Last Train to London

March 23, 2020
Gorham, Maine, USA

Last Train to London

                          Windows at Opera Bastille, Paris


The world has changed since we were in Girona, site of our last post.  We are home now, thank goodness, but getting here was an ordeal that we'll never forget.  

Montpellier, France, next stop after Girona, Spain, was an elegant and delightful city.   Located straight south of Paris almost on the Mediterranean, it's in the Languedoc area, about 50 miles from where Bruce and I had spent several months in 2006.  

        The main plaza in Montpellier, Place de la Comedie.  

Having arrived on Saturday, March 7, we settled ourselves into an artsy, comfortable Airbnb in the Beaux Arts neighborhood.  Our landlady was a kind, 60-ish woman who lived in the adjoining apartment.

                        our cheerful Montpellier kitchen

  For the next 3-4 days, we had a lovely time discovering this lively, student-centered, historic city with the world's oldest medical school, still in operation since 1289!  Montpellier's proximity to the Mediterranean made it quite easy to get to the seashore, just a few miles away.  When Wednesday, March 11, dawned sunny & warm, we set out on a tram and spent the day finding our way to the shore and the glorious, wide sandy beach.  By the time that we returned to our apartment, my fitbit registered 8 miles.  That night Trump announced a travel ban on the arrival of European citizens - and everything changed. 

The next day, Thursday, I felt tired and decided to rest for the day, which is unusual for me.  A slight fear that perhaps I had succumbed to the dreaded virus nibbled at my mind.  Or perhaps I was just feeling the effects of our big adventure the previous day.  While we had been keeping up with our US news sources, we hadn't been reading local French news.  But somehow that day I came across a news feed announcing that the schools in all the surrounding towns were about to be closed.   We had left Spain just days earlier, and things had looked fine to us at that point.  We had no idea that Spain was coming into focus as a hot spot.  The US news had all been about Italy.  

Suddenly, when I felt a bit ill, the picture flipped.  Perhaps our conscientious hand washing and general good health were not going to be enough to save us.  What would happen to us if we both became sick, far from home?  Who would bring medicine and food?  How would we fare as sick foreigners, no matter what the acclaimed reputation of the French medical system?   Of course, our minds locked onto the images of elderly Italians in hospital beds and the stories of insufficient ventilators.   With exquisite clarity, we knew that we HAD to let go of our sweet apartment (all paid for another week) and our extended travel plans (tickets to Berlin already in hand) and return home within the next few days, if we could manage it.   

                 The beautiful trams that ran past our apartment. 


Bruce began trying to contact Delta Airlines to change the date on our flight home from London, scheduled for April 15.  No one answered phones; the website was bogged down.  Since the announcement of Trump's travel ban, due to take effect the next day,  a flood of people were rushing to leave the continent, although US citizens could still gain entry after the March 13 deadline.   While we felt urgency, we didn't feel panic - yet.   Bruce discovered that flights were being canceled at the last moment, and that we couldn't necessarily count on the usual array of transportation being available, which was worrisome.  What if all flights/trains/buses from France to England were stopped?  Could that happen?

While I awoke on Friday, the 13th, feeling better, Bruce awoke feeling feverish.  This really concerned us.  He began a regimen of ibuprofen, which took care of the fever, and doubled down on trying to find a way to London.  We decided to forget about contacting Delta.  If we could get ourselves to London, we'd deal with Delta in person.  

Our attempts to get a flight from Montpellier on Easyjet, including going out to the airport on a bus that day, didn't pan out; at the train station, however, we were able to get tickets on a fast train to Paris for the next day, Saturday, the 14th.  We'd be a little closer to London and would take a bus from there on Monday.

We explained to Helene, our landlady, why we felt that we had to leave so abruptly.  I'm not sure that she totally understood but she must have had concern for the man whom we had heard coughing in her apartment, probably an elderly father.  We would get out of her space and take most of our possible germs with us.  

The trains in Europe are so pleasant.   The tidy fields under cultivation and the imminent arrival of spring cheered me up as we sped north to Gare de Lyon, our train station destination in Paris.  

On our arrival in Paris, things looked normal.  The abnormal thing was my lack of excitement at being in Paris!  This wonderful city, which we hadn't visited in quite a few years, has always captured my imagination.  But on Saturday, the 14th, we were intent on simply getting to our nearby hotel, clean and bright but minimalist.  Next door was a busy creperie where we had a nice meal before retreating to our room.  

One luxury that our hotel did have was television with BBC and an English language station from Berlin.   On Sunday, March 15, we awoke to learn that all French restaurants and stores had been ordered closed.  The exceptions were grocery stores and pharmacies.  I quickly made a trip to the small nearby Monoprix grocery store and picked up enough foods for that day and into the next day.  

By this time, we were still feeling a bit unwell.  Advice from home and in all that we read was to hunker down, to not travel, and not spread the illness.  We wondered about trying to get a test to determine if we had the virus but that seemed like a big job.  Who would we call?  Certainly not an ambulance or the emergency number.  I went out in search of a personal thermometer.  None left in the one pharmacy open on a Sunday; nor were there masks or hand gel.  We decided to cancel the bus tickets for the next day and try to find a hotel room with a refrigerator where we could stay put and rest for a few days.  It took Bruce hours on the computer to make this happen.  In the process we learned that our current hotel had no available rooms, despite the manager having told us upon arrival that things were slow.  Hmm. 

That Sunday was a beautiful day in Paris.  After hours in our room, we decided to take a walk, keeping our distance from other folks.  We were not alone.  It was election day, despite all the closures, and we passed a voting location with citizens coming and going, old folks dressed in their Sunday best, holding hands as they emerged.  Along the streets, a bit of outdoor commerce was still  taking place, including a florist with her colorful plants offering an uplifting note to the world.  Further along, we encountered a cluster of merrymakers flouting the rules by gathering around a small bar table on the sidewalk, drinking and smoking and laughing.  At the Bastille Monument, a wide open rotary centered by a massive obelisk, a sprinkling of tourists were strolling, bikers and runners were getting their exercise, taxis and buses zipped by.  We sat (alone) on a bench for a bit to catch our breath and then returned to our room.  

 The closed creperie resto next to our hotel on Sunday, March 15.  

The next morning, Monday, March 16th, we packed up, ready to move to our new hotel.  While waiting for the time to check out, I went to another pharmacy to check on thermometers and masks.  None, of course.  However, the lobby of our hotel had a strange vibe.  No other customers; staff standing around, looking serious, like something was about to happen.  I asked if they might be closing and learned that they did, indeed, expect to receive word from the government, momentarily, ordering ALL hotels to close!  What?!  

With that news, Bruce and I grabbed our bags, jumped into a taxi, and headed for Gare de Nord, the train station from which the fast train to London leaves.  We were beyond lucky to get tickets for a train leaving in about 2 hours.  They were expensive, more than we would consider paying in ordinary circumstances.  These were not ordinary circumstances.  We would have paid three times that amount.  We did not want to die in France, out on the streets, far from home and family.  It seems a bit dramatic now, in hindsight, but it felt like a real possibility at the time.   

As we waited in the station for the train to leave, off in a corner by ourselves, an announcement came over the loudspeaker in heavily accented English, regretting to inform us that, per orders of the government, ....   Our hearts stopped for a second each time we heard it, fearing that we would learn that the government had stopped all trains.  But no, something even worse for the French, no food would be offered on the train :)!   Through the window, we could look down on soldiers in camouflage uniforms, carrying large machine guns as they patrolled the sidewalk.  Not sure if that is now standard practice near train stations in Paris.  We had seen them in Perpignan, too, near the French border, on our way from Spain.  

We left Paris around noon, and within three hours our chariot had zoomed across northern France, through the chunnel, and across eastern England to St. Pancras train station in London.  No one had stopped us to assess our health as we left France, and no one stopped us as we all flooded into London.  We found a taxi and headed for our familiar old hotel where, with his smart phone,  Bruce had been able to reserve a room while we were on the train.  

         St. Pancras train station, London, Monday, March 16.

London looked normal as we crossed the city; school kids in their uniforms were returning home; people were out in Hyde Park and on the sidewalks.  I went to a pharmacy across the street from our hotel, stood in line, and was finally able to get 4 masks.  We hunkered down in our room and learned that President Macron had closed the French borders.  

Our plan for the next morning, Tuesday, March 17th, was to get up early and take the tube to Heathrow, bringing all our stuff with us.  Our hope was to get a flight that day to Boston - or to get a hotel room near the airport where we could wait - days?/weeks? - until we could snag tickets.   We donned our new masks and set out.  The Piccadilly Underground line was nearly deserted that morning, unlike what we had encountered just a month earlier when traveling on the same train for our flight to Madrid.   

                            Ready for travel home.

At Heathrow we immediately headed to the Delta ticket booth, where we were able to secure seats on a flight that afternoon for a flight to Boston via NYC!  We couldn't believe our good fortune!!  No one asked us if we were ill or indicated that we might not be allowed onto the plane.  In the waiting area, we changed seats often as we tried to stay away from other people.  Family and friends were in touch by email, inquiring where we were, how we were doing, and letting us know the latest news, which was changing hourly, it seemed.   

We boarded our flight shortly after noon.  I was assigned the middle seat in the middle section, with Bruce on one side and a rather unfriendly fellow on the other.  Probably just as well.  No interaction, and he was coughing a dry cough, unmasked.   We wore our masks the whole time, except to eat.  They were hot and uncomfortable but we hoped that they were protecting those around us.  Probably not, but I felt less guilty.  

On the plane everyone was asked to fill out CDC forms, indicating whether we had traveled in China - or in any one of a long list of other, mostly European, countries.   France and Spain were included.  We also were asked to check off whether we had any of the 3 major symptoms for COVID 19.  I could honestly say no, but did write in that I felt I was "fighting off something".  Bruce indicated that he had felt "feverish".  As we stepped out of the airplane door and onto the skybridge in NYC,  a Border Patrol official and 3 CDC staff stopped each passenger and took their temperature with a quick swipe to the forehead with a measuring tool.  Neither Bruce nor I registered a temp.  After a quick look at our forms and our travel history,  they handed us cards, requiring us to self-quarantine in our own home and to take our temps twice daily for two weeks.   We had made it into the country and were extremely relieved!  

We continued on our way to Boston, where we stayed in a Holiday Inn near Logan due to the late hour and our exhaustion.  The next day, Wednesday, March 18, we took a bus to Portland and then an Uber to Gorham.  Waiting on our steps were bags of food stuffs from friends.  More arrived later, practical necessities and symbols of love.  Home never looked so good! 

For the past few days, we have remained totally secluded as we have worked to warm up our home and to get water flowing again, a somewhat complicated job.  It's possible, even likely, that we have been exposed to COVID 19.  We don't feel particularly unwell, but we are quite tired with sleeping hours coming slowly back to normal and stress easing, to a degree.  Perhaps we should quit watching the news to reduce it more!   Our temps have remained in the normal range, for which we are grateful, but we wonder each morning if this will be the day that symptoms erupt.  In the end, we don't know if we've been exposed.   I'm sorry to have to disagree with our esteemed President, but test kits are NOT available for anyone who wants them.  We'll have to wait out our 14 days and see what happens to our bodies.  It's Day 5 and so far, so good.  In the meantime, we have good books to read, writing to do, yard work to tackle, and indoor projects waiting for us.   

It was a pretty traumatic experience, and our wanderlust has certainly been diminished.  Time will tell whether that's a permanent condition.  For now, we are so very very fortunate to have been flooded with offers of groceries to be dropped off and good wishes extended, through virtual means :).   It's clear that a support system is crucial for all of us during these scary, stressful times.  For ourselves, we feel wrapped in the warmth of friendship and are so grateful to be here.  

                                    Montpellier street art

Girona, Ancient City

March 9, 2020

Girona, An Ancient City

                                     Girona Cathedral 

Game of Thrones, anyone?  Girona, Spain, has drawn new attention as the locale where some of the episodes of season six of the popular series were filmed, including on the steps of the Cathedral.   Alas, that bit of info was lost on us, never having seen the show.  However, we had heard good things about Girona for many years - none related to a tv show - and were excited when we realized that we could easily stop for 4 nights on our route from Spain to southern France.  

Girona is located about 60 miles north of Barcelona, in the region of Catalonia.  If that rings a bell from the news, it's because Catalonia is the part of Spain which is trying to break away and become independent.  We associate this activity with Barcelona and were surprised to encounter such strong feelings of independence in Girona, too, though it makes sense.  In fact, the US State Department issued a travel advisory for Catalonia last fall, unbeknownst to us until we stumbled upon this nugget of info after arriving.  Oh, well.  We're in France now, and none the worse for our time in Girona.  In fact, we loved the city.  It is a beautiful, medieval place, amazingly preserved, with residents who were unfailingly friendly and helpful to us.  

          Interesting that this message is in English.  

Catalan flags are EVERYWHERE along with "Si" (yes) signs and other political messages.  

       This message hit close to home - our Airbnb home, that is! 

If Frigiliana (last post) was a photographer's dream, then Girona is heaven itself.  Between the stretch of buildings lining the Onyer River, with their lovely warm colors reflected in the water, and the stone buildings of the historic old town, it is an incredibly picturesque city!  

This former Benedictine Abbey houses the Archaeology Museum.

                        Worn gray stone and soft red flowers.  

In Frigiliana, a town referenced in my last post, its Muslim residents had been expelled by the Catholic Monarchs, seeking to re-take control of the area.   Girona has a parallel story of Jewish residents who had lived there for hundreds of years - though they were certainly not the rulers - and were expelled in 1492 by the same Catholic monarchs, Isabella and Ferdinand.  The Jewish residents were forced to flee (or convert to Christianity), while their quarter of the city was left largely intact and survives to this day.  It is a very atmospheric area with rather dark, mysterious, narrow, twisting streets, where one could easily lose one's way.  

 At the Jewish museum, we learned a little bit about life all those years ago, saw the ritual bath area, the mikva, as well as stone headstones with moving and personal inscriptions.  Ironically, it was due to the scientific work of Jewish map and instrument makers, that the expedition of Columbus was successful - in the same year as the Jews' expulsion.  Makes me think of another under-recognized minority mathematician, five centuries later, Katherine Johnson, an American black female, whose calculations ensured the success of NASA's astronauts on their voyages to the moon.   

  Sculpture recognizing the scientific contributions of Jewish scholars to the success of Columbus' voyages -  by Frank Meisler, who, as a child, was saved by the kindertransport during WWII.  

The wall enclosing the old town dates to medieval times.  A walkway along the top gave great views over the city and off to the foothills of the Pyrenees.   We watched the sun go down from that vantage point one evening.  

Looking out from the medieval wall, over the rooftops.  I deliberately made sure to not include modern life in the photo - and it was easy. 

We spent almost all of our time in the old town, an easy walk across the river from our Airbnb, on our choice of 11 bridges!   There was more to see than we could manage in 4 days with the Webb slow-travel style, trying to pace ourselves and stay healthy!  

                          My favorite bridge in Girona.

One day we visited the Archaeology Museum - Bruce's choice - now housed in a hauntingly large former Benedictine Monastery, dating to the 12th century, with a lovely cloister.  

Another day I was able to lure Bruce into an art museum - only because it was beginning to rain!  Despite the preponderance of religious art, which drives Bruce screaming out into the rain,  there were some very unique and beguiling pieces, like this unusually happy-looking madonna. 

I was thrilled to see the incredible display of medieval "capitals", those intricate stone carvings of people and weird animals, close enough to touch and see clearly!  Usually they are outside, high up on buildings, where I can't see - or photograph - them.  Here there were scores of rescued capitals, and I could ponder their stories to my heart's content.  

Another sweet surprise was a presentation on the history of Spanish tile work, which I love.  This "artisan tile" had special meaning for me.  By the time I found these, my own fiddler had retreated to our apartment across the river!  

Finally, the scallop shells which are the symbol of the Camino de Santiago, on the cape of this religious figure drew my attention.  It turns out that Sant Roc in Spanish/St. Roch in French was a segue to our next destination.  He is a native and patron saint of Montpellier, France, and of wandering pilgrims such as ourselves, AND the saint who protects one from plagues!  With coronavirus never far from our thoughts, this discovery seemed inspired.  

                                        Saint Roch

So I got my dose of art and inspiration at the Girona Art Musuem on the day before we left this intriguing and beautiful city!  I also got a haircut and had a surprisingly good chat with the beautician, considering our mutual clumsiness with each other's language.  

And then it was time to leave Girona and continue on our way to France, 150 miles north to the city of Montpellier.  Not everything in Girona was serious.  I'll leave you with a fun piece of street art - and a blessing for these worrisome times.  

                        God Bless You (in Catalan language)

See you next time in Montpellier, France!  

Nerja Nirvana

March 4, 2020
Nerja Nirvana

Nerja was a treat!  This town on the Mediterranean south coast of Spain, just 40 miles east of Malaga, offered us gorgeous views, a safe and quiet environment, and warm weather.  We were lucky to find a bright, cheerful Airbnb from which we awoke each morning to a soul-enriching sight of a sliver of the endlessly changing sea. Our tiny patio was a heat sink, outfitted with an umbrella to protect from too much sun.  We read and ate out there; drank in the ambiance and white wine; and, in general, felt very spoiled!  There was a pool but we never ventured into it.  Our neighbors in this complex, fellow retirees also fleeing cold weather, included folks from England, Ireland, Germany, and Scandinavia.   They were all much more sun junkies than we, sitting by the pool for hours.  

The wake-up sight from our bedroom in Nerja.  I tried to convince myself that I could see the African coast on the horizon but I may have been a little delusional.  

                         Our lunch time spot.

Bruce had chosen to include Nerja in our winter itinerary to check it out as a possible destination for a longer stay another year.  One of his favorite activities anywhere is to stop at real estate agencies displaying photos of properties for rent and sale.  In Nerja this behavior intensified.  

                             Looking over housing options

Our visit lasted for just 8 days but was our longest time in one spot since McAllen, Texas.  We needed somewhere to settle in and rest for a bit.  Nerja was perfect for that.  Six years previously, when we had spent a few days there, we had scurried around visiting the much-touted nearby caves and the huge weekly flea market and the 16th century church.  This time, being a bit older, we kicked back and filled our days with reading and napping, a bit of food shopping & cooking, walking around by day and strolling the streets by evening, as is the Spanish tradition, perhaps stopping for a wine & tapas or a gelato along the way.  

                      a spectacular walking venue

Coincidentally, our friend, Jon, another lovely Brit whom we had met in 2014 while we were staying in the small Spanish town of Alozaina, is now living in Nerja.  We had a delightful but brief visit with Jon at a cafe where he modestly filled us in on his activities geared toward supporting sustainability, as well as his creative outlets of music and writing.  He's a past resident of Totnes, England, known as a "transition town", that is transitioning off fossil fuels and into energy independence, as well as encouraging communal unity for solving local issues.  We are impressed with Jon's ability to create a new and meaningful life for himself, alone, in a very different land, requiring the use of a second language!  It seems to have invigorated him, and his enthusiasm was contagious.  

                    The Webbs and friend, Jon, in Nerja.


Our last hurrah in sweet Nerja was a weekend visit from Andrea and Angel (see last post), down from Madrid!  She had business in Malaga that very week, so Angel joined her.  Our Sunday adventure together was a drive to the beautiful little town of Frigiliana, just 15 minutes from Nerja in their car.  It's a gorgeous place, all white buildings and narrow, twisting medieval streets looking out to sea from a lofty perch on the side of a mountain.  Tourists and artists have definitely discovered it, too, bringing lots of restos and galleries.  

We wandered up and down, around and about, oohing and ahhing, clicking lots of photos.  Frigiliana is a typical "pueblo blanco" (white village),  built high up for defense purposes, back when the Muslims ruled the land - for 800 years!.  Multiple beautiful informational tiles now give the old story of their fight to stay when the Catholic Monarchs (Isabella & Ferdinand) began expelling Muslims and Jews, beginning in 1492. 

          Twisty street in the medieval white town of Frigiliana

The streets led us ever upward until we finally emerged onto a high, flat space, the location of a resto with an incredible view over the town, across the lower land and out to sea.  We had quite a feast there, reminiscent of our Sunday roast dinner with John and Mary in London in some ways, as this one included roast pork for me and roast lamb for Bruce.  But oh so different in most every other way, most strikingly in locale!  Bruce & I sat back and enjoyed having A & A take charge,  doing the communicating, translating the menu for us, making recommendations, and ordering.  

              Our exotic and yummy shared desserts.  

         Sunday lunch looking far off to the Mediterranean Sea.  

https://www.turismofrigiliana.es/en/

We left Nerja the day after our outing with Andrea and Angel, on a 7 hour fast train bound for the Catalonian city of Girona in the north, nearly on the French border.  We were armed with our bottle of Purell, with wipes at the ready to disinfect our train seats!  Girona was a bit of an impulse destination.  We spent 4 days there and really enjoyed it.  It deserves its own post so look for more on Girona coming up.    

While we're away, I try to maintain a balance of staying informed about issues at home, thanks to the NY Times and the Portland Press Herald and other online sources, while keeping my head primarily where my body is, firmly ensconced in Spain at the moment.  It's a struggle, being a political aficionado and with internet news available, 24/7.  Lately, the Democrats' Presidential candidate conundrums, as well as the coronavirus concerns are taking up quite a lot of our attention.  It appears that the Dems may be finally getting organized, thankfully.  As for the virus, we are not panicking about it, just maintaining diligent hand washing and keeping an eye on the ever-changing news of its spread.   We have discussed cutting our trip short - but not seriously at this point.  At the same time, we want to be responsible travelers and will do the "right thing", if indicated.   Thinking of our plans for the next few weeks, Bruce has done a bit of research on France's response and discovered that they are prepared for the virus with kits and care.  A little different from what we read about the US preparedness, with the CDC having been gutted in the past 3 years.  Could there be a connection between our political concerns and our healthcare concerns ??  

                                        Yes!  

Madrid Days

February 28, 2020     Madrid Days
Less than a thousand miles, as the crow flies, can make a huge difference in weather and lifestyle!   Madrid's blue, blue skies; balmy afternoons warm enough to sit outside comfortably for lunch; evening paseos on the wide public walkway along the skinny little Manzanares River - all were such a contrast to London, which we had thoroughly enjoyed!  Viva la diferencia!    

In Madrid, we returned to the Legazpi-Matadero neighborhood near the original apartment of our friend, Andrea, since we were familiar with the area from previous visits.  Ironically, it's an area with many immigrants, especially those from the American "colonies".  I found myself trying to pick out people who might have come from Guatemala or Honduras.  In fact, I often thought that here was the mother country that had shared so much of its culture and language and had helped to populate so many of those nations that are struggling in Central America right now.  

Our tiny Airbnb was located in a building that had a shabby outside appearance but was pristine and modern inside - perched on the 7th floor. 

                   Our little kitchen, dining and sitting area...

                                         and our building.


We are so impressed with the housing situation in Madrid.  Massive groups of apartment buildings, designed in small pods, so that fast emergency exits are more possible; not too high, which allows light to enter them; plentiful small parks and playgrounds to add to the quality of life.  The Spanish seem to be doing a good job of meeting the housing demand that challenges all cities, big and small, from Austin, Texas, to Portland, Maine.  

                 playground and trees in the middle of the city

 

The Matadero is a large complex of early 20th century brick buildings that made up the slaughterhouse for Madrid.  It's now been transformed into an arts center, located across the street from our BnB.


The Legazpi-Matadero neighborhood has the benefit of being located next to a fabulous public space, the Madrid Rio Park, that has something for everyone.  When a superhighway was re-located underground, space was freed up for a multi-faceted bonanza along the Manzanares River:  fields for futbol; an expansive skateboard area; playgrounds; fountains; gardens; bridges; outdoor cafes - all bordering a wide, undulating walkway that is busy with bikers,  inline skaters, baby-walkers, dog-walkers, old folks strolling, young folks getting their steps in, long benches for resting.  What an incredible investment in public health and well-being - physical as well as social.  I read that it was at least partially funded by the European Union, an example of cooperation across cultures.  And it's a wonderful place for people-watching.  We remembered it from our last visit in 2014.  We loved it then and now! 

                            walkway in Madrid Rio Park

        only part of the big skateboarding section of the park

          fountains that jumped up & down like kids playing a game

                                   futbol (soccer) field

                     outdoor cafe in the park

             fanciful pedestrian bridge across the river

         Stately plane trees will offer shade in the summer.

                        the river in the evening light

Andrea - and the hope of a rendez-vous with her - was one of the main reasons that we had decided to make Madrid our next destination.  We had met her at Safe Passage in 2011, nine years ago, living in the same boarding house in Antigua (Guatemala) while volunteering at Safe Passage together.  Though only half our age, she was older than most of the other volunteers.  She also was a delightful foodie and a smart, fun-loving young woman, and we have been friends ever since.  In fact, we had visited her in Madrid later in the same adventurous year and then again in 2014.  By then, she had a boyfriend, Angel, who had encouraged us to walk the Camino Ingles that year, one of our best experiences ever!  

                    Bruce, Andrea, & I at the local food market.

Our Saturday outing with Andrea and Angel began with a nearby outdoor food festival in the Matadero complex.  Vendors had set up displays to sell local products, such as goat cheese, all kinds of preserved meats for which the Spanish are known,  oodles of olives, handwork, even bags to purchase for recycling.  A huge stage had been erected for a band, and little kids were dressed in fancy costumes for Carnival festivities.  

           Andrea & Angel look over the sausage selection.   

From there we hopped a bus and went "downtown" to a classy little tapas bar where our hosts ordered a selection that included tiny spirals of tender purple & white calamari, an updated Russian potato salad, & the most delicate little filleted sardines in a mild vinaigrette - plus bebidas (drinks), vermuth for them which is the typical Madrid drink and tastes like Campari.  I'll have to order one sometime :).  

                 Angel (Ahn-hel) & Bruce heading for tapas.

We lingered over these delicacies and discussed Andrea's job as the manager of 72 outlet stores (!) spread over southern Europe; her family; computer apps; our travels; and current events in Spain and the world.  Angel is very knowledgeable and had lots to share about Spanish culture and history, as well as their own travels.  We were excited to learn that they may visit us this fall for Angel's first trip to the USA!  

Next on the agenda was a stop at a favorite Galician bakery for a tasting of 5 different cakes!  Bruce must have been missing home as he chose an apple crumble.  I chose an almond-pear tart.  The Spanish cheesecake was my favorite, however.  Mild and unadorned.  

By now, we were very full and in need of a walk-about El Retiro Park.  Having been there before, I had thought that it was a place for retirees - which there were lots of, btw.   No, no, no.  Retiro is another "false friend" of the Spanish language.  It means "retreat" and makes so much more sense, since it was originally a park for the Spanish royals, where they could roam around privately.  I wish that I had photos, but, alas, my camera was worn out for the day.  Let's just say that the elegant Victorian glass house overlooking a small pond with swans gliding around was beyond charming!  

On this beautiful sunny Sunday, the park was full of strolling families and lovers, giving me the feeling of being inside an impressionist painting.  I expected to see a horse come prancing down the wide sandy pebbled walkway, being handled by a formally attired aristocrat.  It all felt SO civilized.

The sun was setting as we emerged from our peaceful time at El Retiro and entered the urban hustle bustle.  Madrid is a city of massive, majestic edifices, reminding one that this nation was once the proud reigning monarch of world colonial powers.  

It was a much more humble, sweet moment, however, that will linger with me.  As we made our way toward a subway to take us back to our neighborhood, Bruce suggested stopping on a bench for a rest.  We were surrounded by lovely buildings.  The evening light had colored the sky that beautiful pale pink and blue just above the horizon.  Fancy Victorian iron street lamps had lit up.   A moment before, we had passed a group of a dozen or so classical musicians, dressed in street clothes and arranged in a semi-circle on the wide sidewalk, surrounded by an appreciative audience standing and listening.  We sat and listened, too, as the strains of Vivaldi's Four Seasons held us gently in its magical embrace.    One of those special serendipitous travel moments.  

Other sights and scenes from Madrid ...

Bruce & I stumbled upon the Santa Maria indoor market one day and were mesmerized.  

                                 Laundry day in the city

Spain was one of the first nations to endorse marriage equality.  

                                                Street art.

                                                    Friends

After hugs and thanks to Andrea and Angel, we left Madrid the next morning for a FAST train ride (330 miles in less than 3 hours) to the south coast city of Malaga and on to the coastal town of Nerja, where we are now.   It had been a quick 4 days in both London and Madrid.  We were looking forward to more than a week in one location!