Yonder reports... Moments of Truth And Other Highlights from a Grand Tour Moment One: An experience in Istanbul two weeks ere my 70th birthday suggests that those who claim that one is as old as one feels have it wrong in my case. Paola and I boarded a streetcar whose seats were all occupied, and as I reached for a strap to steady myself, a young man sitting nearby caught my eye, stood up and offered me his seat. As far as he was concerned, one is as old as one looks, and I presumably looked ancient and unsteady to him. Moment Two: A week later, I was running up a long hill near Dozza, Italy, when I sensed a presence alongside me. I looked to my right and beheld a handsome woman who looked (!) to be in her 50s. We exchanged buon giorno’s as she overtook me. In a minute or so, she was 100 meters ahead of me and pulling away. And she was walking. How to explain these moments? Can it be that I really look so decrepit that I can't be trusted to stay standing on a moving streetcar, and that my jogging pace has slowed to the point that I can no longer keep up with middle-aged walkers? Or were my visage and energy simply reflecting the fact that I'd shelved my five liter/day diet Pepsi habit at the beginning of our odyssey two weeks previously? Note: The final question above attests that your now-septuagenarian correspondent remains capable of wishful thinking. Moment Three: Epiphany in Urgup, Turkey, on market day: I’d always thought Henry Thoreau meant his comment that “the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation” as an indictment of men. But as I watched the market’s throngs of sellers hawking their wares and buyers haggling over them, it occurred to me that he was really saying that circumstances beyond many men’s (and women’s) control hamstring them, make it impossible not to lead quietly desperate lives. Hmm, I thought, maybe I’m growing up as well as old. Other Highlights: Our month-long “grand tour” (Turkey, Italy, Spain, Portugal, Germany, Luxembourg) was as rewarding as it was ambitious. To motor around Turkey's Cappadocia region is to be treated to some of the most unusual (and impressive) topographies Paola and I had ever encountered. Montana-like panoramas that feature snow-capped peaks and craggy escarpments and hide deep gorges made it hard for this driver to keep his eyes on the road. Thanks to one of Paola’s many worldwide friendships, one of these escarpments provided our accommodations. The Urgup Cave Hotel’s guest and public rooms are caves – nicely appointed – and it’s managed by an intrepid woman who helped Paola on her first book, “In Her Hands.” Call Sevim Karabiyik at 011-90-384-341-6255/6 to reserve your cave…and get in touch with your inner cave person. Istanbul may be the most impressive city this metrophobe has visited. It's big – Paola and I spent two hours traveling by streetcar, ferry and bus to the home of another of her friends who lives well within the city limits. It's crowded – some 14 million people call it home. But it is also orderly – the throngs proceed shoulder-to-shoulder and to and fro with minimal jostling and no loss of cool. And it’s clean – street sweepers and trash receptacles are ubiquitous, and I noted that people would go out of their way to deposit their detritus in the latter. Finally, its officials seem to realize that their metropolis has been blessed with spectacular tourist attractions – the Topkapi Palace, the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia, the Grand Bazaar and the Spice Market, to name five of many – and they make it easy to enjoy them. (But not cheap, especially given the number of dollars required to purchase a Euro.) Re. “cheap,” if you plan to rent a car in Turkey, prepare for service station shock. At $11/gallon, we parted with more than $100 every time we filled our gas-sipping VW Jetta’s tank. Re. the state of the Turkish nation (a NATO member the US is obliged by treaty to help defend), to our tourists’ eyes, it seemed to be thriving. But the locals we were able to visit thanks to Paola’s friendships gave us assessments that were quite pessimistic. They see a country that's riven – destabilized – by an acrid, Lebanon-like confection of competing interest groups – Islamists, urban progressives, rural regressives, restive military officers and Mafiosi. And they fear the worst. Roman all-stars It has long been her thoroughly disinterested spouse’s view that Paola’s Roman cousins and their offspring have benefited from the same genes that help make her such an exceptional human being – genes that enabled their paternal grandparents to make it into Italy’s history books. And our four days in Rome reaffirmed it. What a delight to be with them, and to savor their intelligence, accomplishments, character and perspective “up close and personal.” Sadly, it was also bittersweet as Paola cugina is succumbing to Alzheimer’s. Reason to return soon. Roman ruins? Rome’s many tourist attractions -- arguably even more compelling than Istanbul’s – suffer by comparison. The Eternal City’s officials would do well to tend to them as their Turkish counterparts do their city’s. Italy’s best kept secrets: Dozza and the Monte del Re A scant twenty miles from Bologna, nestled among verdant farmlands is another of Paola’s many discoveries (thanks to her exhaustive guide book studies), the village of Dozza, whose citizens give over the exterior walls of their homes and public buildings to artists who festoon them with colorful murals. No visitor to Italy should miss it, but nearly all do. It draws many Italians, though. As we left Dozza after our first visit a year ago, we noticed a small sign that read “Hotel Monte del Re three kilometers,” and we decided to drive there for lunch. What we found was an authentically great hotel, the fifth we’ve seen in our travels (along with the Raffles in Singapore, the Peninsula in Bangkok, Yosemite's Awahnee and the Antumalal in Pucon, Chile). When we were planning this year’s trip, I promised Paola a three night stay at the Monte del Re to make up for all the birthdays and Christmases I’d ignored. And the place proved to be even more wonderful than we’d hoped. All future visits to Italy will include a stay. Westward, ho! Seeing that Paola had been invited to speak to a group of American expats in southern Spain and that she’d never been to Madrid, a longtime favorite haunt of mine, we flew from Bologna to the Spanish capital, rented a car and checked into a downtown hotel. [Note: the preceding sentence ignores two facts: (1) Madrid’s crazy quilt of one-way streets and Los Angeles-level traffic jams require a Genius Navigator to get where one wants to go; and (2) Paola is a Genius Navigator.] Once unpacked, I guided the Genius Navigator to one of my favorite places, the Plaza Mayor. I’d said nothing about it in advance in the hope that she’d be pleasantly surprised – and appropriately dazzled – as we entered, and she was. The next day, I guided her to another of my favorites, this one on the second floor of the Prado. Behold! I cried, as Hieronymus Bosch’s “Garden of Earthly Delights” came into view. She did, and found it just as engaging as I’d hoped. After an al fresco lunch at the Plaza Mayor, we visited an exhibit of outsized tapestries at the Palacio Real (several measured at least 21 feet long and 14 feet high by my reckoning) and the nearby Catedral de Nuestra Senora de Almudena. (Disregard the Lonely Planet’s put down; this cathedral is well worth a visit.) Second row seats at a dazzling performance by a flamenco troupe topped off a great day. We reclaimed our rental car from an underground parking garage on the morning of Day Three and spent the next 45 minutes trying to get out of town. If that seems like a long time, I can assure you that we’d have spent twice as long if it hadn’t been for the Genius Navigator, who came up with what turned out to be a brilliant idea: Drive south on the beltway that circles Madrid to access an exit that looked on the map to be just north of us. Free at last, we visited El Escorrial, Toledo and the over-the-top Valley of the Fallen, a monument to those who died in Spain’s civil war, ordered up by Spain’s long-serving dictator, Francisco Franco, and built by political prisoners. Upon re-entering Madrid, I took a wrong turn and our car was quickly surrounded by four policemen and a policewoman. Fortunately, one of the men recognized the word “California” on my international driver’s license, which led to a halting conversation about the wonderfulnesses of both of our homelands – halting because my Spanish is rudimentary and his English was non-existent. No matter. It prompted him not only to let us go, but also to let us go the wrong way on a one-way street to get to a parking garage. Spaniards are a great people. Divided we conquer. Paola flew south from Madrid to Malaga, then drove to Almunecar where she talked to – and captivated – a large audience about “Women Who Light the Dark.” I flew west to Lisbon, then drove north to spend three days with a great friend of 43 years standing who has retired to the lovely village of Figueiros dos Vinhos. Where slower is faster. Many Portuguese communities have what strikes me as an estimable way of persuading drivers to obey their speed limits. Signs inform them as they approach that their vehicle's speed will be measured by radar 200 meters ahead, and if it's over the posted limit, the stoplight 400 meters farther on will immediately go from green to red. So drivers who obey gain time, which of course is the ostensible benefit of speeding. If other communities adopted this system, speeding would be counterproductive, and fuel consumption and accidents would be reduced. Worth a try? An American used car dealer in Portugal? Coimbra, Portugal, is a venerable and charming college town, bisected like so many European cities by a river that attracts sailors, boaters, anglers, swimmers and strollers. My friend and I took advantage of the sunny weather to revisit it. But this time we saw something I hadn’t seen outside the US before: an American-style used car lot. What’s more, its offerings included a canary yellow Ferrari roadster. I’ve never seen a Ferrari on a used car lot. Have you? Ich bin ein Kurd. Paola and I reconnected in Frankfurt, rented a VW Golf diesel at the airport and drove to Koln (Cologne) and Luxembourg, Koln to see its cathedral and Luxembourg to be able to say we’d been there (and to give Paola a chance to parle Francé). While Paola took photos of the people taking photos of the cathedral (with their comrades in the foreground, natch), I wandered into a café in search of a glass of milk, and struck up a conversation in halting German with its proprietor. When he said he was Kurdish, I asked whether he hailed from Turkey or Iraq, where the Kurdish populations are most prevalent, and he said, no, he was Syrian. This led to a robust discussion of international relations and the United States’ role in them, and reminded me anew of why I love to travel: the impossible-to-anticipate, serendipitous connections one makes with people of “foreign” and varying lives and cultures. June 9, 2008 |