Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 year marriage. This is number 74 of a series about our lives and travels, true stories of two people discovering the world, each other, and themselves through five decades of traveling together. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage and travels look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts are a previous series.
Sherrill at Medieval cloister by Christopher Columbus's boyhood home, Genoa "It's about time," Sherrill told me, "for our mop-up trip—it's overdue."
We'd talked about this in the past. We had traveled in Italy and France many times, but never got to either Genoa or Marseille. And although we'd been to Spain three times, we'd missed the northeast corner with Barcelona. A mop-up trip along the Mediterranean coast from Genoa to Barcelona, by way of Marseille and a stop in Montpellier in France would take care of it. We'd allow time in each city to wander and explore. And, I promised Sherrill, no driving. It would be easy and fun. Well, that prediction was mostly correct.
After a one night stopover in London, we flew to Cristoforo Colombo airport in Genoa. (Heathrow was as chaotic as ever, but once again we survived it. There was no point traveling, if we needed everything to be easy.)
We'd talked about this in the past. We had traveled in Italy and France many times, but never got to either Genoa or Marseille. And although we'd been to Spain three times, we'd missed the northeast corner with Barcelona. A mop-up trip along the Mediterranean coast from Genoa to Barcelona, by way of Marseille and a stop in Montpellier in France would take care of it. We'd allow time in each city to wander and explore. And, I promised Sherrill, no driving. It would be easy and fun. Well, that prediction was mostly correct.
After a one night stopover in London, we flew to Cristoforo Colombo airport in Genoa. (Heathrow was as chaotic as ever, but once again we survived it. There was no point traveling, if we needed everything to be easy.)
"Unusually hot," people in Genoa told us as we dripped sweat walking up and down the city's hills, heat reflecting off the cobblestones and walls around us. The historic center of the city had been designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site, which seemed to mean that nobody touched the broken cobblestones or the cracks and potholes in the pavement.
19th Century Galleria Mazzini, Genoa Inside a couple of thick-walled palaces converted into museums, the temperature was much lower, plus we got all that art. Our favorite painting was a Rubens king astride a remarkably alive horse charging out of the canvas. We also kept cool for while making faces at specimens in the waterfront aquarium. We weren't doing it on purpose. It was an automatic reaction. We knew those bug-eyed fish were staring at us. Then, on a harbor cruise, the breeze off the water helped us survive the heat while we gazed up at the hillside apartment blocks, domes, and towers, the palm trees and the waterfalls of scarlet bougainvillea, the busy port, the ferries, fishing boats, and yachts, and even a replica galleon, the Neptune.
"This is the kind of day I like," Sherrill told me that evening, as we sat at an outdoor table at a small osteria hidden on a narrow hillside alley around the corner from our little hotel. "No schedule, no place we had to be."
No menu, either, but a young girl brought us delicious dishes and carafes of cheap but good red wine. Debris drifted on the cobblestone alley behind us and over nearby steps, but a little grunginess didn't kill the magic of the place. Music floated out of an open door next to the osteria: a jazz club called Count Basie. Later, four musicians wandered out and sat at the next table—one American, three Italians. We talked with the American, a saxophonist who looked like a middle-aged Matt Damon in need of a shave. As we left, Sherrill whispered that she was sure he was high on something.
"But he was good," she conceded. "Very good."
I trusted her judgment since she used to play both the clarinet and sax when she was younger and knew much more about music than I did.
"This is the kind of day I like," Sherrill told me that evening, as we sat at an outdoor table at a small osteria hidden on a narrow hillside alley around the corner from our little hotel. "No schedule, no place we had to be."
No menu, either, but a young girl brought us delicious dishes and carafes of cheap but good red wine. Debris drifted on the cobblestone alley behind us and over nearby steps, but a little grunginess didn't kill the magic of the place. Music floated out of an open door next to the osteria: a jazz club called Count Basie. Later, four musicians wandered out and sat at the next table—one American, three Italians. We talked with the American, a saxophonist who looked like a middle-aged Matt Damon in need of a shave. As we left, Sherrill whispered that she was sure he was high on something.
"But he was good," she conceded. "Very good."
I trusted her judgment since she used to play both the clarinet and sax when she was younger and knew much more about music than I did.
Overlooking Genoa A ride up an "elevator" the next morning took us to the top of one of Genoa's hills, where we hiked along a little road to a bizarre nineteenth century castle that tried to combine several different styles and eras, now a "cultural museum" with stupendous views of the city and bay. A woman guard from Chile took us to the roof so we could look across the city. Sometimes, I wondered why people were so nice to us. Often, they refused a tip—didn't even seem to expect one. Genoa was full of surprises: a funicular used by locals to commute up the side of a mountain took us to the remains of a fortress where, below street level, we discovered four men playing tennis on courts framed by the fort's broken walls.
Maybe what we liked best about Genoa were the people who came out every evening, strolling along the streets, dropping in at cafes, socializing. We enjoyed the city, but decided to go further afield, at least for a day, so we rode a bus to a tiny train station in the hills, where we caught a narrow-gauge two-car train that took us over steep, winding tracks into the Apennine range to the north. It was a treat to ride into the mountains, covered with green under the blue sky. As much as we enjoyed Genoa, we could breathe better up there, in the light pure air. At a village tucked into the hills at the end of the line, we got off and found a workmen's cafe, where we talked with a British couple from Wimbledon whom we'd noticed on the little train.
Maybe what we liked best about Genoa were the people who came out every evening, strolling along the streets, dropping in at cafes, socializing. We enjoyed the city, but decided to go further afield, at least for a day, so we rode a bus to a tiny train station in the hills, where we caught a narrow-gauge two-car train that took us over steep, winding tracks into the Apennine range to the north. It was a treat to ride into the mountains, covered with green under the blue sky. As much as we enjoyed Genoa, we could breathe better up there, in the light pure air. At a village tucked into the hills at the end of the line, we got off and found a workmen's cafe, where we talked with a British couple from Wimbledon whom we'd noticed on the little train.
Marseille harbor seafood stalls "Norman had to ride this old train," his wife told us. She was the taller of the two, with a wide friendly face. "Something about the 45 degree angle of the climb, I think it was."
"It's a treasure," he interrupted, blinking his pleasure.
"Steam trains are his real passion," she persisted. "He's always dragging me to ride on a train, someplace."
Norman soon was telling us about the steam trains of England and Scotland.
We liked trains, too—especially when we could gaze out at the sea and distant mountains, which was what we did a couple of days later on our way to Marseille. We'd heard that Marseille was a rough and rowdy seaport. It still was a working port, but didn't seem dangerous to us, even though our cut-rate hotel was in an area of narrow, twisting, rather seedy streets on the hills below the railway station. Sometimes, Sherrill found the hills hard for walking, but we still managed to explore the city, stopping along the way for some good meals.
"It's a treasure," he interrupted, blinking his pleasure.
"Steam trains are his real passion," she persisted. "He's always dragging me to ride on a train, someplace."
Norman soon was telling us about the steam trains of England and Scotland.
We liked trains, too—especially when we could gaze out at the sea and distant mountains, which was what we did a couple of days later on our way to Marseille. We'd heard that Marseille was a rough and rowdy seaport. It still was a working port, but didn't seem dangerous to us, even though our cut-rate hotel was in an area of narrow, twisting, rather seedy streets on the hills below the railway station. Sometimes, Sherrill found the hills hard for walking, but we still managed to explore the city, stopping along the way for some good meals.
Fishing and tour boats, Marseille Dozens of cafes and restaurants lined the waterfront, so we indulged in the best bouillabaisse of our lives at a restaurant across from the Vieux Port, starting with a bowl of delicious soup with saffron that the seafood was cooked in, followed by a bowl of the seafood with more soup and toast spread with rouille mayonnaise. Almost as much fun as eating the fish was watching the fishing boats unload their catches one morning. Fishermen in long rubber boots carried in the fish (and several small octopuses) and women wearing heavy aprons spread them on tables. It could have been a scene out of an old black and white French movie.
To get a closer look at the seagoing world that had made Marseille great, Sherrill and I took a long cruise through the bay and beyond, passing between the two old fortresses flanking the port entrance, then sailing among several jagged limestone islands. People once lived on at least a couple of them, since we saw several empty houses. On one island the remains of the prison of the Chateau d'If, made famous by Alexander Dumas in The Count of Monte Cristo, still stood. Then we sailed, among yachts, fishing boats, and small ships, along the rugged French coastline, broken up with small fjord-like inlets.
To get a closer look at the seagoing world that had made Marseille great, Sherrill and I took a long cruise through the bay and beyond, passing between the two old fortresses flanking the port entrance, then sailing among several jagged limestone islands. People once lived on at least a couple of them, since we saw several empty houses. On one island the remains of the prison of the Chateau d'If, made famous by Alexander Dumas in The Count of Monte Cristo, still stood. Then we sailed, among yachts, fishing boats, and small ships, along the rugged French coastline, broken up with small fjord-like inlets.
1909 Pathe Cinema, Montpellier When finally we had to leave Marseille, we discovered that SNCF, the French train system, had collapsed into chaos. No trains were running anywhere. It looked as if we'd never get to Montpellier and Barcelona—at least, not by train. Every time I went to the station, to find out what was happening, the system was still down. Every now and then, an announcement crossed the board above the ticket windows or an official came out and said something to the crowd. Since I couldn't understand any of it, I had to find someone in the crowd who spoke English to tell me what was happening.
Eventually, I learned that a crazy guy had attacked and injured a train controller on the track between Lyon and Strasbourg, prompting all the SNCF train controllers to go on strike. By late that night, oddly enough, a few trains had started up again, but not going our direction. In the morning, however, our train was one of the few moving. We never did understand the logic of what was happening, but it looked as if we'd get to Montpellier and even had hope that in a couple of days we'd reach Barcelona. The SNCF people, of course, wouldn't guarantee anything, but we knew after all these years that the only thing we could be sure of when traveling was that anything could happen.
Eventually, I learned that a crazy guy had attacked and injured a train controller on the track between Lyon and Strasbourg, prompting all the SNCF train controllers to go on strike. By late that night, oddly enough, a few trains had started up again, but not going our direction. In the morning, however, our train was one of the few moving. We never did understand the logic of what was happening, but it looked as if we'd get to Montpellier and even had hope that in a couple of days we'd reach Barcelona. The SNCF people, of course, wouldn't guarantee anything, but we knew after all these years that the only thing we could be sure of when traveling was that anything could happen.
14th century cathedral, Montpellier "A pretty little city," Sherrill and I agreed, once we finally were in Montpellier.
It wasn't spectacular, like Genoa and Marseille, but was loaded with charm. From its handsome Belle Epoch squares to the narrow winding streets of its medieval old town, the city quietly seduced us. For such an old city, it had a surprisingly youthful vibe. Then we learned that a third of its population was students attending its three universities. Without even trying, we found our way to the beautiful Place de la Comedie, named after an old theatre on the square, and filled with sidewalk cafes.
"It must be time for lunch," Sherrill announced.
As a matter of fact, it was, so we sat at one of the tables and, while being entertained by some youthful street performers, ate a fine lunch.
"I could sit here all day," Sherrill told me. "But I don't suppose you'll let me."
"The restaurant might not let us."
Around the corner, we discovered the headquarters for the French publisher Gallimard, which was celebrating its one hundredth anniversary with an indoor-outdoor exhibition of its history and the authors it had published, from Gide and Malraux to Sartre and Beauvoir, to Hemingway and Faulkner to Ionesco and the author of the Curious George picture books about a mischievous monkey.
It wasn't spectacular, like Genoa and Marseille, but was loaded with charm. From its handsome Belle Epoch squares to the narrow winding streets of its medieval old town, the city quietly seduced us. For such an old city, it had a surprisingly youthful vibe. Then we learned that a third of its population was students attending its three universities. Without even trying, we found our way to the beautiful Place de la Comedie, named after an old theatre on the square, and filled with sidewalk cafes.
"It must be time for lunch," Sherrill announced.
As a matter of fact, it was, so we sat at one of the tables and, while being entertained by some youthful street performers, ate a fine lunch.
"I could sit here all day," Sherrill told me. "But I don't suppose you'll let me."
"The restaurant might not let us."
Around the corner, we discovered the headquarters for the French publisher Gallimard, which was celebrating its one hundredth anniversary with an indoor-outdoor exhibition of its history and the authors it had published, from Gide and Malraux to Sartre and Beauvoir, to Hemingway and Faulkner to Ionesco and the author of the Curious George picture books about a mischievous monkey.
Almost next door, we found the city's art museum, which had a special show of more than two hundred works by the artist Odilon Redon, with dreamlike drawings and paintings from his entire career. Just up the street, we came to a beautiful Beaux-Arts theatre that turned out to be the oldest movie house in France, built in 1909 and still in use. For such a small city, a lot had happened there—and still was
Despite the train controllers' on-again, off again strike, two days later we were in Barcelona. We were lucky, our trains went through, although many did not. When we arrived in Figueres, where we had to transfer, the Barcelona train even was waiting on the same platform.
Despite the train controllers' on-again, off again strike, two days later we were in Barcelona. We were lucky, our trains went through, although many did not. When we arrived in Figueres, where we had to transfer, the Barcelona train even was waiting on the same platform.
Sherrill and Bruce on cruise from Barcelona, Spain Our hotel was right on the Ramblas, the long avenue that runs up from the bay—pretty wild on Saturday night, we discovered. We found a good restaurant at the back of the big Mercat de la Boqueria, the market half way up the Ramblas. Before long, we got to talking with a couple sitting at the next table who, we learned, were born in Tehran, although they left as children. They were surprised and excited when we told them that we had traveled all over Iran. He had lived for a while in Italy and now sold Italian pasta there in the market. They both knew at least five languages, Farsi, of course, perfect English, and German, Italian, Spanish, and Catalan. We promised to see each other again, when we parted.
"You never know who you'll meet," I said, as Sherrill and I walked down the Ramblas to the waterfront.
"It wouldn't be a surprise, if we did."
We saw no tourists in Montpelier and surprisingly few in Marseille, but Barcelona was clogged with them, including a team there for some event—lanky young men in white suits who popped up everywhere. Although Barcelona looked nothing like Venice, in one way it felt similar: magnificent and beautiful, but as if we'd arrived late at the party. Despite that, we enjoyed the city. Its weirdness appealed to us.
"You never know who you'll meet," I said, as Sherrill and I walked down the Ramblas to the waterfront.
"It wouldn't be a surprise, if we did."
We saw no tourists in Montpelier and surprisingly few in Marseille, but Barcelona was clogged with them, including a team there for some event—lanky young men in white suits who popped up everywhere. Although Barcelona looked nothing like Venice, in one way it felt similar: magnificent and beautiful, but as if we'd arrived late at the party. Despite that, we enjoyed the city. Its weirdness appealed to us.
Barcelona's three creative geniuses, Gaudi, Dali, and Picasso, all excited us, but we started with Gaudi. Even decades after he created his buildings they were attracting and challenging crowds of visitors. People smiled with amusement and pleasure when they hiked across the rooftop of the Casa Mila apartment building among its chimneys like aliens just landed from outer space, but they were moved by the underlying beauty and by the grace and charm of the sample apartment open to the public.
Other examples of the Catalan Art Nouveau movement known as Modernisme were appealing, too, but it was Gaudi's work that grabbed our imaginations. Map in hand, we trekked to other houses that he designed and to the multi-towered Sagrada Familia, the massive church in the center of Barcelona that still wasn't completed long after he was crushed by a city bus, despite decades of work by his disciples. We saved for the last the wonderful (and crowded) Parque Guell, with its terraces, gardens, meandering foot paths, and serpentine benches and arcades studded with mosaics, broken ceramics, and bric-a-brac, all of it suggesting a quirky Alice in Wonderland world that we didn't even try to resist.
Gaudi's Casa Batllo,
Barcelona
Gaudi's Casa Batllo,
Barcelona
In Gaudi's Park Guell, Barcelona A stroll along the waterfront, walking among the festive crowds, lunch at a sidewalk cafe, and an afternoon cruise in one of the small boats we found there made a low-key change from hurling ourselves from one monument to another. Barcelona, however, like Venice, was starting to be invaded by giant cruise ships, including the most hideous monster we'd ever seen, a top-heavy, graceless vessel that might have been a Communist-era apartment building turned onto its side and shoved into the water.
A splendid day wandering among the dark, narrow streets of the Gothic Quarter and in the Picasso Museum reminded us that although many people are talented very few are geniuses. The astonishingly skillful and sophisticated work that Picasso produced even as a young boy, we saw, was the foundation for his later experiments. Later, while Sherrill rested, I wandered through the Dali museum deep in the Gothic Quarter—two floors of paintings, drawings, and sculptures—tantalized by his ability to paint absolutely realistic objects and scenes that unexpectedly slid into the absurd. His work gave the impression that he could do anything—if he chose. Sherrill joined me for dinner at the 4 Gats restaurant in the Gothic quarter, the same place once frequented by the young Picasso, Gaudi, and other artists. Walking through the curved arch of the entrance did feel like stepping into a lost, enchanted time.
We'd been told that we couldn't visit Barcelona without going to the basilica and monastery atop the saw-tooth ridge of Montserrat. The darkened wood statuette of the Virgin and the complex around it didn't particularly interest us, but we rode the train and cable car to the top. We conceded afterwards that the whole experience, including the all-boy choir and the crowds of pilgrims, was fascinating, in its way. We watched and listened, hopefully respectful observers, but definitely on the outside. Human beings were complex creatures, we saw once again, but that didn't mean that we had to share either their beliefs or experiences.
A splendid day wandering among the dark, narrow streets of the Gothic Quarter and in the Picasso Museum reminded us that although many people are talented very few are geniuses. The astonishingly skillful and sophisticated work that Picasso produced even as a young boy, we saw, was the foundation for his later experiments. Later, while Sherrill rested, I wandered through the Dali museum deep in the Gothic Quarter—two floors of paintings, drawings, and sculptures—tantalized by his ability to paint absolutely realistic objects and scenes that unexpectedly slid into the absurd. His work gave the impression that he could do anything—if he chose. Sherrill joined me for dinner at the 4 Gats restaurant in the Gothic quarter, the same place once frequented by the young Picasso, Gaudi, and other artists. Walking through the curved arch of the entrance did feel like stepping into a lost, enchanted time.
We'd been told that we couldn't visit Barcelona without going to the basilica and monastery atop the saw-tooth ridge of Montserrat. The darkened wood statuette of the Virgin and the complex around it didn't particularly interest us, but we rode the train and cable car to the top. We conceded afterwards that the whole experience, including the all-boy choir and the crowds of pilgrims, was fascinating, in its way. We watched and listened, hopefully respectful observers, but definitely on the outside. Human beings were complex creatures, we saw once again, but that didn't mean that we had to share either their beliefs or experiences.
Dali Museum, Figueres, Spain Up the coast from Barcelona, a bus deposited us in a small town where we found a large castle-like red building studded with gold croissants and topped with giant eggs—Figueres, where Salvador Dali was born and, eighty-five years later, was buried in that building, the Dali museum, designed by the artist, himself. We spent the good part of a day on a surreal journey through the world he created with his astonishing talent, flamboyant imagination, and gleefully perverse sense of humor.
The museum/theatre (as he called it) was, itself, a vast work of art, as well as filled with the world's largest collection of his art. At least half of the time, if we looked closely at a work we discovered that it wasn't what we thought it was at first. Either it had changed or our perception of it had changed. To keep us off guard, he even had slipped in genuine paintings by masters ranging from El Greco to Marcel Duchamp. The jokester artist never quit, never backed down.
To be continued....
The museum/theatre (as he called it) was, itself, a vast work of art, as well as filled with the world's largest collection of his art. At least half of the time, if we looked closely at a work we discovered that it wasn't what we thought it was at first. Either it had changed or our perception of it had changed. To keep us off guard, he even had slipped in genuine paintings by masters ranging from El Greco to Marcel Duchamp. The jokester artist never quit, never backed down.
To be continued....
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