Naaaaav'n black 'n' blues

26.12.10

Navan, Co. Meath, Ireland

Perusing the last post, I was reminded how I was in a different world a few days ago: Temperatures were cool; the preferred foods were pizza, Parmesan cheese, and prosciutto; and Sean was with me. Here I sit in front of a fire in a drafty Irish home with some lovely cousins of mine, having just eaten a roast of chicken, potatoes, and parsnips. This has been their worst winter in many years – aside from last year – with the thermometer diving to -8 C and the snow piling up nearly six inches. OK, this is really nothing compared to Chicago, but it's still enough to cause a country ill-prepared for rough winters to shut down completely. And, of course, Sean is back home, no longer laughing it up with me in Europe.

Christmas in another place is quite strange. I don't mean that Irish customs are unusual or all that foreign, nor do I mean that the weather or landscape is that much different from home (this is a relatively flat part of the country, caught in a cold spell). This is the only tradition that I feel must take place with family (yes, I'm forgetting National Family Funn Day). Luckily, I have some wonderful cousins here in Ireland who have taken in this bedraggled warrior, or, if you'd rather, this smelly and unshaven man, for the holidays. But talking to my family yesterday made me happy in a way that I've not felt for a while. When you are on your own, feelings are either dampened or amplified, but in either case emotions aren't what you would feel in a stable environment with friends and family at hand. Yesterday, I was struck by how much I missed everyone back home when I was reminded of the distance by a phone call, made Christmas evening here and received Christmas morning there. Nothing like an immeasurable chasm of time and distance to strip away the self-erected layers of protection and reveal how dear something is to you.

Tonight, I'm accompanying my cousin Emma to some sort of club for an Irish celebration of Boxing Day, known here as St. Stephen's Day. I've received many tips how to avoid the common pitfalls of Irish clubgoers. Most importantly, the Happy Bus is to be shunned at all costs. This vehicle arrives at a party “after the seventh pint” and replaces all the ugly, overweight girls with attractive beurs. Another trick is to bring along a set of keys and tell all the girls that I have a Ferrari (You have a Ferrari? A few). But I think it all boils down to being smart and in control, much like the babysitter, and not “losing it.” At any rate, we're leaving soon, so I'd best be off. I only hope they play something decent. I wish I could walk into a place and be hit with one of Brian Eno's walls of sound, now that would be a treat. Or if Prince made a guest appearance and started rocking. Bobby D is out of the question. But I'll take what comes with a big ol' smile and dance dance dance my troubles away. And if said troubles stem from the dancin'? Then I revert to the Eclectic Slide.

Mrrry Chrrrrsmas! And a very merry one at that!

Wren Inn Roam

17.12.10

Roma, Italy



Chianti Beauty



We have reached our final destination together on our journey across Europe: the ancient and eternal city of Roma. Though we have no more kilometers to pedal, our job is not yet complete. Indeed, the last three days have been some of the most frustrating and challenging of the entire trip.

As usual, the approach to Rome was nothing out of the ordinary. We knew that entering any city and even drawing near to the larger ones invites headaches from the tripled volume of traffic and dirtier roads. In this case, we were not prepared for this overload of trucks and cars that occurred 55 miles out. The worst part is that the traffic increased while the width of the road remained scarily narrow: a two lane road lacking a shoulder. Fortunately, we were able to camp in strands of woods that we found along the highway and braved the cold three nights in a row before our arrival. Riding into Rome proper was very instructive in the mismatch between ancient road sizes and their modern applications. The traffic was so bad riding in that we beat many of the cars to the city center. Again, having a single lane on a main thoroughfare is never a good idea for a busy city.

The second trial of our final destination together was the unfortunate situation of lodging. Instead of staying in a hostel or hotel for the duration of our stay, we attempted to cut down on cost by staying with one of three contacts that we had made throughout our travels or through our friends. A girl that we had met in Madrid had originally invited us to stay with her, which made us very happy as we entered the city. As soon as we got internet access - for the first time in three days, actually - we discovered that her mother had become ill, naturally destroying our hopes of staying with her. Fine, we had a few other options.

A dear friend of mine named BHill worked very hard to find a contact with whom we could stay for a few days here in the city and got us in touch with a family that is extremely nice and wonderful. Tom, Brian's friend, even grew up in Chicago, which is a double plus. But their apartment is not suited for lengthy stays and so we contented ourselves with plans for dinner. That first night, after discovering that we were without a place to stay, we sought residence in a hostel, which allowed us to see the Vatican. St. Peter's Square, St. Peter's Cathedral, the Sistine Chapel... I do have to interrupt this story for a bit of good news, which is that true beauty exists at this oh holiest of places. It goes without saying that the Church was one of the most powerful institutions on the planet at one time, and while many poor decisions were made regarding the use of that money, the construction of these beautiful structures is an appropriate and commendable use of these funds. Of course, feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, caring for the sick: These are all fine and well, too, but creating works of art and raw beauty are worth something special.

Through the website that we are a part of, we were able to leave the hostel and stay with a friendly guy who was eager to teach us about his Buddhist beliefs, his former 1-kg-of-pasta-a-day-for-breakfast eating habits (though he reiterated how variety is the spice of life), and the joys of cycling in the thick of the craziest of European traffic - found here in Rome. Before we met him, we were approached on the street by a very nice woman who saw us with our bikes and was curious as to what we were doing. After we told her our story and our predicament, she offered us a place to stay. Taking an immediate liking to her enthusiasm and bubbling energy, we decided to take her up on the offer and stay with her the following night, after we had given the internet friend a shot.

Though it was difficult moving all our things again, we figured that this woman was kind enough to open up to us knowing our story, so it must be a positive encounter. We left the first house and, following a wonderfully simple lunch of her vegetarian and organic lifestyle, Giuliana took us on a biking tour of Rome. 2 hours on a bike was not only enough to see the many historical sites of the city but also sufficient to fear for our lives a number of times as she wove in and out of traffic, acting without fear and as though she owned the cobblestoned roads. I should say that, as a phenomenal coincidence, our internet friend, Sem, and the woman with whom we had a chance encounter, Giuliana, were both members of the group Critical Mass, which seeks to garner awareness to the reality and efficacy of cycling in cities by gathering in large herds once a month and taking over the city roads completely, forcing cars to notice and obey, as it were.

Sean and I met up again with Giuliana after having a magnificent time with Tom and Dana Whalen at their 6th story condo in the heart of Rome. The building in which they live is a converted 12th century tower that still forms the core of the structure, with the rooms built around it. Not only did this place have a brilliant and breathtaking view (or maybe it was just the subzero temperatures that stole the air from my lungs?), but it commanded a style that is rare for many places in America. But the true pleasure of the night was visiting with two of the nicest and most genuine people I have ever met.

Finishing up the pathetic story of our lodging woes, we returned to Giuliana's place following a torturous series of frigid night walks, lonely bus rides, and seemingly aimless wandering as we searched for the correct street in unfamiliar territory. Indeed, when we arrived, happy to be back in a relatively warm home with a friendly face to welcome us, we discovered, quite bluntly and plainly and you-should-have-known/don't-you-understand?, that we were to leave the following morning at 09:30. Take into consideration that our dinner with Tom and Dana had lasted until 23:00, meaning we reunited with Giuliana at 00:25 or so. That first day, she invited us to stay with her and knew that we were leaving the 19th, but she all of a sudden said she had a "change of plans" and would be leaving the following day out of town for the weekend. Sean and I had no power in this situation: Arguing our case would never change her mind, forcing her to stay, but would certainly instead bring about an unpleasant exchange that might end in us leaving even sooner. I never felt this terrible for having trusted someone so completely, nearly seeing Giuliana as our savior for Rome, and then being thrown out in the freezing, sunless cold because she had changed her mind and wanted to leave town. Perhaps she just doesn't realize what it is like to be without a home, or perhaps she thought we had other friends here (she was under the impression that we could return to the house we were at the previous night). In any case, the rug was yanked out from under our weary feet, and the worst part is that all the while we were struggling to stay smiling.

But Rome really hasn't been bad. The first three days had been absolutely gorgeous weather. Today is another story: Snow in the morning followed by drizzling, steady rain, and then a massive downpour complete with lightning and roaring thunder. I can only hope the clouds lift for our final day of sightseeing and errand-running tomorrow.

These are the final two days I have with Sean, first in Rome and then en route to Dublin, where I will rest these bones while Sean heads home. I am only beginning to realize the enormity of that fact: the simple, crushing reality. Let us enjoy the little time that remains, even in spite of this dripping, freezing, terrible weather.

Last day in Firenze

9.12.10


Firenze, Italia



A Romanesque yet Gothic Florentine cathedral, read: Magnificence



Today is our last day in the birthplace of the Rebirth. In terms of our health, spirits, and overall vigor, we have experienced a rebirth of our own here. I guess the notion transcends time!

Our next stop along the way will be Siena, which will be simply grand. After Siena, we will continue over hill and dale towards Roma, lovely ancient Roma, where the skies are so blue (I hope this is true, oh do I miss the Sun!). From the Eternal City (does this imply we'll be stuck there forever?), Sean and I will be flying out to Dublin, where I will bid him a fair and fine farewell and enjoy the company of some dear friends and relatives outside of Joyce's stomping ground (along with Paris). When I return to the lower European continent and to my mount, I might just have to take the advice of a few friends and head south, south, south to Sicily and beyond, to Egypt! The northern African coast would be something wondrous to explore.

But looking ahead should be limited to prevent losing sight of what we have in front of us now and whose company we are enjoying at the moment. That is, Firenze has not been completely explored, the villa has many a path to be walked, and Sean - my steadfast companion and keeper of the keys - is still laughing and whistling by my side (but slightly above my head). So with renewed vigor, as a phoenix rising from Arizona, we step out into the cloudy but warm Florentine environment, intent on gozando de la vida actual.


PS I'm including a snapshot of a famous grave site in Paris that I never got a chance to upload, as I never told the full tale of that beautiful city, which Hemingway calls a Moveable Feast. I had to visit what was previously the final resting place of an American hero, before someone concerned with grave vandalism from the adoring fans moved his remains back to California. I had to do this for two people: Dad and Laura. You two aren't overwhelmingly huge fans of his, but seeing the grave made me think of you both immensely (just like the Bears, or the moon). Without further ado, I present to you, the final resting place of Beatrix Kiddo, er James Douglas Morrison.

Italy: Love at first sight

6.12.10

Firenze, Italia

The Italian Garden of Villa I Tatti

Olive groves, rows and rows of vineyards, Cyprus trees towering overhead in long lines, hills offering beautiful views of the surrounding higher hills and nestled villages; these are a few of the virtues of living in an Italian villa overlooking Firenze. It is a shame we are visiting in the winter, for the lemon trees are locked inside, the vines are bare, and the flowers are recuperating from the recent frosts. It is impossible not to appreciate this place for what it is regardless of the season: a tribute to the bounty and beauty of the land. (It is quite telling to note that Lino Pertile, who has opened this treasured villa up to us, still considers Cambridge, Massachusetts, his home and plans to retire there one day, leaving this land of plenty).

This flattering description should not imply that our trip through the Italian Riviera, along the Mediterranean and through the bordering mountains, was devoid of anything spectacular; on the contrary, these last four days – since we landed in Genova aboard a ferry that set sail from Barcelona up until our first day of rest in Firenze – have made us fall in deep, deep love with Italy.

Ancient art meshes so nicely with ivy-shrouded marble staircases, no?

Genova, especially, welcomed us warmly with pastel-colored palaces, archways spanning streets, and a lively mix of grand and accidental architecture. I felt as though I had landed in a mystical land, one that materialized out of the magical salty air of the Mediterranean Sea. The entire first day, whether we were climbing from sea level to traverse the mountains all around or plummeting back toward the blue-green of the seafront and navigating hairpin turns while avoiding the hundreds of motorized scooters on the roads, I was in a state of constant bliss. Undoubtedly, the sun helped and warmed our bones with a power we hadn't felt since Barcelona and before that since who knows when. The mix of sensations was intoxicating, but we knew we had discovered Paradiso.

The past three nights, we have camped out, each one providing a certain story that spans the three extremes of the trip: freezing cold, astonishing natural beauty and power, and adrenaline-inducing danger. The most recent camping found us in the midst of Fucecchio, in a structure that we termed The Fortress. Although we were right off one of the town's main roads, we found a fully enclosed circle of hedges with a 20 foot diameter that completely shut us out from sight. Of course, the noise was still a nuisance, but we felt very safe. Our real enemy that night was the cold, which descended like a bunch of broccoli, catching us by surprise and falling hard.

Towns thriving in the most mountainous conditions

Our schedule when camping is to find a location, set up camp, change clothes, begin cooking dinner, eat at a convenient/fun/warm (i.e. in the tent) spot, clean up, and head back in the tent for map consultation, writing, and eating dessert. This last step is the favorite and most essential one, for we never forget to pick up one or two treats to enjoy in the tent post-dinner. Lately, we have been getting more adventurous, finding a panoply of giant bell-shaped sweet breads, dense and fruity “hard breads,” and cookies and pastries galore. I am still looking out for that perfect biscotti. After we finished our orange- and lemon-flavored hard bread, we went out to brush our teeth. The world we stepped out into was not the one we had left, for it was completely covered by a thick layer of frost. That night, we slept poorly, having to constantly shift positions due to cold and discomfort. I reckon it just goes to show you that Italy in the winter is not at all warm sunshine. Not at all.

The second camping was the ideal spot in terms of security, shelter, and sheer awesomeness. Ladies and gentlegiants, Sean and I that night slept a mere 100 feet from the crashing, roaring, and frothy waves of the Mediterranean Sea.

Firenze, on the banks of the mightsome Arno

The best part is that we found a strip of woods that was not being used in the winter, located a hidden grove, and set up shop. That night, we dined on the finest walnut tortellini around while watching a distant storm whip the sea into a fury. Infrequent bouts of lightning would reveal a bleak void punctuated by the occasional whitecap. Many times while munching, I noticed a funny feeling inside, right next to the tapewormy one and far above the numbness of the feet. I can only describe it as awe and wonder at sitting on the shore of the sea that inspired countless stories from the finest of ancient Western civilizations. And not merely sitting on the sandy beach, watching a mass of black clouds obscuring the stars and reflecting light from the many port towns along the sea, but rather, we had traveled there on our own power and were relying on the sea to be gentle with us that night. In reality, there was a very distinct possibility that a severe storm could cause us harm, which few tourists or strollers-along-the-beach experience. Fortunately, we were spared any real trouble that night, only receiving a light sprinkling that stopped before we awoke.

The final camping [mis(s)]adventure took place on our first night in Italy. I reckon we were again unused to the sun's patterns, having been further south in Spain for two weeks.

That cannon's got beef with the Med

As four o'clock approached, we began searching for a supermarket. It took us a full hour to locate one and finish our shopping, so we stepped out again into the evening just before 17:00. In that hour, the sun had set and the sky was rapidly approaching the color of charcoal. It didn't help that this town was nestled in a valley among the surrounding mountains, resulting in intensified dusk. The rapidity with which we were plunged into darkness resulted in our making some desperate decisions with regard to lodging. Unfortunately, no legitimate options were available, so we began eying parks and grassy rises with little luck. A man in a bike shop offered to take us to the nearest campsite, but when we arrived, we found it had been closed for a month and was reopening the following day. With no other choice, we climbed a small hill next to the campground and pitched our tent on the side lawn of a hotel that was closed for the winter.

Things were going just fine until we noticed the cats. There were at least four of them, prowling around and occasionally getting into quite vocal fights with one another (the sounds they can produce are unearthly). We began cooking dinner and shooed the cats away with a quick get-up-and-run. All of a sudden, I saw a blinding bluish-white flash that my on-edge mind instantly interpreted as a flare gun from one of the neighboring houses down the hill that saw our stove. The deafening boom that issued within seconds brought about the more serious reality: We were camping on a hill among the mountains during a nighttime lightning storm. Not only is this bad, but we had no idea how to reduce our risk of... whatever it is that might happen during a storm. And on top of it all, it began to rain, which is the second-to-last thing you want when camping, right behind lightning. Within 15 minutes, the rain had subsided, allowing us to finish our dinner without getting soaked.

Back in the tent we went for the giant bell of chocolate sweet bread covered in powdered sugar, apparently designed for an entire family during the Christmas season.

Italian Northern Mediterranean coast: so nice

Just as we finished eating, writing, and cleaning up, I turned off my headlamp and discovered a set of headlights streaking across the tent. If you do not know Desert Storm (few have survived the encounter), picture a bright yellow angular tent perched in front of you in the night: It will not be overlooked. Surely enough, the car shut off but then quickly flashed its brights twice as though to let us know we were spotted. And then... nothing happened; no one got out, no more lights, no sounds. Sean and I sat there in the darkness while our hearts beat faster and faster. What could they want? Why would they be here on this dark hill on the outskirts of town just off the busy highway that we could hear? Why won't they say or do anything? No answers came to mind, so we decided to consider the worst possible scenario and get the hell out of that tent. We dressed all in black, gathered our essential possessions, and quickly but smoothly crawled out of the tent and headed directly for the back of the hotel/house we were next to. After a moment's hesitation, someone from the car got out and began following us. That was all we needed to hear, and we took off running as soon as we rounded the corner. There we were, crouched back around in the front of this building, waiting and listening, every muscle tightly coiled and ready to spring to action, fueled by the adrenaline coursing through our systems. After a few minutes, we heard the car start back up and pull back down the hill, stopping before it reached the bottom.

We decided to be as cautious as possible, again considering the worst-case scenario, which was that they were out for us now and knew we would be returning to our base. After 45 minutes without any signs, we gathered ourselves and, headlamp at full blast, marched back to the tent and bikes. No one. Not a soul. Furthermore, nothing of ours seemed to be touched. Relieved but unsure of how to proceed, we debated moving to another spot but decided that it was too late at this point and instead moved the tent to the back of the house, no longer visible from the smallish parking lot there. The rest of the night, we were free of any visitors, cats, or unnervingly loud peals of thunder. Granted, in the morning, a car again materialized in the lot, but we were protected by daylight and made a clean escape.

What could the car have been doing up there? I suppose those in it were probably heading to the small and empty restaurant down the hill and used the lot up there, which might have been designated for both the hotel and the restaurant.

Italian Fog! Concealing Italian ice!

However, this scenario does not fully explain why the person came after us, and why they did not say anything. They sat in their car for a full 10-15 minutes while we were sweating and willing them away. What were they waiting for? Perhaps they were afraid that we would vandalize their car or that it was not otherwise safe up there, but still, why would they come out after us? The bottom line is that they did not mean us harm, for our belongings were just where we had left them, and they did not return to our knowledge.

We learned an important lesson that night, which is to keep out of view of any and all parking lots, no matter how deserted they appear. Also, lightning is scary when you have absolutely no appropriate shelter and it is nighttime. Finally, cats will steal your Parmesan when given the opportunity.

Beached on Barcelona

30.11.10

Barthelona, Espana

We have made it, at long last, to the fabled Mediterranean Sea. It seems like only yesterday that we were in the central mountains of Spain riding through a snowstorm and trying to find a bank that would turn some Benjamins into Jean Jaures. Yes, it did snow quite a bit yesterday, prompting our Argentinian friend Miguel to say that it was the coldest day of his life (right at freezing). Today was much better, only raining in the morning and warming back up to 10. In order to ensure that we make it to Rome in time for Sean's flight, we had decided to take a bus last night from Madrid to Barcelona and a ferry tomorrow from here to Genoa, Italia (a whopping 18 hours! I wonder what the average man overboard rate is on such a long seafaring journey). Now, I had to work quite a bit in order to convince myself that this was an acceptable (and even desirable, considering our schedule) choice of transportation. However, now that we've actually bused 600 km in Spain to the very coast of the sea, I feel as though we are missing out. For one, we cannot nearly appreciate the drastic changes that have taken place between Madrid, one of the coldest cities in Spain, and Barcelona, where palm trees grow with reckless abandon. I love the way that cycling makes clear the intimate connection between places through the gradual changes you witness and the continuation of one road into the next. Falling asleep on a night bus and waking up groggy in a new land is like a magician's trick that is too flashy to feel right.
Secondly, taking a bus breaks the normal flow of biking every day. While I acknowledge the power of properly timed breaks from the constant wear and tear of biking, busing removes the mental edge for a while by completely switching your focus. We are still traveling, but no longer do we need to do anything to get anywhere. This brings me to the final point, which is that we are not doing anything to deserve the free mileage, and so the progress made feels false. Biking is not at all an obsession with me, for I can easily take breaks from the daily grind without any feelings of guilt or the like. Nevertheless, I certainly derive a strong sense of pride at having conquered mountains, the elements, and whatever other challenges have come my way, all without succumbing to the forces that be or seeking the help of passing motorists. I know this is a necessary course of action at this point, but I can't help but reflect on the bruised pride that comes with throwing my bike in the boot of a bus and sleeping while I "see the world" 600 km at a time. This way of doing things, thankfully, is not in my future for long.

Peculiarly, I like the idea of taking a ferry to another land. Perhaps it is because the sea has always drawn me, or perchance due to the foreign medium that is the water, but I love hopping on a boat and watching the green ocean flow by in amazing frothy waves. Of course, it is infinitely more significant that we will be embarking on a journey across the Mediterranean Sea tomorrow, a treacherous and legendary sea that has claimed more lives than I can claim to have met. On the other side of that pond is Italia, the final country for Sean and I together (I would love some input on where to go after, by the way). Sean and I will be wearing our rain jackets aboard the ferry, for our powers will certainly manifest themselves at the worst time possible...

Madriding high

26.11.10


Madrid, Espana


T-1000, advanced prototype, liquid metal; living in Madrid


Well well well, I am now on the other side of my 23rd Thanksgiving and looking back. It is always a bit bittersweet to be reviewing an event you were fiercely anticipating, regarding it now as a memory instead of a heavily circled calendar date, heavy with so much promise. The good news, however, is that Sean and I will be celebrating the holiday twice more this weekend. I reckon there is at least one benefit to being out of the US for Thanksgiving, which would be the multitude of parties/dinners that expatriates throw on the only days they can: the weekend. Saturday and Sunday will be our unofficial Thanksgivings, complete with turkey, stuffing, and pies galore. Further, the camaraderie and general cheer is amplified by the fact that, for many of us, this is our first Thanksgiving on our own in a completely foreign place, and so we redouble our efforts to capture the magic that we took for granted back home. While finding a pigskin or sweet potato is rather difficult here, the gusto with which we search for them is phenomenal. As of this moment, all this is pure conjecture, for the first dinner is tomorrow night with Melissa Ward, Holly Vanderwal, and some other American/Spanish celebrants (how peculiar to have 4 LTHS grads


The changing landscape, the hunched-o'er-bike maneuver


celebrating Thanksgiving together 4-6 years post-graduation in Madrid?). What I anticipate is plenny o' good cheer, but what I fear is an overenthusiastic production in the form of painted smiles and a few too many sips of champagne (when have I ever had champagne for Thanksgiving?). I sit here today and wonder whether tomorrow will be genuine and delicious, or simply a stage for us exported Americans to allow our common foreignness and manufactured spirit-o'-th'-season to resonate to dangerous levels and bring about the destruction of a tradition we are trying to preserve. But mostly I'm wondering what will be on the table.

There is much to update and so very little time. Allow me to abbreviate the last week with a few of the finer points. We have discovered a website known as warmshowers.org, which provides hospitality to touring cyclists such as ourselves. So far, we have used it successfully four times: in Moustey and Bayonne, France; and in Elizando


Elizandoooo!!! A Basque Country fan favorite



and Guadalajara, Spain. These hosts have been some of the nicest and most accommodating people we have met, and they do it out of a keen interest in cycling and an appreciation for what we do, occasionally having a nice round-the-world trek under their belts. Although we at first rejected this way of meeting people, as we felt it was too artificial and relied on forced or staged kindness, we are beginning to realize that it is merely a way to meet those who share a common interest as we do.


Thumbs up for warmshowers! And the Pyrenees!


The going from Bayonne to Madrid was not what I was expecting, although hindsight tells me I should have seen it coming. I knew there would be mountains, and many of them, but I had no feel for the sheer magnitude of desolation in this Spanish countryside. Not only are the towns separated by dozens of kilometers, with some not



The changing landscape, changed once more



having any servicios, but along the road we have encountered fourscore or more destroyed or otherwise abandoned stone huts or houses with no obvious purpose. OK, this exists in America, too, no? But I have never seen American villages boasting a 50% decimated building rate, as we saw in Barahona the night we camped in the middle of town on the hill next to the church. That night, the wind was perfectly calm, and we heard not a single sound. Course, this was not half as unsettling as the previous night, where the town of Agreda put us up in la parrochia - a free room run by the church and set up for pilgrims or


Wild parties abound at Castle Hilltop


travelers - where we had to change multiple heavily bloodied sheets before sleeping (I got the bloody bed!). Why we did not get a picture of this was purely out of concern for the law.

Other highlights? I have never before received so many intense gawks and stares, at least not since I got that fifth arm removed. Spaniards are not at all afraid to let you know via gaze that they are dumbfounded or at least interested in what


Palacio de Algo/Here is a key



you are doing in their town. Also, cities are extremely painful to navigate, but we rode from Guadalajara to Madrid without a map, something we chalked up as a rip-roaring success. Finally, speaking Spanish has never been more relevant, which is a major road block in any learning program. I'd say put the kids in the middle of a market without any food or water and have them find their way into a van with no windows for the promise of a "sweet sweet." That'll teach 'em.

Hace frio

22/11/10

Gomara, Espana

It's oh so cold, and the wind is relentless. There are many mountains in this part of the world, and each of them makes its own weather. These mountains have seemed to have swallowed up all the internets. Please give them back, along with our warmth. Snow-capped mountains.

Thanksgiving in three days. We are riding to Madrid to enjoy a break with a friend. The food will suffer. Canned yams are universal, right?

Wish us luck as we cross another mountain pass today, which will be the fourth in as many days. Good gravy!