Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 years of marriage. This is number 25 of a series about our lives and travels. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage and travels (they happened at the same time) look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts you'll find below are a previous series about later travels.
 Sherrill at Oregon resort, 1987 |  Bruce after riding blimp over Bay |
It lasted only one hour, but was unforgettable. For my forty-seventh birthday, Sherrill surprised me with a flight over San Francisco Bay. She knew that I regretted coming along too late for the old dirigibles. The Goodyear blimp wasn't the Graf Zeppelin, but at last I was going up in a lighter than air vehicle. From a side air field at Oakland airport, I was suspended with several other passengers in the gondola under the huge sausage-shaped balloon. We floated over the Bay Bridge and Treasure Island, skimmed Alcatraz's concrete bastions, passed the sun-reflecting towers of Oakland and San Francisco and silvery remnants of morning fog hovering ghost-like on the Golden Gate, then, circling over tankers and yachts, drifted back to the Oakland air field, where Sherrill was gazing up at us from behind her ever-present oversized sunglasses. What a way to travel! I thought.
A week with old friends at an Oregon resort later that year was a welcome break from meeting publication deadlines and coping with library patrons. Once, we all might have lived together in a commune, but instead had to plan ahead where and when to meet. The joy was that whenever we came together it was as if we'd never been apart. This, Sherrill and I felt, was true friendship.
A week with old friends at an Oregon resort later that year was a welcome break from meeting publication deadlines and coping with library patrons. Once, we all might have lived together in a commune, but instead had to plan ahead where and when to meet. The joy was that whenever we came together it was as if we'd never been apart. This, Sherrill and I felt, was true friendship.
Sherrill worked out most of the details for our trips, partly because of the long hours I put in as an editor and writer, but also because she loved doing it. Although she enjoyed being in new places, I think she liked gathering information almost as much. Page after page of detailed notes, carefully organized, steadily piled up over weeks and months, along with brochures and books and photocopies from magazines and guides. This time, she was preoccupied with Spain.
Madrid, Segovia, Salamanca, Sevilla, Cordoba, Granada, Toledo: the names were a necklace of exotic jewels that we couldn't wait to fondle and during the trip we discovered several more gems. Visiting other countries, a friend once told me, is the best way to understand the diversity of the human spirit. Spain gave us many opportunities to broaden our appreciation of that diversity.
Madrid, Segovia, Salamanca, Sevilla, Cordoba, Granada, Toledo: the names were a necklace of exotic jewels that we couldn't wait to fondle and during the trip we discovered several more gems. Visiting other countries, a friend once told me, is the best way to understand the diversity of the human spirit. Spain gave us many opportunities to broaden our appreciation of that diversity.
Bruce at Temple of Debod, Madrid Madrid meant first the Prado's vast galleries of human genius, but the city had more to offer us, as well. We stood stunned before the force of the tormented figures, human and animal, in Guernica, Picasso's attack on the atrocities of war, in the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte. The serene majesty of the ancient Temple of Debod, donated by Egypt in gratitude for Spain's help in saving the temples of Abu Simbel from drowning behind Aswan dam, lifted us to another time and place, as did the perfect reproductions at the archeological museum of the 35,000 year-old Altamira cave paintings of bison, horses, wild boar, and deer. Astonishingly lifelike, the figures seemed to shift and change position, watching us, as we studied them. Already, we'd learned from our travels that not only is the past everywhere, but that it's not really past, but pulsating with life—if we allow ourselves to experience it.
Exploring the city also meant visiting the Botanical Gardens, strolling through plazas great and small, and many stops at tapas bars, where we coped with clouds of cigarette smoke so we could indulge in endless mini-plates of savory and spicy treats. We even learned to throw the shrimp shells on the floor the way the locals did. A few times, we managed to stay awake late enough to eat dinner at the same time as the Spaniards—well, some of them, at least—and ate the best paella of our lives.
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Sherrill at Philip II's Palace at Escorial I can't say why Sherrill and I were so fascinated by Philip II of Spain. Maybe it was because he seemed to be such a miserable human being. His portraits certainly suggested that and his great palace at Escorial confirmed everything we'd read about him. Who could be happy living in that monstrous, gloomy mausoleum? Aside from political reasons, that could've been enough to keep Elizabeth I of England from marrying him. On the other hand, we had joyous memories of Segovia—maybe because we nearly passed out under the Roman aqueduct that spans the center of that hilly town.
Bravely, Sherrill criss-crossed Spain behind the steering wheel of a rental car, since trains couldn't take us to many of the places we wanted to explore. Driving through the harsh beauty of the Spanish countryside reminded us of the dry "golden" hills of California. From time to time, though, we'd spy the ruins of a medieval castle on a golden hilltop. When we first saw the silhouette of a huge black bull posing in the distance we couldn't believe that Spanish bulls grew to that size. Then, later on, another black bull, its testicles as big as cannonballs, appeared, and then another, and we realized that they were billboards--no words, just the black bulls, scattered across the terrain.
Segovia, we learned, was known for, among other things, roast suckling pig, so after visiting the huge fairy tale-like castle, we stopped at a hillside restaurant from which we could view the towers and turrets while we ate. The portions, one with a trotter, the other with a hairy ear, were enormous—but delicious. (I still ate four-legged animals, then.) The waiter kept filling our wine glasses as we devoured the crunchy-skinned pig, then when we declared we couldn't eat another bite, he brought us each a digestif. The glasses were small, but he refilled them several times.
Segovia, we learned, was known for, among other things, roast suckling pig, so after visiting the huge fairy tale-like castle, we stopped at a hillside restaurant from which we could view the towers and turrets while we ate. The portions, one with a trotter, the other with a hairy ear, were enormous—but delicious. (I still ate four-legged animals, then.) The waiter kept filling our wine glasses as we devoured the crunchy-skinned pig, then when we declared we couldn't eat another bite, he brought us each a digestif. The glasses were small, but he refilled them several times.
 Sherrill at Segovia Palace |  Roman Aqueduct Segovia |
Finally, Sherrill and I escaped the waiter's attentions and staggered down the cobblestone road toward the center of Segovia and, we hoped, our hotel. When we reached the foot of the hill, our heads swimming in an invisible sea someplace above our bodies, we sat down under one of the stone arches of the massive Roman aqueduct. I have no memory of finding our hotel, but we must have since that was where we woke up the next morning.
"You shouldn't get me drunk like that," Sherrill told me.
"Me?" I protested. "It wasn't me."
"Ha!"
We promised each other: no more roast suckling pig and no more digestifs. I do remember that we managed to visit the spectacular gardens of the eighteenth century palace of La Granja de San Ildefonso near Segovia. I photographed Sherrill looking overwhelmed by their beauty—or maybe it was lingering effect of the digestifs.
"You shouldn't get me drunk like that," Sherrill told me.
"Me?" I protested. "It wasn't me."
"Ha!"
We promised each other: no more roast suckling pig and no more digestifs. I do remember that we managed to visit the spectacular gardens of the eighteenth century palace of La Granja de San Ildefonso near Segovia. I photographed Sherrill looking overwhelmed by their beauty—or maybe it was lingering effect of the digestifs.
Sherrill at 18th century palace and gardens of La Granja de San Ildefonso near Segovia Eventually, I'm not sure when, securely behind her sunglasses, Sherrill drove us across more dry hills and valleys to Avila and our parador, built next to one of the round, crenellated towers of the medieval stone walls that embraced the city. Supposedly, a reliquary in the cathedral held the heart of St. Teresa of Avila, which was pierced by a burning arrow held by an angel, but instead it was in a nearby convent, along with a finger from her right hand. Her right foot, left eye, and part of her jaw are said to be on display around the world. Raised a Catholic, although she lapsed as a teenager, Sherrill began to keep a list of sacred body parts that we encountered in Spain and other countries. After a while, it grew into quite a substantial list with some surprising bits and pieces of saints.
To be continued....
To be continued....
If you enjoy these posts, you might enjoy exploring the rest of my website, too. Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you—including to several complete short stories and excerpts from my novels.
You also might enjoy reading the new bargain-priced e-book of my first novel, The Night Action. It has been called the last great novel of an past era. "The novel careens around the night spots of San Francisco's North Beach and the words seem to fly off the page in the style of Tom Wolfe or the lyrics of Tom Waits." The book is available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble. Click on the title for the link.
You also might enjoy reading the new bargain-priced e-book of my first novel, The Night Action. It has been called the last great novel of an past era. "The novel careens around the night spots of San Francisco's North Beach and the words seem to fly off the page in the style of Tom Wolfe or the lyrics of Tom Waits." The book is available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble. Click on the title for the link.
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