final port of call and reservations had all been made and paid for, there really was nothing for it but to carry on with our trip as planned.
It was with a sense of both sadness and anticipation that we left Rhapsody of the Seas for the last time. For the past week, the ship had been a most comfortable home away from home. As in Venice, we had arranged for our three-day stay in Barcelona at a nice VRBO flat in the city center. We boarded a shuttle to get there and then had a relatively short walk to the property—although hauling all our luggage over cobbled streets took some effort. We arrived about 10:30 AM, though check-in time wasn't till 1:00 PM; fortunately, our host, Pedro, was onsite, and we were able to leave our bags in the apartment.

So, we hit the streets, seeking to acclimate ourselves to our new surroundings as well as procure some Catalonian vittles. Happily, a nice virtual cache lurked at a nearby architectural marvel— Casa Batlló , designed by the renowned architect Antoni Gaudi. I claimed the cache and then we found food at a picturesque café called Txapela , just north of Catalunya Square. The fare was mostly tapas, and I had an interesting little taco-type thingummy filled with raw fish. Happily, I enjoy raw fish, although this was so mild, all the flavor came from the goodies wrapped around it. Afterward, we wandered for a while, wondering whether we might see any sign of the Catalonian protests. Initially, we did not, but later, when we bought tickets for the Hop-On, Hop-Off bus that takes you on a riding tour around Barcelona, the staff indicated the bus lines would be closed on the following day due to the scheduled demonstrations.
Lunch—held together with a cute little wooden clothespin
After lunch, I snagged a couple of physical caches in Catalunya Square. And at last, we were able to check in at our VRBO: a relatively spacious sixth-floor flat on Carrer d’Aragó, a couple of blocks north of the square. From there, we headed out again to explore, eventually ending up some distance to the south, in the Gothic Quarter at La Catedral de la Santa Creu i Santa Eulàlia —a.k.a. Barcelona Cathedral, the seat of the Archbishop of Barcelona. One of the first things we saw was a rather creepy, ghostly figure made up in white—actually, a beggar, so I was told. Interestingly, we discovered that, not only could we tour the cathedral's interior, we could take an elevator up to the roof, which offers a spectacular view of the city. As with so many of the cathedrals we saw in Europe, the interior is another architectural masterpiece, a staggering example of gothic excess. We took in the interior views for some time before boarding the tiny, box-like elevator to the roof. It was a shaky, fairly scary ride, both coming and going. If ever a scary ride was worth it, though, this one was. Atop the roof, we had some rickety scaffolding to negotiate, also a little disconcerting, but indeed, we did have a spectacular 360° view of Barcelona. As far as activities in Spain went, this rated among my favorites.
Old Dude and Ms. B. on the rooftop of Barcelona Cathedral. Sagrada Familia is visible in the background.After some wine at a couple of different bistros, we boarded one of the Hop-On, Hop-Off buses, figuring we'd take a ride around Barcelona and look at the various sights. We did see a host of gorgeous locations, including the mountains that rose to the north, just beyond the city. Unfortunately, as the sun set, the bus parked itself in a location considerably north and west of our neighborhood, evidently to "get back on schedule." This 30-minute delay played hell with certain bladders, and some of us had never been more glad to get back to our neck of the woods. However, as we approached our stop, we saw flashing blue lights and began to hear helicopters circling overhead. Apparently, the roads to Catalunya Square had been closed down as the Saturday night demonstrations were beginning in earnest.

Fortunately, we'd come close enough to our place to just hop off the bus and hoof it. Sure enough, though, mobs of young people had begun parading through the streets wrapped in red and gold Catalonian flags, more and more folks were bolting in all directions, and the police sirens blared nonstop. Still, we figured we'd need some dinner, so we started looking around for places in the direction opposite the demonstrations. We found it at a beautiful rooftop restaurant at a nearby hotel, where I enjoyed some delicious beef medallions with a couple of different sauces. We were about the only folks there at the time, no doubt because it was still relatively early—somewhere in the 8 o'clock hour, and a good many Barcelona restaurants don't even open for dinner until 8:30 or so in the PM. It seemed almost surreal that, just a couple of blocks away from the protests, everything in the city seemed to be carrying on as normal.
Up on the roofWe retired to our apartment—fortunately avoiding the worst of the protests—but it was clear things were turning far more violent than earlier, so rather than going out to get a street view, we opted to remain inside and watch the events on TV. Trash fires blazed in the streets; protestors and police clashed, which resulted in lots of tear gas going off; and the roar of helicopters and wail of sirens provided a constant soundtrack for the evening. Fortunately, by 11:00 PM, the noise began to peter out, as the mostly young demonstrators began heading back home to go to bed. The helicopters continued to hover for some time, but eventually we were able to go to sleep more or less undisturbed.

October 27, 2019: From Sagrada Familia to Los Caracoles
On Sunday morning, Ms. B. and I decided to venture out on our own for a while and visit Sagrada Familia , perhaps architect Antoni Gaudi's most famous work—still unfinished after almost 140 years (it is projected to be completed around 2026). We didn't go inside, but we did wander around the exterior for a bit, and I snagged both a virtual and a physical geocache at the site. Brugger discovered an arts & crafts store near the basilica, so she got to satisfy her addiction as well.

After this little jaunt, Brugger and I wandered back to our apartment, reunited with Terry and Beth, and then went in search of lunch. Today was the big march in Catalunya Square, but this crowd, though massive, was far more peaceful than the previous night's. We managed to find another cozy little outdoor bistro, where Ms. B. killed some delicious grilled shrimp and I tried a dish consisting of mushrooms, goose liver, and egg. I found it pleasing.
Mushrooms, goose liver, and egg for lunch Old Rodan looks askance at the paparazzi
During the afternoon, we made our way back down to the old Gothic Quarter, south of Catalunya Square. Beth and Kimberly went off hunting wares, while Terry and I plopped down at an outdoor restaurant, where an attractive, kindly waitress who spoke very good English worked hard to convince us to drink wine, wine, and more wine. I can safely say we disappointed her not even a little bit.

Forty years ago, when Terry was in the Navy, he had visited Barcelona and discovered a restaurant called Los Caracoles , which means "The Snails." He had been quite taken with it at the time, and during our wanderings the day before, we had peeked inside it. Duly impressed that it still existed, we made reservations for this evening. At the appointed hour, reunited with the women, we made our way back to Los Caracoles. By the appearance of the entrance, it seemed a rather unassuming place, with a small bar just inside. But once you enter, you are led through the kitchen, into one of several large dining areas, all beautifully appointed, the walls covered in photographs of celebrities who have dined there. Above our table, we had photos of Jimmy Carter, Robert DeNiro, Robert Mitchum, and... O.J. Simpson. Well, what fun.

I ordered Paella Los Caracoles, which came not with snails but seafood. (There were plenty of snails being served, and though I do enjoy them—I'd had escargot on the ship, as a matter of fact—I didn't order any this go round.) I confess I was a little disappointed in the paella. As with so much of the food I sampled in Barcelona, the flavor was rather bland, and all too uniform, given that it was loaded with mussels, clams, fish, squid, and prawns. I could barely distinguish the flavor of the mussels from the squid from the fish. That's not to say it was bad; it was not bad. But for all those savory ingredients, I might have expected something with a little more zing. Still, the experience was top-notch, and I would love to go back there sometime and actually try their snails.
Inside Los Caracoles Carnage on the battlefield: remains of the Paella Los CaracolesOnce we departed Los Carocoles, we returned to our apartment, happy, stuffed, and tired. We retired before very late, for we needed to be ready to face our upcoming, final full day in Spain: we'd be heading to Montserrat , just north of Barcelona, one of the most distinctive mountains on Earth (the name, quite aptly, means "Serrated Mountain"). A tour of its famous monastery, a nearby winery, and a geocache or two awaited us.

Read Mediterranean Sojourn Part 1 here .

Read Mediterranean Sojourn Part 2 here .

Read Mediterranean Sojourn Part 3 here .

Read Mediterranean Sojourn Part 4 here .

Read Mediterranean Sojourn Part 5 here .

Mediterranean Sojourn Pt 5: Aix-en-Provence and the Meanie of Marseilles

Sunrise at the Port of MarseillesOctober 25, 2019: Marseilles Sunrise and My Heart Aix
Through high school and college, I studied French, four years' worth; enough to be proficient, if not quite fluent, with the language. Over the years, I haven't revisited it much, so saying my French is rusty is like saying the French Revolution was but a wee squabble. Still, those half-remembered skills came in handy when our party arrived in France—specifically the Port of Marseilles, right at sunrise on Friday, October 25.

Encore, our gang of four had decided to bypass the more touristy centers and hie ourselves to the picturesque and somewhat less bustling town of Aix-en-Provence, a few miles north of Marseilles. Bright and early, a shuttle bus hauled a fair-sized group from the Rhapsody to the city center and dumped us off. We had only about four hours to do our business, since the shuttle was scheduled to pick us up at 2:00 PM—earlier than we would have liked, but I speculated that this was because the touring company didn't want to risk our bus getting caught in rush-hour traffic and thus return late to the port. Bad business, that would be.

At this point, all of us were feeling the ravenous hunger, so our first order of business was to hunt up some breakfast. We found it at a nice little restaurant along the city's main thoroughfare, and here, I was able to put my linguistic skills to good use. Happily, some crucial grammar and vocabulary came back to me quickly. Our server could speak a wee bit of English, but I was able to communicate in French with reasonable success, mostly using simple sentences, such as "Ou est la toilette, s'il vous plaît?" (Actually, most everyone in our group had learned how to ask directions to the nearest rest room in every language we were to encounter on the trip.) The breakfast—eggs, bacon (not American bacon), and fresh bread—turned out to be delicious indeed. Although I did love the café au laît across the pond, I can't say I didn't still crave our great big steaming mugs of Good Morning America. Sadly, the coffee on the ship, while accessible day in and day out, wasn't very good (think Barney Miller –grade coffee, if you're old enough to remember that great TV comedy).

There might be stunned disbelief should I mention that I set out on my own after a couple of geocaches in Aix, but indeed, that is what I did. And I found them. There were a couple of EarthCaches and Virtuals in reasonable proximity, but here's a thing about so many container-less caches in Europe: they are clearly not geared to the traveler who is keeping company with the non-geocaching set. Rather than direct you to a nice landmark, about which you might answer a handful of questions, take a photo, and claim your smiley, all too many of these things involved going from stage to stage to stage, all requiring considerable time and travel—a thing I would not subject my companions to, since they aren't into the activity the way I am. So I bypassed any number of virtuals and such that I would happily have gone after in the company of other cachers. And that's okay, I reckon. Those caches I did find made me smile real big. The two I found in Aix were challenging without being frustrating, especially the one located near the Hotel de Ville, pictured below.
The Hotel de Ville Old Rodan after finding the cache at La Place des Quatres DauphinsWhile the women sought treasures (not of the geocaching variety), Terry had discovered a lovely little outdoor bistro that served mighty fine wine. I sampled some myself and gave it my stamp of approval. In Aix, we indeed found some very good French wine; here in the states, it's been difficult to locate French vintages of such quality, regardless of price point. Sad for us, it is! Anyway, once reunited, the gang found lunch at a restaurant called Chez Nous (a.k.a. Our House), where, again, my linguistic skills were put to the test. I earned my stripes here, although one of our two servers did speak English better than I spoke French. Our lunch goodies proved excellent. Since dining at this fine establishment, the lyrics to Yes's 'Love Will Find a Way" have frequently, spontaneously wormed their way into my brain, although I reckon that's okay, since it's one of my favorite Yes songs.

"Here is my heart waiting for you.
Here is my soul.
I eat at Chez Nous."

At last, our time in Aix drew to a close, so we wandered back to our meeting point to return to the Rhapsody . Although some of the French folks we had encountered did act a bit more stand-offish than those in other places, none had displayed hostility toward us tourist types until we prepared to re-board the ship. As always, we had to go through a security checkpoint, which involved passports and sea passes, removing all items from our pockets, backpacks, etc. While always a little annoying, these were generally painless procedures. At least until France....

I call her the Meanie of Marseilles. As we stepped into the queue and began unloading our belongings, I noticed this young French woman in the garb of port security giving each incoming passenger the haughtiest, meanest looks I've ever seen, and when a passenger handed over his or her bin of personal items, the Meanie would slam it onto the conveyor and then jerk the next person's belongings right out of their hands. How mean, I thought. I will say that it's a good thing none of the items I was carrying were fragile or I would have absolutely called her on it. Not something you really want to do in a foreign land, I'm pretty sure. Sure, we all have our bad days, and maybe hers had been pretty miserable, but for someone who is supposed to be acting in the public interest, I gotta say, that ain't no way to behave. Take that from this grumpy old American, you meanie. You... you... French person you.

Since this was our last night on board, we had to pack up all our stuff and be ready to leave the ship at the upcoming ass-crack of dawn. All around us, sadness flowed like a dismal river of tears. At dinner, I pulled Charles aside and told him I was sad because it was not my birthday. He gave me no cake to console me, which certainly didn't elevate my spirits. However, for our last night on board, Terry and I hit the casino and played big. I won back a fair portion of what I had lost over the course of the week, but... it was still a net loss. Yet it ended my Casino nights on a high note, and at the end of it all, I walked away inordinately pleased with myself.

Coming up the next morning: our final port of call, Barcelona. We had some reservations about Barcelona, since we planned to spend three days there before heading home, and over the course of our cruise, we'd been hearing all too much about violent demonstrations in the city. Not just in the city, but right where we would be staying: in Catalunya Square.

Literally, right outside our door.

Read Mediterranean Sojourn Part 1 here .

Read Mediterranean Sojourn Part 2 here .

Read Mediterranean Sojourn Part 3 here .

Read Mediterranean Sojourn Part 4 here .

Mediterranean Sojourn Pt 4: Return to Italy

The view as I make my way through Tuscania toward Chiesa San Maria Maggiore, seen in the distance October 23, 2019: Tuscania
Long before we ever set foot on our cruise ship, our gang had heard from numerous sources that, while it might be spectacular and memorable, Rome is also a certified madhouse—an overcrowded, frenetic Mecca for on-the-go tourists. We all preferred something a little more low key for our return to Italy, so rather than visit Rome proper, we opted for a tour of the remote, medieval town of Tuscania and a nearby winery/olive farm that featured substantial tastings of their fare. This proved a wise choice indeed.

The Rhapsody arrived in Civitavecchia early on Wednesday, the 24th. Unlike the lovely port of Kotor, Civitavecchia is largely industrial and anything but scenic. Upon disembarking, we quickly found our tour guide and shuttle bus, settled ourselves for the ride, and off we went. The scenery on the outbound drive wasn't ugly, but neither was it particularly impressive—at least until we drew nearer to our destination. As we passed through the small town of Tarquinia, we once again began to get a sense of the region's long, rich history. Soon afterward, we reached Tuscania, a small, ancient, stone-walled city that boasts a handful of touristy establishments. As we had hoped, it proved far more sedate than most of the locations we had visited so far.

Our guide gave us a quick overview of the town, but for the most part, we were left to our own devices, a fact I particularly appreciated because a couple of geocaches awaited my attention in the city's oldest quarter. I left the rest of our party in the heart of town and set out for the caches—one located at Chiesa San Maria Maggiore , the other at Chiesa San Pietro . While Terry, Beth, and Kimberly had a fine enough time shopping and sightseeing in Tuscania, geocaching may have once again provided me with the richer experience: I got to wander down quiet, essentially deserted streets, taking in the local atmosphere and seeing at close range the beauty of this centuries-old town. The walk turned out to be just over a mile round trip, and the caches were both creative and well-hidden.
The tower of Chiesa San Pietro in the distance—one of my caching destinations in Tuscania Chiesa San Maria Maggiore I made a nice little friend!
I rejoined our party just in time to board our bus to head for the olive farm/winery for cicchetti and spirits. We found the fare here delicious, the setting peaceful and scenic. Plus, as with so many places we visited in Europe, there were cats. These felines were quite sociable, and after our light lunch, I made friends with a sweet little kitten who seemed at least as interested in our company as our lunches. Once finished with our vittles and vino, we returned to the Rhapsody , though with plenty of time before sailing again late in the afternoon.

So, rather than while away the rest of the day on the ship, we decided to venture back out and wander around Civitavecchia. This port city offered a few of the usual establishments for eating and drinking, a couple of which we checked out. I did hunt another cache—this one, of all things, commemorating the World Trade Center attack on 9/11. The cache proved tricky, but again, it was nicely done. A favorite moment in Civitavecchia was stumbling upon the entrance to a music hall established in honor of my favorite film music composer, Ennio Morricone, best known, at least in this country, for his Italian western movie scores.

Back on the ship, we enjoyed another fine dinner with our regular group. Charles still refused to bring me extra cake when I informed him it was my birthday. Nancy and Marsha had indeed gone into Rome, which they enjoyed, but confirmed that, yes, it was a bleeping madhouse. Now more than ever we were glad we had avoided that particular onslaught of humanity and appreciated our perhaps less well-known but far more relaxing destinations.

October 24, 2019: Florence and the Uffizi From Hell
Pan and Daphnis by Heliodorus of Rhodes,
in the Uffizi Gallery
If our Tuscania outing had made for a tranquil day on Wednesday, our excursion into Florence on Thursday most certainly did not. The Rhapsody pulled into the port of Livorno, which services both Florence and Pisa, well before we woke up. From Livorno, we rode into Florence by way of the express train from hell. Hell, I say, due to the extreme heat within, a mysterious misery that Italians seem to ubiquitously embrace. Even in temperatures of 70°F, most of the population walked around bundled in jackets and scarves, and the interiors of buildings and public transports virtually always hovered in the near-unbearable range for us hot-blooded Americans. We had one tour planned in Florence: the Uffizi Gallery , which contains works of art by Michelangelo, Da Vinci, Botticelli, Caravaggio, and many other artists of great historical renown. Unfortunately, this was the one day of the trip that it rained—prodigious amounts, all day long. I don't know how Rome would have compared, but Florence overflowed with muggles, so that getting from place to place turned out to be far more problematic than any of our other destinations. Getting around the Uffizi Gallery proved to be worst of all.

Kimberly had paid premium prices to get "Skip-the-Line" tickets, which we figured would get us past the madding crowd; indeed, we got past one madding crowd, only to be thrust into an even bigger one before we could enter the gallery. But once we did—I swear to Yog-Sothoth—the place was a mob scene. One could barely walk, and the noise level rose to galling levels. Museum staff members began shushing people in the various galleries. It was almost embarrassing to be among the tourists wandering around in there. We did see any number of fantastic works of art, but it wasn't long before the atmosphere in the place became so oppressive that we all just wanted out. And that is where we ran into our biggest obstacle: finding a goddamn uscita (exit).

Countless signs labeled uscita directed us down specific corridors. Yet each one led only to another gallery, each a dead-end. Eventually, we asked a museum staff member for assistance. He pointed us in a whole different direction, and at last we were able to find our way down to the first level. Here, on occasion, we could actually see the street—but always through doors labeled "emergency only." So again, we had to thread our way through a seemingly endless maze of corridors, galleries, and stairways. We followed one uscita sign after another, often coming tantalizingly close to the great outdoors, only to be foiled again, again, and again.

At last, when we finally did reach a bona fide exit, a museum staff member demanded our tickets. Apparently, one needs a ticket not only to get into the place but out of it. The problem was, by this point, some of us had apparently tossed them, and I had stuffed mine into one of the pockets of my hiking pants, apparently at such depth I couldn't find the damned thing again. At last, exasperated, the lady instructed us to just move the hell on, so we would be out of her sight. And thus the last vestige of any fondness I might retain for the Uffizi Gallery up and withered away.
Laocoonus and His Sons by Baccio BandinelliAfter this debacle, we headed in the direction of the Duomo at Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore. Here, I was able to claim a virtual cache, which lifted my spirits a bit. Happily, the rain had let up, so we sought some lunch at a nearby outdoor restaurant—only to have the blasted bottom fall out again as soon as we sat down. Canopies partially covered the tables, but on occasion, rivulets of cold water poured our backs and prompted us to emote by way of hollering. The food, at least, hit the spot.
Il Duomo at Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore
Some places in Italy we hated to leave. Florence was not one of them. To be fair, on the day in question, no less than six cruise ships docked in Livorno had dumped veritable hordes of humans into the region. And the rain certainly complicated matters. Florence surely has plenty of historic treasures to offer; it's just that, for us, circumstances at the time didn't quite gel for optimum enjoyment. I would happily give Florence another chance on some future trip.

Once out of Livorno, we left Italy behind once and for all. I will say, whatever discomforts we sometimes faced, all in all, I found Italy an altogether alluring and agreeable place, and I so want to return someday, particularly to Venice and Verona.

Our next port of call would be Marseilles, France, although, once again, we decided to bypass that well-known city and visit the smaller, somewhat less touristy town of Aix-en-Provence, a short distance to the north. Aix would yet become another of our favorite stops on the continent.

Read Mediterranean Sojourn Part 1 here .

Read Mediterranean Sojourn Part 2 here .

Read Mediterranean Sojourn Part 3 here .

Mediterranean Sojourn Pt 3: From Montenegro to Stromboli

October 21, 2019: The Cats of Montenegro
After our day in Croatia, we didn't know what to expect from Kotor, Montenegro, our next port of call. Given its proximity to the previous stop, we suspected it would be more of something akin to the same.

As it turned out, Montenegro was anything but more of the same. The moment I saw the huge mountains looming high above the ship as it sailed into the bay, I knew a whole different experience awaited us. Here, we had not booked a guided tour; just a water shuttle to take us from the Rhapsody and dump us off on foreign soil. As strangers in an alien place, we figured we would take our chances and hope for the best. At the last minute, friend Terry began feeling puny and decided to remain aboard the ship. I'm not going to categorically state that he might have overindulged at the casino the night before, but neither will I rule out that possibility.

As Beth, Ms. B., and Old Dude disembarked, we could feel the aura of ancient age that surrounded the town, which is considerably larger than Zadar. The first thing I encountered was a group of geocachers—Swedish and Canadian, it turned out—gathered around the cache just outside the port. They were apparently from our ship, though as I discovered from the online logs, literally dozens of other cachers, from a couple of different cruise ships, found the same caches I did on that day. Later, as we were leaving, I saw more cachers gathered at the port hide, apparently having a little trouble finding it. I managed to set them straight.

In the town proper, upon getting our bearings, the three of us set out exploring and immediately discovered another world of narrow, labyrinthine streets and alleys, not unlike those in Venice. We saw, atop the high ridge that overlooked the town, the battlements of a sprawling, ancient stone fortress. A strenuous walking trail leads to it, but we didn't undertake that venture. Our regular dinner companions, Nancy and Marsha, evidently did, and they told us that the exertion nearly wiped them out. I did seek and find a couple of geocaches, thus adding a new country to my caching portfolio.

And catses. Catses roamed here in profusion. Kotor is known for its cats, which are essentially feral, although, due to their constant exposure to humans, the ones we encountered were reasonably social. As we came to one of the myriad outdoor bistros in the middle of town, we saw numerous cats lounging about on chairs and under tables. Beth and Brugger found a few shops that piqued their interest (a thing that happened frequently in all our ports of call). For a time, we settled ourselves at a nice outdoor restaurant called Jazz Club Evergreen , which, while Montenegro-esque in atmosphere, paid tribute to American jazz musicians. Cats lounged in profusion here. We availed ourselves to some Montenegrin wine, a varietal called Vranac, which proved excellent—not unlike a slightly tart Cab Sauv with an agreeable touch of mustiness in the finish. Eventually, after negotiating another intricate maze of streets, confusing even with the GPS, we located a nearby restaurant we had previously seen and ordered lunch, doing our best to pronounce the Montenegrin dish names. (Our server gave me a big thumbs-up when I asked whether he could comprehend my questionable vocalizations.) Beth and Brugger ordered pizzas, which were huge and delicious in the extreme. I found myself with a dish that was a variation on Chicken Cordon Bleu, quite tasty, but so huge I couldn't possibly finish it. No worries; there are cats. A couple of very friendly little guys came around and helped me kill what I couldn't eat.
One of our lunch companions Jazz Club EvergreenAfter lunch, we roamed around town a little more (read ladies shopping) before heading back to the port and catching a shuttle back to the ship.

The Rhapsody set sail again late in the afternoon, and after we'd been moving for a while, I ventured up on deck. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of not taking my phone with me. I say it was a mistake because if ever there were sights to photograph, this was the place. I didn't want to run back to the room to grab it for fear I'd miss out on the views altogether. The peaks rising on either side of the channel were prodigious, and as we rounded a peninsula, the town of Perast came into view. What a spectacular sight. Perast is a beautiful, seaside village, with the prominent tower of St. Nickola Church standing out above the shore. The sun had fallen beyond the mountains, and the town's lights were just coming on. I could see, a short distance away, a couple of small islands in the bay. These were St. George and Our Lady of the Rocks . This was, for me, a transcendental moment, a view of such beauty that I found myself mesmerized. I believe, at that point, it would have been physically impossible for me to even attempt to break away and run back to my cabin for my camera. So, unfortunately, you are left with no images of the views that had captured me, though the links above may at least give you an idea.
From there, we sailed on into open sea, our next stop being Civitavecchia, the port city for Rome and Pisa. But it was over a day away, and Tuesday, the 22nd, would be our only full day out at sea. But it too would prove itself spectacular.

October 22, 2019: Anyone for Stromboli?
The few days we'd been in Europe had been busy busy, so having a relaxing day at sea made for a welcome change of pace. There was napping, reading, Casino-ing, eating, and a spot of drinking. In Italy, I had discovered what might be considered, for me, an uncharacteristically frou-frou drink: the Campari Spritz . Mind you, in Italy, the Campari Spritz is considered the "masculine" drink, while the milder-flavored Aperol Spritz reputedly appeals more to feminine tastes. Anyway, once I had drunk one of the damned Campari things, it grew on me. So, for most of the rest of the voyage, Campari and a traditional Damned Bloody Mary were my spirits of choice.

Around midday, the Rhapsody rounded the toe of the boot, passing through the narrow channel between Italy and Sicily at Messina. Here lay the legendary realm of Scylla and Charybdis from Homer's The Odyssey . I had expected to find prodigious cliffs here, but they rose only on the Italian side. The Sicilian shore was long, narrow, and very flat. We could, however, clearly see Mt. Etna in the distance, smoking away, partially obscured by clouds.
It's difficult to see, but far back in the haze, that's Mt. Etna in Sicily, oozing a plume of smoke. The view as we round the tip of Italy's bootIt wasn't long before a distant, lonely, conical mountain rising from the ocean off to starboard caught our eyes. To our surprise, we could see the mountain occasionally belching a column of black smoke. This, I discovered, was Mt. Stromboli, one in a chain of volcanic islands in the sea north of Sicily. We had a view of the peak for over an hour, passing it close enough to see seagulls flying around the shore. To my surprise, there are two villages at the base of the mountain as well as a cruise ship port. Our dinner companion Dave postulated that one must be able to purchase land for a pittance here. After all, who would actually up and think, "Hey, here is a huge volcano spewing smoke. Let's build a village at the bottom!"

Friend Terry and I figured that, well, as long as the mountain is venting, that's a pretty good sign. If it stops venting, it might be time to worry a little. I shouldn't much want to be nearby should that thing decide to blow its stack.
Mt. Stromboli, seen in the distance as we approach Mt Stromboli at closer range, now puffing a bit of smoke.
The islands of Salina and Ripari, seen in the distance from near Mt. StromboliFor our next day's plan, we had decided to forego the splendors (read madhouse crowds) of Rome and instead visit a more sedate location: the ancient village of Tuscania and one of the nearby wineries, about a forty-five minute drive from Civitavecchia. Terry had recuperated from feeling puny and was all ready to tackle some fine wine once again. You may find that tale in my next installment, coming up later.

Read Mediterranean Sojourn Part 1 here .

Read Mediterranean Sojourn Part 2 here .

Mediterranean Sojourn Pt 2: Bon Voyage

October 19, 2019: Con te Partiro
Leaving Venice hit me in the heart in ways I never expected. I fell in love with Venice, truly and deeply.
On the morning of October 19, our gang of four made its way to the port on the west end of the city. Here we boarded our cruise ship, Royal Caribbean's Rhapsody of the Seas. Once checked in, we grabbed some lunch, explored the ship, and—just prior to sailing—headed up to the main deck with some refreshing, delicious, overpriced drinks. The ship weighed anchor just before sunset. Once under way, we got to view Venice in all its glory as we slowly passed by, to the strains of "Con te Partiro (Time to Say Goodbye)," a magnificent duet by Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman.
It's a song I've adored since I first heard it, back in 1998 at friend/author David Niall Wilson's place. I eventually picked up the Bocelli CD for my mom because I knew she would love the music. She did. And the song, "Con te Partiro" (which actually means "With You, I Will Leave") came to be, for her, the definitive reminder of my dad, who passed away in 2001. It was there on deck that I remembered her loving the song for that reason, and now, combined with a new, deep, personal context, my emotions simply broke. I almost could not stop crying.

Those last views of Venice rolling past at sunset have been burned indelibly in my heart and mind.
The Centrum aboard Rhapsody of the Seas
I had been on one cruise before, many years ago, with my ex-wife. We went to the western Caribbean on the Carnival Pride , a considerably larger ship than Rhapsody of the Seas. Still, aboard the Rhapsody , our cabin was comfortable, if tight in the way of all cruise ships; the service over the course of the cruise impeccable; the activities entertaining. That first evening, at dinner, we met a lovely English couple named Dave and Jane; we would soon also be sharing our table with a very sweet American lady named Nancy and her niece, a young woman named Marsha whose wit and humor never failed to amuse us. Over the course of the week, our regular dinner companions would prove enjoyable company, as would our servers: a friendly but perpetually somber Croatian gentleman named Hrvoje and his ever-jovial assistant Charles.

On that first evening, for some reason, the restaurant staff had the impression it was my birthday. Just after dinner, an army of servers came charging at me, one carrying a big old piece of chocolate mousse cake, the lot of them singing "Happy Birthday" at the top of their lungs. Quelle surprise! I tried to tell them that, no, it was not my birthday, but they assured me it most certainly was, for they had been thusly informed. Therefore, I had to eat the cake. Well, okay. I ate it, however reluctantly, and it was really good. Later, Charles came round to tell me there had been a mistake. From then on, every evening at dinner, at least until the last one, I pulled Charles aside and told him it was my birthday. I never got any extra cake, though.

While I consider myself a loyal friend to most, I cannot help but assess individuals as objectively as possible. And it is with such objectivity I must divulge to you that, on occasion, friend Terry can be an altogether corrupting influence. Terry has been known to play Blackjack in the ship's casino, and on this trip, he sometimes exerted his wicked influence on me to do this same. He would say, "Mark, I am going to the casino." See what I mean? Now, I am not an avid or accomplished gambler, though I do enjoy a good game of cards now and again. So, over the next few days, I lost—thankfully—a relatively small amount of cash. (Happily, I made up for a fair portion of it on our final night at sea. Whew.) I don't know for sure how well Terry made out over the long haul, but I wouldn't be surprised if he corrupted a few other unsuspecting souls in that casino as well. Should you encounter friend Terry, you have been warned.

October 20, 2019: On to Zadar
An entertaining little Croatian bistro
Our ship's first port of call was Zadar, Croatia, where we arrived early on Sunday morning. Zadar is an old, fairly small city, scenic enough, though not as striking as some of the locations we would eventually visit. Prior to our trip, Ms. B. and I had practiced, as much as possible, common phrases, sentences, and vocabulary in Italian, French, and Spanish. However, Croatian (and Montenegrin) were not much in our repertoire. Actually, not at all. Happily, since the port is regularly full of tourists, the staff at most of the establishments we visited spoke intelligible English. Reading the language, however—which is written in Cyrillic—was right out.

Our first activity was a tour of the town, which lasted perhaps an hour and a half. The highlight was seeing some ancient Roman ruins. The tour proved was nice enough, but—as it turned out over the course of the trip—we most enjoyed being dumped out on our own to make our ways as best we could. Following the tour, we sought sought food, drink, and geocaches (well, only one of us for the latter). We did find an exceptional gelato shop, which is saying something, since we discovered what must be the best gelato on Earth in Venice and Verona. And the capuccino couldn't have been better.

Our stay in Zadar wasn't that long, and by mid-afternoon, we were making our way back to the ship. I think most of us recovered from our several days of being on the go-go-go by way of napping. In the evening, our gang ended up in the Karaoke lounge, where we all went to town. (I'm certain I recollect that NO drinking was involved. You believe me, right?) I performed REM's "Losing My Religion"; Kim performed Madonna's "La Isla Bonita" (superbly, I must mention); and Beth, Kim, and I all joined Terry on stage to sing Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline." The latter brought the house down, though I suspect this might be due to Terry's corrupting influence. Our concerted attempts to persuade Kim to do some Bon Jovi... mais alas!... failed miserably.

Coming up later: Montenegro
Ancient church in Zadar L: Ancient Roman Medusa sculpture in Zadar; R: Contemporary Medusa painting in Florence
Read Mediterranean Sojourn Part 1 here .

Mediterranean Sojourn Pt 1: From Venice With Love

Where to begin? It was the trip of a lifetime — at least of this life to date. At the culmination of what has been the single most difficult, frustrating, trying, upsetting, stressful, agonizing period in my 60+ years of existence, due to my mom's near-catastrophic decline, I embarked with the lovely Ms. Brugger and friends Terry and Beth on a two-week-long sojourn in the Mediterranean. We had begun planning the trip over a year ago — and paid for most of it — well before the time came to sail. It was only excruciatingly awful timing that my mom's situation came to a head shortly before we were scheduled to leave. Although there is truly no resolution until Mom passes away, the worst of it, at least for now, seems to have passed.

To recount even a few of the highlights of this trip, I'll need to write a series of blogs as time allows. For my own edification, I'd love to make this little travelogue as comprehensive as possible, but as pressing writing deadlines loom, I must set appropriate priorities. You may thank me for the verbal brevity, if there is such a thing, though I will try to post lots of images, which you might find more appealing.
Gassing up to go: Beth, Terry, Ms. B., and Old Rodan before our connecting flight at Philadelphia International October 16, 2019: V-Day
On Tuesday, October 15, our band departed Greensboro, NC, flew first to Philadelphia, PA, and from there to Venice, Italy, where we arrived early on October 16. We had three days in the city before boarding Royal Caribbean's Rhapsody of the Seas for a cruise from Venice to Zadar, Croatia; to Kotor, Montenegro; to Civitavecchia, Italy (near Rome); to Livorno, Italy (near Pisa and Florence); to Marseilles, France; and finally to Barcelona (Cataluña), Spain. Outbound, our flights, via American Airlines, while not particularly comfortable, went off without any hitches. While most of the gang slept on the overseas flight, my very hard seat prevented much relaxation. For me, the only particular highlight was watching The Right Stuff , which I hadn't seen since its initial release in 1983, on the seatback screen. The flight landed in Venice, as scheduled, on the 16th about 10 AM. From there a few little hitches did crop up. From Marco Polo International Airport, on the mainland, we had to take a water taxi ( Alilaguna ) to the island — about a forty-five-minute ride. The docks were crowded enough that we couldn't make it onto the first couple of transports, and between their appointed rounds, the boat skippers were going to take their full thirty-minute breaks no matter how long the line of passengers grew. (Long. Very long.) So, from the time we stepped off the jet, a good three hours passed before we set foot on the water taxi dock in Venice proper.
The view from our apartment
But from there... for the most part... Venice proved every bit as historic, beautiful, fascinating, and enchanting as every story, song, or work of art has ever portrayed it. Lodging for our three days was at a lovely VRBO flat on Fondamenta Foscarini along the Rio de S. Margherita. As with most places we ventured into, not only in Venice but Europe in general, the rooms, the furnishings, the elevators, and particularly the bathrooms appear to have been designed for individuals roughly the size of Peter Dinklage. Still, while a little tight, our quarters proved generally comfortable. At least until...

The mosquitoes.

Since the temperature in Venice varied little from our own back home — read unseasonably warm — we mostly kept the windows open. That way, we managed to keep cool and unsweaty. However, since no screens protected these lovely portals, wildlife was free to venture inside. Initially, our primary concern was that the plentiful pigeons might take it to heart to visit us. They did not, but I would much rather have dealt with the birds.

The minuscule buzzing monsters swarmed inside during our sleep that first night. Brugger and I each woke up one great big itch, with nary a drop of blood left in our bodies. (A fair portion of it ended up on the heretofore pristine walls every time we managed to smash one of these savage Italian bloodfuckers.) After that, it was too late to do much about the damage done, but for the rest of our stay, we took a few extra precautions, such as leaving curtains drawn and bathing in DEET.

Now, needless to say, I hadn't been in Venice long before I found my first geocache. I managed to claim 36 during the trip — 20 in Italy, 10 in Spain, and 2 each in Croatia, Montenegro, and France. Most were urban micros, some quite ingenious. I failed to find a couple, but for the most part, the caches turned out to be nicely hidden and not too difficult.

There's no way I'll remember the numerous eating and drinking establishments we visited. There were simply too many. Venice offers a seemingly infinite number of restaurants, cafés, and bars, many tucked away in the tiny, labyrinthine alleys and along the myriad canals. Some of the best places we found by accident, just by venturing down some unknown, shadowy, seemingly little-traveled passage. I've always enjoyed Italian food, though I've rarely actually craved it. It's safe to say Venice (and perhaps Verona) offered the best Italian food I've ever eaten, and now I'm not sure I'm going to be able to get enough of it. Which isn't necessarily the healthiest thing, since oftentimes the only way to burn off even moderate portions of such fare is to exercise at least as much as we did walking around Venice. And that was a lot.

I can only marvel that, prior to GPS technology, people somehow made their ways from place to place in Venice. The streets and alleys create such endless mazes, it's easy to envision becoming lost for quite some time in even a relatively small corner of the city.

Though we were exhausted from our travels on that first day, we had signed up in advance for a tour of the Jewish ghetto and cicchetti bàcari — essentially tapas bars — that evening. We had expected it to be relatively short, with a fair sampling of food and wine. It turned out to be a 2.5-hour informational walking tour with a small sampling of refreshments for good measure. Our guide, a young lady named Lara, offered an engaging presentation, but by the time she finished, physical exhaustion had about taken its toll on our party. It's a wonder some of us didn't collapse long before we ever began the nearly two-mile trek through the labyrinths back to our flat. Truly, the highlight of that evening had come as we made our way to the tour's starting point: as we emerged from an alley so narrow I couldn't stretch my arms out, we beheld a sizable piazza occupied by a host of spectators and a full orchestra playing music from Andrew Lloyd Webber's The Phantom of the Opera . What an intense, stirring experience. And so unexpected! Prior to our arrival, we hadn't heard so much as a faint strain of music, and thus we came upon it with no warning. We rather hated to leave this appealing event behind, but since time was running short to make our enagement, we reluctantly did so.

October 17, 2019: Shades of Moonraker
Piazza San Marco Among the things I most enjoyed about Venice was seeing a plethora of familiar sights from the 007 films From Russia With Love , Moonraker , and Casino Royale . For all its ridiculousness, Moonraker showcased some of Venice's most attractive locations, particularly Piazza San Marco, or St. Mark's Square. Here, I was surprised to find Venini Glass — the shop featured in Moonraker that provides the nefarious Hugo Drax with custom satellite-borne tubes that contain a lethal toxin — located right where it is in the movie: adjacent to the clock tower on the north end of the square, facing the Basilica di San Marco. No doubt the shop's interior is quite different than it is portrayed in the film, but seeing its facade struck me as intriguing, since I had always assumed the establishment was fictitious.

Exploring Piazza San Marco and surrounding environs occupied a fair portion of the day. I did find a few geocaches in the area, which of course made me happier than a Godzilla fan boy in an X-Plus toy store. From there, we wandered northward to a few shops and historical landmarks that Ms. B. wanted to visit. Chief among them were the flooded crypts under the Basilica di San Zaccaria. Beneath this 15th-century architectural marvel are submerged tombs that house the bodies of doges dating back to the church's earliest years. Standing water is always present, but if you don't mind slightly wet feet, you can explore these catacombs, the extent of which depends on the water level at the time. I ventured in at the first level, where the water was only an inch or so deep, but in the same chamber, a foot-deep pool reflected the columns and vaulted ceiling, creating an eerily beautiful atmosphere.
Submerged tombs beneath the Basilica di San ZaccariaOctober 18, 2019: Verona and Vino
Tower of the San Giorgio basilica,
which dates back to the 8th centuryMs. B., ever mindful of the necessity of complementing our explorations of history, architecture, and culture with wine, had booked for us a tour of Coali Winery in the Valpolicella region, about thirty miles northwest of Venice. To get there, we took the fast train from Venice to the city of Verona, a ride made incredibly uncomfortable due to the extreme heat at which Italians seem to ubiquitously embrace. Even in temperatures of 70°F, most of the population walked around bundled in jackets and scarves, and the interiors of buildings and public transportation vehicles virtually always hovered in the near-unbearable range for us hot-blooded Americans. Anyway, once free of the express train from hell, we hunted down and killed breakfast at a fine little establishment in downtown Verona. Here, we met our tour guide, a young lady named Martina, who possessed an excellent command of English. While all of us usually managed to make ourselves understood by way of our simple, fragmented Italian, it was a relief to be able to converse intelligibly in our native tongue. Best of all, it was only the four of us on the tour. No crowd of muggles to contend with.

Before heading to the winery, Martina drove us far into the hills of the Valpolicella region, to the medieval town of San Giorgio. Here we explored an 8th-century church built atop far older pagan ruins, some of which can be seen in the basilica's candlelit interior, at the base of its stone pillars. We then wandered along the main road of the old town, which is populated primarily by cats. Only a handful of people live there, but the cats... they are everywhere and, in general, relatively friendly. Happily, they all speak our language.
Column built atop a pedestal
originally from a pagan temple
at this location.
The one tragic event that occurred in San Giorgio was my discovering too late that a single cache lurked there — right where we had been walking. The old dullard had been too busy absorbing Martina's fascinating account of the town's history to look at his phone to see if any caches might be hiding nearby. Well, one did, and yes, I missed it. So now I must go back.

At last, we headed to Coali Winery, not far from San Giorgio. As we arrived, an exuberant young woman named Maria came to meet us. The winery belongs to her family, and its main building is actually the family home, where she grew up. Though very small, Coali produces some of the finest wine in the region, and our tastings here provided the proof. From their Valpolicella Classico to the Superiore to the Ripasso to the Amarone, all the wines stood head and shoulders above just about any other that we tasted during our trip. Ms. B. and I picked up a couple of bottles of the Ripasso, and if we'd been able to afford it, we would happily have brought home more, preferably the Amarone.

After this fine experience, Martina drove us back to Verona, which we decided to explore further. We wandered down to the Verona Arena, a colosseum that predates the more famous one in Rome. Though a little smaller, Verona's colosseum is no less impressive and, after all these centuries, is still in use. I suspect event attendees prefer to bring cushions with them, for those stone seats are liable to bruise one's backside.
Old Rodan at Il Balcone di Giuletta,
with a couple of miscreants (Terry and
Beth) having it out up above
We also visited Il Balcone di Giulietta — Juliette's Balcony — reputedly the real-world location of the Capulet house in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliette. While the balcony and courtyard are scenic (and host a nice geocache, which I found), the interior of the place might be considered underwhelming. We paid for a tour, which consisted of four floors of mostly vacant rooms, the most of impressive of which contained Juliette's bed from Franco Zeffirelli's 1968 film Romeo and Juliette (as an aside, I will confess that I find Andre Kostelanetz's orchestration of Nino Rota's main theme from the film soundtrack one of the most beautiful pieces of music on record).

Afterward, we found a delicious dinner at an outdoor restaurant — and a few more caches — in the Piazza del Erbe, in Verona's city center. Eventually, we made our way back to the train (fortunately, slightly less roasty than our inbound train) and Venice. By the time we arrived back at our apartment, the wee hours of the morning were staring us in the face, and we knew we had to get moving early in the morning to get to the port to begin our cruise.

And more of this epic will follow as time permits....
L: a rather mean-looking cherub in the church at San Giorgio; R: Found a boner in Verona, I did. The Rialto Bridge, seen from our water taxi Courtyard in San Giorgio View of Valpolicella from San Giorgio Piazza del Erbe in Verona

Mediterranean Sojourn Pt 1:From Venice With Love

Where to begin? It was the trip of a lifetime — at least of this life to date. At the culmination of what has been the single most difficult, frustrating, trying, upsetting, stressful, agonizing period in my 60+ years of existence, due to my mom's near-catastrophic decline, I embarked with the lovely Ms. Brugger and friends Terry and Beth on a two-week-long sojourn in the Mediterranean. We had begun planning the trip over a year ago — and paid for most of it — well before the time came to sail. It was only excruciatingly awful timing that my mom's situation came to a head shortly before we were scheduled to leave. Although there is truly no resolution until Mom passes away, the worst of it, at least for now, seems to have passed.

To recount even a few of the highlights of this trip, I'll need to write a series of blogs as time allows. For my own edification, I'd love to make this little travelogue as comprehensive as possible, but as pressing writing deadlines loom, I must set appropriate priorities. You may thank me for the verbal brevity, if there is such a thing, though I will try to post lots of images, which you might find more appealing.
Gassing up to go: Beth, Terry, Ms. B., and Old Rodan before our connecting flight at Philadelphia International October 16, 2019: V-Day
On Tuesday, October 15, our band departed Greensboro, NC, flew first to Philadelphia, PA, and from there to Venice, Italy, where we arrived early on October 16. We had three days in the city before boarding Royal Caribbean's Rhapsody of the Seas for a cruise from Venice to Zadar, Croatia; to Kotor, Montenegro; to Civitavecchia, Italy (near Rome); to Livorno, Italy (near Pisa and Florence); to Marseilles, France; and finally to Barcelona (Cataluña), Spain. Outbound, our flights, via American Airlines, while not particularly comfortable, went off without any hitches. While most of the gang slept on the overseas flight, my very hard seat prevented much relaxation. For me, the only particular highlight was watching The Right Stuff , which I hadn't seen since its initial release in 1983, on the seatback screen. The flight landed in Venice, as scheduled, on the 16th about 10 AM. From there a few little hitches did crop up. From Marco Polo International Airport, on the mainland, we had to take a water taxi ( Alilaguna ) to the island — about a forty-five-minute ride. The docks were crowded enough that we couldn't make it onto the first couple of transports, and between their appointed rounds, the boat skippers were going to take their full thirty-minute breaks no matter how long the line of passengers grew. (Long. Very long.) So, from the time we stepped off the jet, a good three hours passed before we set foot on the water taxi dock in Venice proper.
The view from our apartment
But from there... for the most part... Venice proved every bit as historic, beautiful, fascinating, and enchanting as every story, song, or work of art has ever portrayed it. Lodging for our three days was at a lovely VRBO flat on Fondamenta Foscarini along the Rio de S. Margherita. As with most with most places we ventured into, not only in Venice but Europe in general, the rooms, the furnishings, the elevators, and particularly the bathrooms appear to have been designed for individuals roughly the size of Peter Dinklage. Still, while a little tight, our quarters proved generally comfortable. At least until...

The mosquitoes.

Since the temperature in Venice varied little from our own back home — read unseasonably warm — we mostly kept the windows open. That way, we managed to keep cool and unsweaty. However, since no screens protected these lovely portals, wildlife was free to venture inside. Initially, our primary concern was that the plentiful pigeons might take it to heart to visit us. They did not, but I would much rather have dealt with the birds.

The minuscule buzzing monsters swarmed inside during our sleep that first night. Brugger and I each woke up one great big itch, with nary a drop of blood left in our bodies. (A fair portion of it ended up on the heretofore pristine walls every time we managed to smash one of these savage Italian bloodfuckers.) After that, it was too late to do much about the damage done, but for the rest of our stay, we took a few extra precautions, such as leaving curtains drawn and bathing in DEET.

Now, needless to say, I hadn't been in Venice long before I found my first geocache. I managed to claim 36 during the trip — 20 in Italy, 10 in Spain, and 2 each in Croatia, Montenegro, and France. Most were urban micros, some quite ingenious. I failed to find a couple, but for the most part, the caches turned out to be nicely hidden and not too difficult.

There's no way I'll remember the numerous eating and drinking establishments we visited. There were simply too many. Venice offers a seemingly infinite number of restaurants, cafés, and bars, many tucked away in the tiny, labyrinthine alleys and along the myriad canals. Some of the best places we found by accident, just by venturing down some unknown, shadowy, seemingly little-traveled passage. I've always enjoyed Italian food, though I've rarely actually craved it. It's safe to say Venice (and perhaps Verona) offered the best Italian food I've ever eaten, and now I'm not sure I'm going to be able to get enough of it. Which isn't necessarily the healthiest thing, since oftentimes the only way to burn off even moderate portions of such fare is to exercise at least as much as we did walking around Venice. And that was a lot.

I can only marvel that, prior to GPS technology, people somehow made their ways from place to place in Venice. The streets and alleys create such endless mazes, it's easy to envision becoming lost for quite some time in even a relatively small corner of the city.

Though we were exhausted from our travels on that first day, we had signed up in advance for a tour of the Jewish ghetto and cicchetti bàcari — essentially tapas bars — that evening. We had expected it to be relatively short, with a fair sampling of food and wine. It turned out to be a 2.5-hour informational walking tour with a small sampling of refreshments for good measure. Our guide, a young lady named Lara, offered an engaging presentation, but by the time she finished, physical exhaustion had about taken its toll on our party. It's a wonder some of us didn't collapse long before we ever began the nearly two-mile trek through the labyrinths back to our flat. Truly, the highlight of that evening had come as we made our way to the tour's starting point: as we emerged from an alley so narrow I couldn't stretch my arms out, we beheld a sizable piazza occupied by a host of spectators and a full orchestra playing music from Andrew Lloyd Webber's The Phantom of the Opera . What an intense, stirring experience. And so unexpected! Prior to our arrival, we hadn't heard so much as a faint strain of music, and thus we came upon it with no warning. We rather hated to leave this appealing event behind, but since time was running short to make our enagement, we reluctantly did so.

October 17, 2019: Shades of Moonraker
Piazza San Marco Among the things I most enjoyed about Venice was seeing a plethora of familiar sights from the 007 films From Russia With Love , Moonraker , and Casino Royale . For all its ridiculousness, Moonraker showcased some of Venice's most attractive locations, particularly Piazza San Marco, or St. Mark's Square. Here, I was surprised to find Venini Glass — the shop featured in Moonraker that provides the nefarious Hugo Drax with custom, octagonal satellite tubes that contain a lethal toxin — located right where it is in the movie: adjacent to the clock tower on the north end of the square, facing the Basilica di San Marco. No doubt the shop's interior is quite different than it is portrayed in the film, but seeing its facade struck me as intriguing, since I had always assumed the establishment was fictitious.

Exploring Piazza San Marco and surrounding environs occupied a fair portion of the day. I did find a few geocaches in the area, which of course made me happier than a Godzilla fan boy in an X-Plus toy store. From there, we wandered northward to a few shops and historical landmarks that Ms. B. wanted to visit. Chief among them were the flooded crypts under the Basilica di San Zaccaria. Beneath this 15th-century architectural marvel are submerged tombs that house the bodies of doges dating back to the church's earliest years. Standing water is always present, but if you don't mind slightly wet feet, you can explore these catacombs, the extent of which depends on the water level at the time. I ventured in at the first level, where the water was only an inch or so deep, but in the same chamber, a foot-deep pool reflected the columns and vaulted ceiling, creating an eerily beautiful atmosphere.
Submerged tombs beneath the Basilica di San ZaccariaOctober 18, 2019: Verona and Vino
Tower of the San Giorgio basilica,
which dates back to the 8th centuryMs. B., ever mindful of the necessity of complementing our explorations of history, architecture, and culture with wine, had booked for us a tour of Coali Winery in the Valpolicella region, about thirty miles northwest of Venice. To get there, we took the fast train from Venice to the city of Verona, a ride made incredibly uncomfortable due to the extreme heat at which Italians seem to ubiquitously embrace. Even in temperatures of 70°F, most of the population walked around bundled in jackets and scarves, and the interiors of buildings and public transportation vehicles virtually always hovered in the near-unbearable range for us hot-blooded Americans. Anyway, once free of the express train from hell, we hunted down and killed breakfast at a fine little establishment in downtown Verona. Here, we met our tour guide, a young lady named Martina, who possessed an excellent command of English. While all of us usually managed to make ourselves understood by way of our simple, fragmented Italian, it was a relief to be able to converse intelligibly in our native tongue. Best of all, it was only the four of us on the tour. No crowd of muggles to contend with.

Before heading to the winery, Martina drove us far into the hills of the Valpolicella region, to the medieval town of San Giorgio. Here we explored an 8th-century church built atop far older pagan ruins, some of which can be seen in the basilica's candlelit interior, at the base of its stone pillars. We then wandered along the main road of the old town, which is populated primarily by cats. Only a handful of people live there, but the cats... they are everywhere and, in general, relatively friendly. Happily, they all speak our language.
Column built atop a pedestal
originally from a pagan temple
at this location.
The one tragic event that occurred in San Giorgio was my discovering too late that a single cache lurked there — right where we had been walking. The old dullard had been too busy absorbing Martina's fascinating account of the town's history to look at his phone to see if any caches might be hiding nearby. Well, one did, and yes, I missed it. So now I must go back.

At last, we headed to Coali Winery, not far from San Giorgio. As we arrived, an exuberant young woman named Maria came to meet us. The winery belonged to her family, and its main building is actually the family home. She grew up there before her the old farm was converted to a winery. Though very small, Coali produces some of the finest wine in the region, and our tastings here provided the proof. From their Valpolicella Classico to the Superiore to the Ripasso to the Amarone, all the wines stood head and shoulders above just about any other that we tasted during our trip. Ms. B. and I picked up a couple of bottles of the Ripasso, and if we'd been able to afford it, we would happily have brought home more, preferably the Amarone.

After this fine experience, Martina drove us back to Verona, which we decided to explore further. We wandered down to the Verona Arena, a colosseum that predates the more famous one in Rome. Though a little smaller, Verona's colosseum is no less impressive and, after all these centuries, is still in use. I suspect event attendees prefer to bring cushions with them, for those stone seats are liable to bruise one's backside.
Old Rodan at Il Balcone di Giuletta,
with a couple of miscreants (Terry and
Beth) having it out up above
We also visited Il Balcone di Giulietta — Juliette's Balcony — reputedly the real-world location of the Capulet house in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliette. While the balcony and courtyard are scenic (and house a nice geocache, which I found), the interior of the place might be considered underwhelming. We paid for a tour, which consisted of four floors of mostly vacant rooms, the most of impressive of which contained Juliette's bed from Franco Zeffirelli's 1968 film Romeo and Juliette (as an aside, I will confess that I find Andre Kostelanetz's orchestration of Nino Rota's main theme from the film soundtrack one of the most beautiful pieces of music on record).

Afterward, we found a delicious dinner at an outdoor restaurant — and a few more caches — in the Piazza del Erbe, in Verona's city center. Eventually, we made our way back to the train (fortunately, slightly less roasty than our inbound train) and Venice. By the time we arrived back at our apartment, the wee hours of the morning were staring us in the face, and we knew we had to get moving early in the morning to get to the port to begin our cruise.

And more of this epic will follow as time permits....
L: a rather mean-looking cherub in the church at San Giorgio; R: Found a boner in Verona, I did.

Martinsville's Oktoberfest Turns 40

The smiling gentleman under the hat is Mr. Stephen H. Provost, former journalist and author of dozens of books and short stories, which range from historical nonfiction to biographies to straight-up horror fiction. His latest, Martinsville Memories , is a pictorial history of my old hometown, Martinsville, VA (see " Martinsville Memories at Oktoberfest ," September 30, 2019), which made its debut at the fest. For the book, I wrote the foreword and provided the author with a few antic-dotes of no small amusement. Today was the day of Martinsville's 40th annual Oktoberfest, and it turned out to be an appropriately big event.

Last night, Ms. Brugger and I headed out from Greensboro, stopped to visit my mom in the nursing home, took care of some necessary Mom-related business, and then satisfied our never-ending craving for dinners at Third Bay Café with dinner at Third Bay Café . Afterward, we shared a couple of glasses of wine at Shindig , a relatively new and very promising bistro in Uptown Martinsville . This morning, about 10:30-ish, we hauled ourselves up to Uptown and met Stephen and his wife Samaire — a noteworthy author herself — at their vendor table on Church Street. I had planned to join them just to co-autograph Stephen's new Martinsville book, but he and Samaire kindly offered me some space to sell and sign a few of my own books.
A large, lovely moth we encountered this morning
on our way to Oktoberfest
For the first time this season, we experienced some honest-to-god autumn weather, with somewhat cloudy skies and temperatures in the low 60s. This proved heavenly. HEAVENLY, I tell you. Two days ago, the mercury hit 100 degrees in the area, and this, my friends, is nothing less than obscene. Never has that creeping little chill been so welcome. I don't know how the crowd this year compares to past years' Oktoberfests, but I can safely say this was a big one. We had lots of traffic at the table, and everyone moved a fair number of books. I unloaded a good many copies of Blue Devil Island , The Monarchs , West Virginia: Lair of the Mothman , and Michigan: The Dragon of Lake Superior . Both Stephen and Samaire clearly turned tidy profits. Ms. B. worked on some of her superb artwork and also wandered around checking out vendors to see if she could find any respectable shopping bargains. She found them.

I did run into a few old friends and acquaintances at the fest. Myron Smith, producer/director of numerous films made locally in which I've appeared — Young Blood (for which I also wrote the novelization), Invasion of the Killer Cicadas , Alice in Wonderland , and others. Scott Norman, a childhood friend whose grandparents lived next door to us. Baxter Robertson, owner of the aforementioned Third Bay Café. And a remarkable instance of Small World Syndrome ocurred. A nice lady stopped at our table and asked if I had a daughter who lived in New York City. I said I did, and it turned out her daughter and mine were friends. She had just moved to Martinsville quite recently. Who might have thunk that?

And... oh, Lord yes... there were funnel cakes. Big old ugly disks of fried dough, smothered in powdered sugar, which sifts all over everything — clothing, exposed skin, books, passing hippopotamuses, you name it. But they is good. Merciful heavens, they is good!

We all ended the day with our wallets having put on a little extra weight. On our way back to Greensboro, Ms. B. and I stopped for dinner at The Celtic Fringe in Reidsville, which has long been one of our favorite establishments for dining and imbibing. So all this was right and proper, and I must say that, in the midst of some of the most intense stress I've had to deal with in this life, our little jaunt to Martinsville this weekend proved both relaxing and rewarding.

It's gonna be another helluva week coming up. If you wish for me anything, please wish me well.
A terrifying trio: Mr. Provost, an Old Fart, and Ms. B. Did anyone else notice a hippopotamus passing by this morning? A good crowd taking advantage of the lovely Oktober weather Scads of people listening to music and heading for funnel cakes The lovely ladies of Oktober: Kimberly Ann Brugger and Samaire Provost Ms. B.'s ink & watercolor rendering of a chonky little toad, which she completed
while we sat at our table

Martinsville Memories at Oktoberfest

This Saturday — October 5 — is Martinsville's 40th Annual Oktoberfest, and if you're anywhere within a reasonable traveling distance, you really ought to attend. Authors Stephen & Samaire Provost, Ms. Brugger, and I will all be there, in good company with Stephen's new book, Martinsville Memories , for which I have written the foreword. I will likely also have a few copies of West Virginia: Lair of the Mothman , Michigan: The Dragon of Lake Superior , and possibly others on hand.

Martinsville's Oktoberfest is always great fun, with dozens and dozens of local merchants set up around the Uptown business district. There shall be vendors with food and spirits aplenty, presumably including funnel cakes , as they are an Oktoberfest staple. Funnel cakes are ambrosia. Funnel cakes are damn good. One might say funnel cakes are an essential component of proper southern living. Hooray for funnel cakes!

Stephen's Martinsville Memories is a meticulously researched pictorial history of my old hometown. For six decades, I've loved Martinsville, known its inner workings, explored it inside and out, and yet Stephen has dug up facts even I didn't know about. As the author writes, "Martinsville has thrived as the town with the nation’s most millionaires per capita and struggled through factory closures during the era of globalization. Packed with more than 300 images and chock full of details, this volume offers a nostalgic trek through time, with stops at drive-ins, old hotels and iconic storefronts along the way."

Also on Saturday, the Valleystar Credit Union 300 NASCAR race will be happening at Martinsville Speedway. How the race will impact Oktoberfest, I dunno, but you'd best believe Martinsville is going to be hopping this weekend. Please join us. We'll be on hand to autograph Martinsville Memories and any of our other books we have available. Look for us on Church Street near the intersection at Broad Street.

For good measure, if you're into geocaching, a veritable trove of geocaches await you in Uptown Martinsville, many that I have placed myself. And don't forget: Funnel cakes. Keep saying this to yourself, and think well on the joyful prospect of it. Funnel cakes. Funnel cakes. Funnel cakes....

Haunting Hillsborough

Another Sunday, another geocaching outing, this time to Hillsborough with The Usual Suspects: Suntigres (a.k.a. Bridget) and BigG7777 (a.k.a. Gerry). Enough newer caches have been published in recent months to justify making a run over there, but one of the main draws for us today was lunch at Hillsborough BBQ, where they do the beef brisket better than just about anyone.

Most of today's caches were of the park & grab variety, but at least a couple of them offered some challenge on the hunt. There's a virtual cache (meaning there's no physical container to find; you visit a specific landmark and answer questions about it) called "Hillsborough Old Town Cemetery" ( GC7B67D ), which I had claimed back in April, but Bridget & Gerry still needed it. I was happy to accompany them back to the location because it really is one of the most beautiful atmospheric graveyards around. We didn't see any walking dead around, alas. Doesn't mean they weren't there; we just didn't see them.

Once again, I have pretty much cleaned up Hillsborough, at least until someone places some new hides out that way. Hope someone will — I'm sure it won't be long before I'm craving that brisket again.
The Haunter of Hillsborough Nice view of the Hillsborough Old Town Cemetery The Usual Suspects: Suntigres (Bridget) and BigG7777 (Gerry) at the William Hooper House in Hillsborough