April 22

En route to Quimper, Brittany

As the bullet train flies out of Paris at 180 mph and I am situated in a cabin with a bearded man, probably around 30 and two small kids (one, a toddler, screaming bloody murder), I will summarize what we actually did in Paris for the four days we were there. (Embry is in another cabin on this car, also with a family, where hopefully she is having better luck than I am.)

Well, we walked.

And what is a better way to see this extraordinary city than walking along its narrow streets, its grand avenues, its parks and plazas, and, highest on the list, along the cay beside the river Seine? The first day we started off around nine in the morning, about the same time as the French Marathon was getting underway and turned right just over the bridge as the runners—and there were many thousands as you can imagine– were turning left. We walked a couple of miles along the quai watching all the tourist boats and barges motor by and all the families spreading out picnics on this drop-dead-gorgeous day. It was Sunday, and the entire city seemed to be empting out of apartment buildings into the parks and along the river. We eventually crossed back over to the Left Bank where we strolled through the Jardin de Plantes (botanical gardens), stopping for a salad and a sandwich and then made our way along the narrow streets of the Left Bank, pausing at small parks every now and then to watch kids playing and adults watching kids and, of course, a stop for an afternoon coffee at a sidewalk café. (For some unknown reason coffee here does not seem to bother me where in the US I levitate with one cup of real coffee.)

We arrived back at the flat around five and at seven strolled with Mireille a mile or so to one of the best French bistros in Paris, which it turned out was actually a Mexican Restaurant, which seemed a bit unusual at first until I realized that in the US we would never take a guest to an American restaurant in our neighborhood but rather to one of our favorite ethnic restaurants, which could well be Mexican. Or French! In any event, we had a great time and returned home around nine, exhausted after walking about seven miles (how did I ever manage without an iPhone walking app?) and seeing a lot of Paris. It was a terrific day!

I have gone into to some detail about day one in Paris because this is pretty much what we did every day. The key variables were when to start, whether to go east or west along the Seine and whether to explore the Right Bank or the Left Bank. One day we walked to the Eiffel Tower (and, yes, went to the top despite the long lines and waiting, probably not worth it), and another to the Champs Elysees. We spent the four days outside in this perfect weather, saving the museums for when we return.

There were three highlights. The first was spending time with Mireille, who has to be one of the world’s most remarkable women, who at age 80 looks like a fifty-year old, powerwalks like a forty-year old and has a zest for living and a sense of humor unmatched at any age. The second was the evening we spent reuniting with Beatrice, one of Embry’s French colleagues in the health research and policy field. Well known in international health care research circles, Beatrice mentored Embry when Embry spent six weeks in France in the 1980s working on her dissertation, comparing the US and French health care systems focusing on maternity and child health. (Frankly, I was convinced from the outset that the topic was chosen as a way to legitimize another long stay in France; and it worked, resulting in a PhD and a long term friendship with Beatrice, among other things.) Beatrice proudly showed Embry, Mireille and me around the hospital where she works and her office along with the historic buildings associated with it (Port Royal and its cloister, along with the historic Observatoire).   Afterwards we went out for drinks at a very upscale neighborhood restaurant followed by a delightful dinner at an intimate, quiet café.

The third highlight was running into Josie and Melissa, dear friends from All Souls Church (and also from sailing since Melissa has been a lynchpin on the “Carolina Blue” racing team for years). We had no idea they were in Paris but learned yesterday via Facebook (which we finally got access to when we discovered there was free WiFi available in the park behind Notre Dame) that not only had they just arrived the day before, they were staying in a hotel only a few blocks from Mireille’s flat. After some effort we finally connected and met them for a glass of rose, good conversation, and catching up at a café behind the cathedral before they rushed off for a dinner reservation, and we headed off to the Notre Dame Cathedral for an amazing concert of renaissance and Baroque music just at sunset when the windows are at their most beautiful.

Now we are on the way to Quimper on the Atlantic Coast to visit our sister-in-law, Martine and her partner, Bernard, where we will be for the next three days.

And, oh yes, the infant for the moment has stopped screaming. But the older one, a girl, is throwing up.

And, by the way, I lost my cell phone on the train, Incident Number 4!

(The two-year-old stole it, I am sure. When his sister was throwing up, he was under the table carefully removing the cell phone from my pocket with his tiny, trained hands as instructed by his dad, the guy with the beard and, I now remember, beady eyes.) Martine’s only comment was, “Joe, if these things keep happening to you, by the time you are ready to board the container ship in Shanghai, you won’t even have your clothes left.”

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April 21

Paris

I am sitting in a flat on the fourth floor of a mid Nineteenth Century apartment house overlooking the vast plaza in front of Notre Dame. Even though the time is approaching seven in the evening, the crowd of well over a thousand is still milling around, many awaiting entry into the church, others just hanging out. The bells of the cathedral are ringing loudly. The evening sun basks the white walls of Mireille’s tastefully decorated flat where we will be staying for the next several days. We are in Paris. The world is good.

To understand the French leg of the journey, you need some history. We will be staying at the homes of two people who are very dear to us. The first is Mireille, who is Embry’s de facto older French sister, who has rented the flat where we are now for the last fifty years. The second is Martine, the former French wife of Embry’s brother, Mike, who despite being an ex, has always been our bonafide sister-in-law. Martine lived in the US for around 25 years, raising their two children(to whom we are very close) in North Carolina but moved back to France following her retirement a number of years ago and now lives in a seaside town, in Brittany. We will take the train there in a couple of days.

A word on the Mireille connection. When Embry was twelve, her family shipped her off via Icelandic Airlines for a summer in France where she would live with a French family. The oldest son of the family of seven children had attended Davidson on a Fulbright Scholarship in the 1950s where he became close to Embry’s family. A second French summer followed a few years later. Merrille, the middle child, was about ten years older than Embry and took a special interest in her, helping her learn the language and adapt to the French culture. They have remained close ever since. And the relationship has continued into the next generation. Our kids have stayed with Mireille or her extended family; and her son, Bartheleme, stayed with us for a summer when worked as an intern at Howell Associates and crewed on Wednesday night sailboat races.

Mireille was at the train station to greet us last evening as we roared in on our bullet train. Though she will be 80 this year, she is fit and spry, and it was all we could do to keep up with her as we charged out of Gare Lyon and flagged down a cab. The evening was spent catching up and enjoying a delicious light meal of bread, cheese and a salad. Nobody does fresh bread and cheese better than the French. But the catching up part was bitter sweet. Four of the seven children have died, including the youngest, Henri, who also attended Davidson for a year and someone I knew, though not well. He was only 65. (Embry was aware of only two of the deaths.)

Bitter sweet, yes. But also the way life runs its course on the planet Earth. We are getting old. When people get old, they eventually die. It is a blessing that our health has permitted us to embark on this adventure, and we are probably in a fairly small minority of people our age who are physical able, have the time, money and the inclination to take a trip like this. When you are in your eighth decade and you hear a voice in your head, “Do it now, you never know how much time you have left,” you pay attention. When you catch up as we did this evening, it reminds you how short life is and how you only get one shot in trying to get it as right as you can. And no one is saying it is easy. Mireille lost her husband over 35 years ago to cancer and has had to manage as a single parent raising two sons and being a widow way before her time—which she has done with style and grace. But it has not been easy.

So here we are for a few days before we go to Brittany and then return for another short stay before heading to Germany. The weather has been absolutely gorgeous, lots of flowering trees, daffodils and tulips, blue skies and temperatures around seventy. It is April in Paris!

And is their anything more glorious than a warm, sunny, Sunday afternoon in Paris in April? I am convinced that everyone physically able—and even many who are not—is outside today enjoying the sunshine and the street activity that is so splendidly Paris. Families have spread out blankets and make-shift tablecloths along the Seine and in the parks. Husbands are opening bottles of wine as the kids skate board or kick around a soccer ball and wives pull bread and cheese out of picnic baskets. Old men with canes are sitting on park benches discussing affairs of the afternoon and watching all the action. The sidewalk cafes are jam packed for afternoon café or a glass of beer, and ubiquitous French couples are embracing and kissing even as they walk by fast as if they were afraid of missing the last train to someplace. Only here, I think, can you witness in one split instant the depth and breath of what I believe is the best life has to offer on this troubled planet. It is April and it is Paris. Life is good.

 

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April 19

Paris

We are in Paris, but that will be the subject of the next blog. This one is about Madrid and some final thoughts about Spain.

Madrid is magnificent. The metro area has a population of over six million (similar to Washington), but the city itself is four times the size of DC with over two and a half million people. And in both Valencia and in Madrid there is no such thing as single family housing and suburban neighborhoods. Except for some of the older neighborhoods, where there are some two or three story, ancient townhouses, everyone lives in apartments of seven to twelve stories, similar to the scale of the multifamily buildings in DC. Also in both Madrid and Valencia, there is an abrupt line between the high density apartment neighborhoods and farmland, a “hard edge” as it is called in planning circles. Public transportation is prolific and reliable. Graffiti persists in Madrid as it does in Valencia but seems somewhat more under control.

The big difference between Valencia and Madrid is the energy level. Madrid seems like New York City with its crowded streets and jammed sidewalks. While there are a handful of Medieval neighborhoods, most of modern day Madrid was built and rebuilt during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and it has a monumental feel to it. Several large plazas near the center of town are the scene of 24 hour activity with bands, clown acts, people in weird costumes, gypsies begging for money, old men with buckets and wands producing huge bubbles, women who look like prostitutes, smoking cigarettes, wearing short, short blue jean pants, spiked heals, lots of weird makeup and died hair, and thousands of people mulling about seemingly having a good time in a frantic but also paradoxically laid back atmosphere. Being in the middle of all this is like being in a huge carnival.

Our hotel was at the center of it all; but instead of being a tourist hotel as I had expected, it was a hundred room boutique, bed-and breakfast hotel with small rooms and the most beautiful lobby I have ever seen, with an extraordinary bar, fireplace and library, a true oasis and relief from the hustle of the street outside. If you ever go to Madrid, stay there: the Hotel de la Reina at Gran Via 22.

Our big mistake was not allowing for more time in Madrid. You really need at least a week; but we crammed about as much in as we could in two and a half days—a hop-on, hop-off bus tour, a walk through the royal gardens (a lot like Central Park), a guided “free” walking tour of the old city (tips accepted) and fashionable 3:00 pm lunches at two terrific spots—one, La Tasquita de Enfrente, world class. And we attended an evening dinner show of Flamenco music and dancing. Naturally we visited the Prado, which has a collection of Renaissance paintings that few other museums can match. But we did not see the dozen or so other important museums, the royal palace or some of the other spectacular parks and gardens. Madrid is on our list of places to return to.

I have talked about the friendliness of the Spanish people despite our language barrier. (In Madrid many more people speak English than in Valencia; and there are many American and British tourists, so language is not as much of an issue.) As an example of how nice most people are, our cab driver headed off in the wrong direction when taking us to the Flamenco show due to Embry’s giving him the wrong address. The street name ended in an “a” instead of an “o” as was written on the paper she handed him. The “o” address was ten miles away. By the time we realized there was a problem we had run up almost eight Euros on the meter. He slammed on the brakes, turned around, reset the meter to zero, and headed back in the right direction, writing off the eight Euros as a business loss—and without a single complaint. What are the odds of something like that happening in Washington? (A generous tip helped a bit, but still…)

So Spain ranks very high on our list. The history has been mixed: vast empires: Roman, Visigothic, Moorish, and then unification under the Christian monarchs, Isabella and Ferdinand, followed by a 100 year history of world dominance. But the empire came at the expense of the Moors and the Jews, and there was the Spanish Inquisition, the Crusades, the Civil war and Fascism under Franco that are blots on Spanish history that have still not been thoroughly reconciled and remain controversial up to today. Today there is a multi-party constitutional monarchy that retains some aspects of the “old right” (church, monarchy) and “old left” (socialism); these divisions that go back for centuries still exist, as played out in the parliamentary system.

There also seems to be a wisdom and maturity that comes from such a long history and knowing what it is like to be on top and then over time see it all slowly vanish like sand spilling between your fingers. They look at us and perhaps hope we make the best of the time allotted to us….

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April 17

En Route to Paris

Madrid is now history and we are on our way to Paris via another modern European bullet train. The train from Valencia was superior to Acela in “luxury” and cruised along at speeds close to 300km/h (185 mph), even faster than the bullet trains in the US. Bullet trains in the US? What do you mean we don’t have any bullet trains in the US?

So this was going to be the blog about how terrific Madrid is—a New York style, high energy city with monumental avenues, vast plazas and urban spaces, narrow Medieval streets, beautiful parks, world class museums, countless cafes and restaurants, and much, much more. I will touch on that at some point but not here.

This blog post is about yet another incident. If you have been following the blog, you know we have now had two “incidents.” The first incident occurred on Day 25 in Valencia and involved Embry falling on a rock on the beach, resulting in a deep wound requiring six stitches and producing a award winning black eye. Kudos to the Spanish health care system for patching her up. The second incident was described in blog post Day 27 and recounted our being stopped by the police for having our bright lights on at noon on a sunny day. Both ended on reasonably good notes.

Incident Number 3—and I am sure others will follow—occurred around 6:30 pm yesterday on our third and final evening in Madrid. Having awakened from a siesta following another nine course “tasting menu” feast from a world class chef (good friend, by the way, of the famous Washington chef of Jaleo and other restaurants, Jose Andres) in a tiny, upscale café only minutes from our hotel, we decided to go for a walk. The sidewalks were jammed with all kinds of people, and you had the feeling you could have been in Times Square or leaving the stadium after a Nats playoff game. We were no more than a hundred feet from our hotel when a bald headed guy in his forties, wearing a bright red shirt, turned to me and asked if I spoke English. In a heavy Spanish accent, he said “Need to check your wallet. Think you were just robbed.” I immediately checked my back pocket. No wallet.

“Think he went that way and into that store. Just happened. Need to act fast.”

Instincts take over at times like this. I immediately turned around and retraced our steps looking for a shady character with my wallet. Now you might ask what I would actually do if I found some shady character who looked suspicious.

“Excuse me, but did you happen to come across a wallet in the last minute that is not yours; and if so, could you kindly return it to its rightful owner?”

Alas, as I stared into the vast multitudes all around me, no one looked shady; then everyone did, and then everything seemed a blur. Then I heard Embry’s voice. Always the one to act quickly and decisively, she had charged directly into the store where the nice, baldheaded guy said the suspect probably was. It was a small ice cream shop with no seats and about a dozen people standing around, mainly twenty-somethings, either eating ice cream or standing in line to buy some.

“Someone in this store has my husband’s wallet and I want it back right now!” She was shouting, loudly enough for me to hear her about 20 feet away above the noise of the street and the endless chatter. All eyes were fixed on her, and none of the customers were saying a thing. I nudged my way in and scanned the crowd for a shady character. There were only a couple of likely suspects, young guys, but they seemed innocent enough; and I noticed one of them was searching through his pockets as if he were trying to find a set of lost keys, then looked up at Embry and shrugged with a look which said, “Sorry, can’t find it anywhere.”

Then several women took out their purses and rummaged through them trying to find the wallet. Two of the women opened their purses for Embry to inspect.

No wallet anywhere. Must not be in the store. Maybe look somewhere else.

Now five minutes had passed, and our window of opportunity was over, but does anyone actually think that the thief, had we found him, would willfully return the “lost” wallet. What were we thinking? Embry’s comment was that it never hurts to try.

We dejectedly followed our steps back to the hotel where we reported the incident to the people at the desk, to which the response was something like, “Oh, ho hum, sorry, not much you can do.” A guy not much younger than me who was standing in line behind me, commented in perfect English (a Canadian from Alberta), “Sorry to hear the news, but welcome to the club. Our traveling companion had his wallet stolen yesterday. Lost everything. Happens all the time in Madrid. Welcome to Spain!”

So what was supposed to be a leisurely evening stroll turned out to be a two hour ordeal on the phone trying to cancel credit cards and ATM cards. Have you ever tried to cancel an ATM card when you do not know the number of the card or the tax id or social security number which is on record for the card and can’t remember the name of your first pet or your mother’s birthday? But that is another story which does not merit time here. Like the fellow club member who lost everything yesterday, so did I, except thankfully I have my passport; and Embry still has some money in her bank account. How all this finally gets resolved will be the subject of a subsequent blog.

The most disappointing aspect of this incident is that it cast a pall on what otherwise was a wonderful experience and a wonderful city. The Madrid story will be next.

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April 15

En Route to Madrid

(Embry speaking.) We are now on the train to Madrid, having finished Leg 3 of our journey. The Home Exchange was a wonderful experience.   We spent the last two days with Juan and Vincen, who returned so that she could begin work yesterday. We have much in common with both of them. In particular, Vincen and I are in the same profession (public health research concerning women and children), and I was amazed to discover that we had worked for some time at the same French institute (INSERM). Our offices had been next door to each other, and we worked with the same people. How serendipity is that? Juan is retired as an environmental economist. He spent a day driving us into the countryside to the lovely seaside town of Denia, where we had a great meal and saw lots of boats, which of course appealed to “the Captain”.

Someone asked “What is it like to travel the world for four months with one person? Is that hard?” This made me reflect a bit on what makes a good traveling companion, and how we have worked out this aspect of the trip.   It can be challenging since there are many decisions and compromises to be made in both the planning ahead and the day-to-day decisions.

First, we have been married for almost 50 years (of which, partially, this trip is a celebration). So we have had plenty of time to work out how to relate to each other, and what buttons to push (or not push), and when. Our friend, J.Vic, is a certified Myers-Briggs tester; and when he tested us both he let us know that the difference in our personalities that could lead to “issues” has to do with Joe being an extreme extrovert and my being a moderate introvert. He needs to talk a lot to “charge his batteries” and I need “alone time” to charge mine. This let us know that we need to “talk time” and “alone time” each day.

One other thing that helps reduce stress is “specialization.” By this I mean that Joe (who has a MUCH better sense of direction than me) is the “map guy,” and I am the one who orders the food and asks for directions. I have this job because I am not shy about making mistakes, and he has that “guy trait” of never wanting to look bad. I am sure that if you had a traveling companion for this long a journey, you would do the same, regardless of gender or talents, since it is just easiest to divide up the stressful jobs, just like at home.

Also, we are not so young anymore and we both have an understanding that we need to plan for enough rest each day or most days. This has been easy so far, but we have actually finished the most relaxing legs of the trip, so we are both going to have to concentrate on this in the upcoming part of the trip. Otherwise we will get grumpy.

Some of you have heard Joe’s sermon at weddings about our metaphor for a “good marriage” It has the meat of potatoes of trust and respect. It is just not a real stew (marriage) without these two basic ingredients. However, the best stew also has both vegetables and spices for a good flavor, and it is good to mix these up for variety. The vegetables are the fun and humor of life. The spices are, well “you know what.” This trip is mostly been about the vegetables, and we are having lots of fun together and laughing a lot. We are really adding to the flavor of our already-good marriage with this trip. (For example, Joe will tell you in another blog about the belly laughs we have had over our Spanish-English phrase book.) I think having fun with your companion is what makes it possible to overcome the daily fatigue and inevitable annoyances that come along with any traveling adventure.

I am not going to go into the spices of the marriage. My editor has informed me that this is not an X-rated blog. For that topic I suggest you read the recent New York Times article about “Sex over Seventy.” That even has facts and figures in it. And that’s all I’m allowed to say about this topic! Off to Madrid.

Ph

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April 14

Valencia

Day 31! One month. One quarter of the trip behind us. And so far not one day of rain and in Spain, sunny skies with temperatures 65-70 most of the time. Hard to complain about that.

So the question has come up from readers, “I sort of understand Home Exchange, but what did you and Embry actually do every day.”

Actually Home Exchange is a great idea and you should consider it. It will save you a lot of money but more important changing homes with somebody in another country gives you the opportunity to experience life there in a different way from what you experience as a typical tourist, which we will start being tomorrow when we go to Madrid and stay in a tourist hotel.

We are staying in a neighborhood where there are no tourists and no hotels of any type. We have not heard any English spoken the entire time we have been here except when someone is talking to us. So when we have a pastry in one of the coffee shops or tapas at a sidewalk café or even dinner at a local restaurant we are something of an anomaly. While our poor Spanish has been a detriment, people have made a heroic effort to be friendly and accommodating, and it is always remarkable how far sign language can take you. Embry’s idea of paying for a coffee and croissant is to go up to the person at the cash register and put all her coins in her palm, asking the person to take the correct amount. That often brings pleasant smiles.

Our daily schedule has been to take on one major activity a day and have one meal out and one at the apartment (usually dinner, which enables us to eat at something closer to a normal dinner time). Major activities include museums, parks, cathedrals and old buildings, hop-on, hop-off bus tours, and people watching while having an espresso at an outdoor cafe –the usual sort of thing. We have done a lot of walking (health app says our average is over five miles a day) including three or four walks from the apartment to the downtown historical area, which it turns out is about an hour away on foot, about the same distance as Metro Center is from our house in Washington. Yesterday we rented bikes allowing us to cover a lot more ground, hitting the port and the beach area (really crowded with families since it was a holiday) and a bunch of neighborhoods we had not been to before. And we have used buses more than a dozen times. After a while you sort of get into the swing of things and find yourself just hanging out. No time commitments, no forced marches, nothing you have to do. This, of course, is all going to change in a day or two, but for the last two weeks it has been just what the doctor ordered.

Does this kind of tourism provide more insight or “authenticity”? Is it more “real”? My conclusion is that it is simply different and that there is a room for a whole bunch of ways to visit and explore a country. I am reminded of the elderly Brit I met in India a dozen years ago, who had lived in the country for a number of years. “You know,” he said, “you can come to India for a long weekend, two or three days, and conclude that this is a pretty nice and interesting country and move on to the next country thinking you know India. Or you can stay two or three weeks and conclude that while you ‘know India,’ it is probably a little more complicated than you used to think. If you stay two or three years, then you have real doubts as to what is going on; and if you stay a decade as I have, you know damn well you do not have a clue.” While India is perhaps the most complicated country on the planet, the wisdom of the old man applies to all countries to a certain extent. You do get a feel for the country and its people and that is why we all travel in the first place. And a home exchange gives you a new and different perspective. But as to true understanding or authentic experiences, you do the best you can, realizing at the end of the day, you probably don’t have a clue.

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April 11

Valencia

First and foremost, a word on the patient: Embry is doing fine. She has quite a shiner and the bandage remains; but we walked about five miles yesterday and attended a choral concert last evening. She in fact is holding up better than I am.

The last blog post dealt the Spanish health care delivery system. The topic today is criminal justice and law enforcement, an interest area where we have both past and now current experience.

Our first trip to Spain was in the fall of 1973 when we visited the southern coast on a cheap, one week vacation posted on the bulletin board of the DC YMCA. The trip got off to a shaky start when driving out of the rental car agency I turned right instead of left and stared into oncoming traffic in both lanes, cars honking loudly. Oops, one way street. I suppose you could say we were lucky because one of the cars had a blue light on top, turned on a siren and stopped traffic allowing us to back up and turn around before we had a head on collision. Then came our first encounter with the Spanish criminal justice system. All I remember is that a fuming cop stomped over to our car, armed to the hilt—an assault rifle on his back, pistol, helmet, the whole works. He was not happy and expressed his displeasure very effectively even though he did not speak a word of English. We ended up giving him all the cash we had. The entire incident was over in less than five minutes due in part to the fact that Andrew, who was barely three at the time, was throwing up on the back seat, not exactly the kind of atmosphere to encourage a cop to hang around.

“What is this place anyway,” I asked Embry, “a fascist police state?”

“Well, yes, actually it is.” she commented.

(It would be two more years before Franco died.)

Fast forward to April 2015. We are driving along on a super highway, the first time we have used the car that our host, Juan, has graciously made available to us. It has been only about 15 minutes since we departed. Suddenly, a white motorcycle pulls out in front of us, and a guy wearing a yellow jacket is motioning us to pull over. I glance in the rear view mirror, and behind us is another white motorcycle with a guy wearing a yellow jacket. Embry noted that she thought they must be police. Not again, I thought.

We pulled over. One cop remained on his motorcycle while the other approached us. He was not scowling like I remember the cop of 1973 and actually had a rather pleasant expression. And he did not appear to be armed. At least he was not carrying an assault weapon. I breathed a little easier.

We all know how the routine works and I was ready for him, handing over my drivers license, which he studied carefully. Then he asked for my “passaporte”. Passaporte? Passport? What passport, the one I left at the apartment?

Despite speaking very little English, he made the point that a US drivers license is invalid without a passport.

Okay, I thought, no passport, therefore no valid drivers license, some inexplicable moving violation on a super highway. What are we talking about here, six weeks in the slammer? All the money we have?

Embry fumbled around feverishly and handed him her passport, which he studied for a few seconds. I got up my courage and looked up at him, shrugging my shoulders, giving him my puzzled look, trying to communicate in sign language that I had no idea what we had done wrong. He gave me a serious look back and then turned away and joined his colleague for a short discussion. He returned and said, “lights, lights,” then pointed at the headlights.

Lights, lights? What about the lights? Oh. I realized that the headlights were on, remembering I had forgotten to turn them off when leaving the garage. But since when was it a crime to drive with your headlights on? Then I realized that he was not talking just about the headlights but the fact that they were on bright rather than dim. But for goodness sake, it was noon; and there was not a cloud in the sky. And we were on a divided highway where you couldn’t even see the cars on the other side. But what really puzzled me was how could these guys even see that I had my brights on in such sunny conditions.

Now there are two ways to handle situations like this. One is to take a combative approach—which, of course, never works—questioning the stupid law that makes it illegal to drive with bright lights on in the middle of the day in bright sun. The second is to throw yourself at the feet of your adversary and to beg for mercy. I followed the latter approach.

Out of my mouth mysteriously popped the phrase, “Lo siento mucho, senior, lo siento mucho.” Embry’s guardian angel must have had had something to do with this because it had been so long that I had used this phrase that I was not exactly sure what it meant; but it worked, and the tension eased immediately. A slight smile appeared on his face. (The phrase simply means “I am very sorry,” and I must have said it at least a half dozen times.) During next phase of the encounter the officer provided instruction (in Spanish and sign language) on how to dim and brighten the headlights. Before it was all over, he was smiling broadly and wishing us well on our journey—at least I think that is what he was doing since I really had no idea what he was actually saying. But in any event we were free to continue on our journey. No fines, no jail time. I did not count the number of muchas gracias I said, but there were a lot.

But except for this incident we have not seen a police officer—a far cry from 1973 when they were on every corner and fully armed and Spain was in fact a police state. We tend to forget how far the country has come in a relatively short period of time. And Valencia—though it is certainly not without its problems and challenges—is a delight. Even with the language difficulties, we find we are able to communicate (sort of) and feel welcomed and accepted. The city of Valencia is very livable and charming, and the life style of late meals and long siestas in the mid afternoon gives us obsessed Americans reason to pause and wonder if our frantic life style really gets us anywhere. Only a couple of days left here before we head off to Madrid. We are going to miss Valencia.

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April 8

Valencia

So what  will we do today? How about evaluating the Spanish health care system?

Actually that is not exactly how we started the day. We started the day by planning a trip along the shore, stopping in little seaside towns and villages and exploring the coast in Juan’s car. And the day started off well enough. The GPS got us through town and onto the superhighway without incident, no small accomplishment on the narrow, bustling streets of downtown Valencia. It was not long before we were on the outskirts of Valencia where we took the first exit and found ourselves in an undeveloped and beautiful area that resembled one of our national parks. We parked the car at the entrance to an abandoned road and followed the road on foot for about a mile until it came to the water’s edge. The day could not have been more beautiful. There were no clouds in the sky, and the Mediterranean was deep green with whitecaps. The temperature was in the low 60s. The beach was deserted except for one other couple strolling just ahead of us.

Just as we were deciding which direction to take next, bam, down goes Embry, who tripped on a rock in the sand. This would normally have been no big deal, just dust the sand off and move on. But the Med beaches have lots of rocks, and Embry’s head landed directly on one large, jagged rock, almost knocking her unconscious, leaving a deep cut, dangerously close to her left eye.

The couple on the beach rushed over; and for a moment we all just stood there watching the blood spurt out and wondering what to do. The woman, probably in her forties, got out a package of Kleenex tissues and handed them to me; and I pressed one against the wound to reduce the bleeding as Embry gradually came to.

And that is how our exploration of the shore began. It ended in the emergency room of a large Valencia hospital not far from our apartment.

As I was frantically driving back to Valencia, Embry commented, “Well, look at it this way. It will give us a chance to see how the Spanish health care system works.” Well, it worked extremely well for us. There were a dozen or so people sitting in the waiting room; but after taking one look at Embry’s wound and confirming that we had insurance, the nurse took her immediately into one of the examination rooms. She was attended by a young woman, who was probably a nurse practitioner or physician’s assistant, who dressed the wound and carefully put in six stitches. And in less than 30 minutes it was all done. Embry was patched up, and we were headed home. We ended up paying the $275 bill but should get reimbursed by Kaiser when we return to the US.

What impressed us most was how efficient the process was and how nice and kind everyone was –the receptionist, nurses, and even the lady in the accounting office—

despite the fact that no one could speak very much English. I compare this to our limited experience with US emergency rooms. We have recently heard of long waits at hospitals like GW and even Sibley; and I remember when I was a student chaplain at Boston City Hospital (when I was at Union) and assigned to the emergency room on a Saturday night. The lines to get help were so long they almost stretched into the street; and one extremely large guy was standing in line patiently with a knife in his back.

So the ending was a happy one under the circumstances. But what is really scary is how close the rock came to hitting Embry’s eye. I have always said that life is a matter of inches—an inch here and an inch there and you have a totally different outcome. In Embry’s case we are not talking inches but a fraction of a centimeter. Her guardian angel stepped in again.

The photos are the scene of the accident and the patient.

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April 7

Valencia

This is Embry again, writing my occasional blog contribution. I am happy to report that Joe’s blogs for the past week have been 100% accurate: no six-meals-a-day-exaggerations. As you can tell from his reports, we have continued to have an amazing time here in sunny southern Spain. We knew nothing at all about Valencia, and it has continued to surprise us with its charm day-after-day. It is hard to say what is most appealing, but here are a few things: (1) as with many European cities, each time you turn around (especially in the older part of town) you bump into some beautiful piece of old-to-ancient architecture; my favorites are the huge carved wooden doors–usually with equally beautiful hardware—each a unique work of art, of which there are hundreds; (2) people-watching over café con leche in some lovely square; (3) Semana Santa or Holy Week, of which you have a full report from Joe; and (4) the friendly atmosphere that is welcoming to strangers like us, and virtually devoid of tourists, which stimulates our use of broken Spanish.

Joe thought I might briefly recap some of the best “tourist attractions” we have visited, since he has been concentrating on other things. I don’t want to go into tedious, lengthy detail which you can get on-line or in a guide book. But I do want to stimulate your interest in this beautiful part of the world, which is not on many American “must see” lists (although I did notice that the next GW alumni tour is to Valencia!). I will list them in the order we have seen them.

1. Madeira: This is a lovely island off the coast of Africa, which is home to 250,000 people. It is an autonomous region of Portugal that, only in the 1970s, was “released” from the dictatorship of Salazar. Land was redistributed into smaller plots, and it is now rather prosperous with a thriving tourist industry (including receiving cruise ships like ours, which dropped us off for a day). Because the island was formed by a now-extinct volcano, the soil is rich, but the hills are so precipitous (with many beautiful waterfalls) that farming is by hand (no tractors). In spite of this, because of fertile soil and lots of sun and rainfall, they produce a lot of fruits, such as bananas and grapes. They produce a good sweet wine , and they are proud to say that the signing of the U.S. Declaration of Independence was toasted with “Madeira”. This is a good place to come for a winter vacation, but don’t expect sandy beaches. (You can go by ferry to a near-by island for one).

2. Seville: We had a second cruise-ship stop in Cadiz, where we took a bus to Seville. We had been there once before, when Andrew was three years old, so a long time ago! It is a lovely, walkable city (as we recalled), and the best thing we visited was the Alcazar, the old Moorish palace which is surprisingly well-preserved. It was taken over by the Christian king “Peter the Cruel” (and one can imagine what happened to the Moors under his watch if that is what he is called!). The whole history of this area of Spain is incredibly sad, since—with the “reconquering” of the area (actually quite a misnomer)—they expelled the Jews and then the Muslims—and with this destroyed the culture, knowledge, and artistic capabilities of a whole multi-cultural civilization.   (We were not as fond of the huge cathedral, which kept little of the beautiful Moorish architecture of the Alcazar.) Still, Seville is worth a visit and an overnight stay if you can.

3. Granada: The third cruise ship stop was at Malaga, where we took a tour to Granada to see the Alhambra. This is the most-visited tourist site in Spain, and you cannot get in without a pre-arranged tour. They have about 8,000 visitors a DAY, throughout the year. This was the palace of the last Muslim Caliph, Boabdil and was miraculously saved from total destruction several times. Built in the 13^th century, when this final Muslim kingdom was conquered by Ferdinand and Isabella, they knocked down 7 of the 8 palaces, but left this one. Our guide speculated that they could not bear to destroy something so beautiful, so that “gave it to their friends,” who kept it more or less intact for a couple of centuries until it began to fall into ruin. Then in the Napoleonic wars it was occupied and used as stables by Napoleon’s army, until they quickly evacuated and failed to destroy it as they usually did when they left (according to the guide!). Again it was abandoned and fell into ruin until it was discovered by American Ambasador, Washington Irving–who wrote the Tales of the Alhambra and made the place famous. This led to tourists and a subsequent renovation by the Spanish government.

4. Valencia area: Aside from trying to “live like locals,” we have also spent some of our time “being tourists.” Our top recommendations so far for tourists include: (1) the lovely late-Gothic Cathedral (15^th century), with added decoration from the 17^th and 18^th centuries (but not at all an “overdone hodgepodge” as in Seville); (2) the beautiful central market that is another architectural gem; and (3) Xativa Castle, which is about an hour out of town where we took our only car trip. This amazing place is at the top of an apparently-impenetrable precipice, but in reality it has been conquered and re-conquered several times, through various siege-warfare techniques from starvation to cannons. The large building is where we are staying (seventh floor on the right); and though it may not win any design awards, the apartment is quite nice as are the views.

The photo below is a typical sunset as viewed from our window.

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April 5

Valencia

Today is Easter Sunday, and we have pretty much done it up right. In fact it all started about four days ago on what Episcopalians call Maundy Thursday, the day of the Last Supper. Embry read somewhere that Valencia was famous for its Holy Week festivals, which took place in the Maritime District, only a few blocks from where we are staying. The first big event was to be a parade of some sort; and around 8:00 pm as we walked over we soon heard the beat of drums—two loud, slow beats followed by three fast softer ones. Boom, boom, rat-a-tat-tat. Crowds five or six deep were gathered along the sidewalks of one of the narrow streets in this medieval part of town; and we squeezed in to witness a solemn procession of 25-30 people—mainly men but some women and a surprising number of teenagers and children– all dressed in black robes, followed by a band of drummers, constantly performing the same beat—boom, boom, rat-a-tat-tat. In front of them similar groups had already passed, and behind them were many others. The various groups in the procession were organized the same way—a leader in front, four or five in a second row, usually men, then a row or two of women, many carrying infants and then the teenagers and younger children. All the participants looked very serious, just like in a Sunday processional you might see at All Souls Church. And the people crowded along the sidewalks looked like church goers as well, with serious faces and very little talking. The only thing distinguishing one group from another was the color of their vestments, which included just about every color and combination of colors you could imagine. At the time we could not tell how large the parade was; but it went on for about an hour, and we figured we joined it somewhere in the middle of the parade route.

As the last marcher passed, we fell in with the crowd and followed the parade for several blocks until we came to a small plaza situated in front of a Catholic Church where the action had paused and hundreds of marchers and drummers were standing around talking casually. Something was going on in front of the church—we could not tell what—but fortunately there was a bar next door. While I was taking photos, Embry grabbed one of the few free sidewalk tables and quickly ordered two beers.

Then things began to take a strange twist. After remarks made at the church, all the adults in the parade put on large pointed hoods covering their faces, exactly like the Ku Klux Klan wear, reassembled in full hooded regalia and then continued the solemn march—boom, boom, rat-a-tat-tat. We finished our beers and headed home. It was close to 11:00 pm.

What was THAT all about? Klansmen? The Inquisition? Executioners?

The parade the next day, Good Friday, started earlier, at 6:00 pm instead of 8:00; and by this time we had done enough research on the internet to learn that the pointed hoods were for those who were “penitent” and that this ritual had been going on since the Middle Ages. There were 30 different groups participating and 30 different bands, each one representing a kind of brotherhood or fraternity associated with one of the churches in Valencia . The most interesting thing for us was how many children of all ages, from infants and toddlers up, were involved.

We did not know what to expect for the Good Friday parade. Having a little better idea of what was involved, we got to the parade route early and were strategically positioned at a plaza, near where the march got underway. This time the crowd seemed to be much larger and we could see various floats lining up depicting various scenes from the Passion. This march was like the first march in some ways—the vestments and robes seemed to be the same, and this time the hoods were worn from the start—but it was also very different in other ways. There were many more women and children; and everyone was dressed either in vestments or in costumes representing various Biblical characters—Jesus, Mary, Salome, Pontius Pilate, Caiaphas, Roman soldiers, various disciples, and so on (38 characters in all we later read in one of the pamphlets we picked up). Also this march moved very slowly with participants taking hesitation steps. Heads were bowed, faces glum and everyone, even the smallest children, in character. No one smiled. Ever. The bands had added brass instruments, and the music was one funeral dirge after another. The crowds were somber as well with few people talking and many showing expressions of awe. People were not crying, but they certainly could have been. The closest thing that I can think of is the mood associated with the funeral procession following the death of President Kennedy. And it went on and on and on. We left after a couple of hours, drained and exhausted. I was basically speechless.

The final parade was today, Easter Sunday. We got there early again and this time wandered through the staging area before finding the parade route. The somber robes and vestments had been replaced by dazzling whites and the hoods were off. The atmosphere was totally different—upbeat, joyous, high energy and all kinds of colorful costumes worn by the women and children. And this time, again, everyone, even the smallest kids, was in character, grinning and smiling and tossing flowers into the crowd. The funeral dirges were replaced by upbeat marches and show tunes, woodwinds were added, and the pace was brisk. The crowd was the largest yet, well into the tens of thousands. We calculated that there were over 2,500 participants just in the parade!

And along the route, there was hugging and embracing, laughter and joy. Everywhere. This time we waited out the entire parade and filed in with the crowd after the last marcher passed, returning to the apartment exhausted but smiling.

I felt as if—perhaps for the first time—I had just experienced the passion, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

And we also managed to get in a “real” church service as well, attending the ten o’clock mass at the cathedral downtown. It turned out that the big mass was at eleven; and the one we attended was in one of the chapels, the one with the guaranteed, real, authentic Holy Grail, a huge solid gold cup behind bullet proof glass. There was no music, and the service was low key and intimate. The chapel held about 100 people and was full. Even though we could not understand a word, the service was meaningful; and Embry was particularly impressed with the elderly priest, who had a kind smile and appeared friendly. I would argue that not understanding a word might actually be a blessing in some respects, but that is a subject for another time.

The big service had already started when we came out of the chapel, and the huge nave of the Cathedral was mostly full by the time we eased out just after the Gospel reading. All of the service was chanted; and there were all the bells and whistles—incense, candles and clergy all decked out, an All Souls service you might say—on steroids.

Quite a Holy Week here in Valencia.

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