​Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 year marriage.  This is number 63 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. 

​            "Where's the train?"
            "Does anybody even know?"
            Sherrill and I were in the little station at Aguas Calientes, Peru, the one nearest the Machu Picchu temples high in the Andes.  We'd already checked out of our hotel up at the site, had bused down terrifying hairpin turns to the station, and were waiting to board a train that, it seemed, wasn't coming and if it did come wasn't going anywhere, anyway.  We kept hearing fragments of gossip.
            "Somebody said an avalanche buried the tracks."
            "And the train?"
            A shrug: "Maybe still in Cuzco."
            "Maybe buried, too, for all we know." 

​              The station, tracks, and street were filling with people hoping to get down the mountain. 
              "Trapped at Machu Picchu—that'll be a story to tell folks."
              "If we ever get out of here."  
              Jose, our energetic young local guide, confirmed after scurrying around talking with people that melting snow on a nearby peak had washed down tons of mud and rock, covering a section of the only track down the mountain to Cuzco.  No train was on the track at the time, although a year and a half before, six people had been killed by mudslides in the same area. 
              Jose collected the dozen members of our group and took us to a school yard where we joined others from different groups also waiting to leave.  During the next hours, he monitored the situation and made sure that we were one of the first groups to get onto the bus convoy that zigzagged down the mountain, around the buried rail tracks, to a station where a local train from Cuzco could fetch us.  The situation reminded Sherrill and me of a time in China when a bus nearly went over the side of a crumbling mountain road and we had to walk the rest of the way to the Yangtze.  

​                                                         *            *            *
              The two of us had arrived a few days earlier in Lima, Peru's capital, hoping for an eye-opening look at the country and some of its best known places.  That evening, however, we didn't see much of the city, but were hustled off by Victor, our elderly tour director, to our hotel, a sprawling historic building in its own grounds.  The hotel was comfortable and the service good, but we would've preferred one centrally located in the old part of the city.  Sherrill and I liked to explore on our own whenever we had a chance. 
              The next morning, we met the rest of our group and were off and running, first to what was called a "local Indian crafts market."  It was huge, with a vast array of booths selling handmade wares ranging from toy llamas to silver and gold jewelry to knitted socks and clothes to chess sets of Incas vs. Spaniards.  Not our kind of place, Sherrill and I agreed, but then she discovered the one item that she had to have: a hand-sewn wall-hanging about 2 feet by 1 1/2 feet with miniature stuffed cloth figures of a village market in front of mountain peaks, tile-roofed houses, and farmyards, each individual sheep, llama, and human being, each tiny vegetable and piece of fruit, sewn and stuffed and then stitched onto the background to create a surprisingly lifelike scene—a remarkable piece of craftsmanship. 
              "Can you imagine anybody actually sitting down and making this?" she asked me.
              "You could.  If you wanted to."
              She shook her head, but didn't argue. 

​              Before lunch at a ranch on the outskirts of Lima, we visited a couple of gardens and watched some impressive horsemanship with Peruvian Paso horses, a unique protected breed considered part of the country's cultural heritage.  Then we continued on to Lima's Gold Museum that displayed artifacts from several centuries of Peruvian history, especially pre-Inca gold ornaments: filigree figures of men, birds, monkeys, and lizards, bracelets and funerary masks, and gold balls and pendants, some inlaid with precious stones.  Back in California, a few weeks later, we read that an expert had called some of those gold pieces fakes, but we recalled a similar controversy about some of the Mycenae gold in Greece.  
              Then Victor took us to do a little sight-seeing on the way back to our hotel, but every time I opened a window on the bus to take a photograph, he rushed over to close it and when I started to wander away from the group when we stopped to visit Lima's cathedral he told me to stay with the others.
              "Dangerous!" he told me.  "Somebody snatch your camera!  Hurt you!"
              As far as Sherrill and I could figure out, he seemed to think that his job was to stand between us and contact with local people, which was not our idea of seeing the world. 

​              A day later, we flew past tall pointed peaks graffitied by weather and time to the mountain city of Cuzco.  We'd see more of Lima when we returned and, I hoped, have a chance to decide for ourselves if it was as dangerous a place as Victor wanted us to think. 
              Our Cuzco hotel, in an old monastery, was perfectly located, in the heart of the colonial city.  From there, it was a short walk to the great Plaza de Armas and other places of interest.  In fact, we were almost next door to the local archeological museum, but when I asked others in our group if they'd join Sherrill and me exploring it, since it was not part of the tour, everyone begged off.  They were too tired. 
            "Maybe it's the altitude," Sherrill suggested.  
            We'd already started taking our pills to prevent altitude sickness, so the 10,000 foot height of the city didn't seem to be affecting us much.  Since dinner that night wasn't included, I wandered around a bit and found a traditional restaurant several blocks away where Sherrill and I had a fine meal of ceviche, stuffed peppers, and rice and roast chicken.  The next day, we discovered that everyone else had either used room service or gone to the hotel dining room. Why come, we wondered, if you weren't curious about the place around you?
              The city was worth exploring, despite the altitude and steep cobblestone streets.  Many of the buildings lining those narrow streets rose on top of the giant mortarless stones of the Incas, over which another floor of smaller stones had been added by the Spanish, and finally modern bricks.  Most of the Spanish-built colonial buildings were fronted with ornate balconies above long covered arcades—well designed to cope with outside weather, whatever it might be. 
              "Dueling cathedrals," Sherrill quipped when we walked into the vast Plaza de las Armas in the center of old Cuzco.  

​              On one side of the square, the huge plateresque-style cathedral grandly asserted its age and splendor, but the even larger, more ornate, Iglesia de la Compania de Jesus built by the rival Jesuits across the plaza challenged it with its own magnificent bulk.  We decided, though, that the original cathedral won because of the large painting inside of Jesus and the apostles feasting at the Last Supper on roasted guinea pig—apparently the national dish since colonial times.  

​              Day after day, as we explored the area, we were astonished by the architectural feats of the Incas.  The great fortresses of Sacsayhuaman and Puca Pucara were almost beyond belief.  How could humans without modern technology get stones that size into place and keep them there without mortar?  These had to be among the greatest structural accomplishments in history.  When we weren't climbing among these gigantic stones, we visited farms at which alpacas, vicunas, and llamas were raised for their wool and stopped at villages where the wool was woven into fabric. 
              "It kicked me!" Sherrill exclaimed, pointing to one of the vicunas.  "I didn't do a thing and it kicked me."  
           She wasn't hurt, just annoyed.  Why had it kicked her when there were other, better targets around?   

​              Our bus stopped at the side of the road in a small mountain town while Victor, Jose, and the driver attended to some business, a good opportunity, I decided, to get out and explore a little.  Just a block away, I discovered an authentic Indian market.  Local people from the area had come into town with their produce and wares and set them out directly on the street, where they were buying and selling.  Most of them were wearing their traditional outfits, including the large felt hats for the women.  Excited, I ran back to the bus to tell Sherrill and the others about my discovery.  Not one went back with Sherrill and me.  They preferred to sit on the bus until the guides and driver returned.  Had they been so intimidated by Victor's warnings that they were afraid to mingle with local people?  How could they pay so much money to go there and not want to experience everything possible? 

​              The next morning, we boarded the Vistadome train for the four hour trip through the mountains from Cuzco to Aguas Calientes, from which we took a bus up the steep, switch-back road to Machu Picchu.  Our luggage went into the Sanctuary Hotel next to the archeological site's entrance and, at last, we confronted the grandeur of Machu Picchu.  Despite the photographs we'd seen, nothing had prepared us for the spectacle when we walked through stone entrance gate. 
              We felt as if we were in an extraordinary, magical place, maybe more than at anywhere else we'd been.  Nearly every inch of the steep mountainsides seemed to be covered with flight after flight of stone terraces, stone houses, and massive stone temples, some of which looked as if they might have been used for astronomical observations.  Oddly enough, we encountered few other visitors.  

​              After lunch at the lodge, we continued exploring the mountain site with Jose.  He explained that, although no records from the Incas had been found, archaeologists had identified baths, tombs, a prison, a palace, and places for sacred, possibly bloody, ceremonies.  Since we were staying next to the site, we were able to explore more on our own that afternoon and evening and even the next morning.  The heavy stones used in the construction were of varying sizes, yet they fit together perfectly without mortar.  And all around us stretched the vast, surreal, panorama of green and gray peaks that rose to astonishing heights, fragments of cloud drifting around their rugged sides, sometimes obscuring the view, other times parting to reveal a sudden glimpse of another world. 

               "Sherrill!" I cried from the bathroom that evening before dinner.
              A tarantula of hideous size and color had made a home in the shower.
           "Baby," she said, when she saw the hairy reddish monster standing on tiptoe by the drain. She fetched a rod from the closet, lifted the spider with the end, hurled it out the window, then turned back to me.  "Remember, they don't bother you...."
              "...If I don't bother them!  I know.  But I wanted to take a shower."  

​              After another day exploring Machu Picchu, we made our way back down to Aguas Calientes. That was when we discovered that the Vistadome train that we'd expected to ride back to Cuzco couldn't reach us because of the landslide.  Thanks to the efforts of Jose, our resourceful guide, we managed to get onto a crowded bus that took us to another train station further down the mountain where we squeezed onto a local train—no Vistadome, but it got us to Cuzco, although we had to stand part of the way.  That evening, back at the Hotel Monasterio, we cleaned up, relaxed, ate dinner, and at last had time and energy to ponder the experiences of the past two days.  

​              The next morning, we drove to the monumental ruins at Pisac, a huge complex that guarded the Sacred Valley of the Incas stretching just beyond.  We carefully made our way along the different levels, down steep stone paths and terraces, past buildings of many sizes, including one labeled the Temple of the Sun because of its position on the hillside, through some of the most impressive stonework we'd seen yet, all perfectly cut from local granite.  Pizarro and the Spanish had destroyed much of the Inca city of Pisac in the 1530s, hoping to eliminate the local culture and religion.  The Spanish used many of the stones for their own colonial city—just as the Romans used Greek stones and the Moslems used Roman buildings as quarries.  

​           On the way back to Cuzco, we stopped at modern Pisac's crafts market and a local ceramic gallery where, of course, we had opportunities to spend money.  That evening, at a Cuzco restaurant, we watched masked performers go through routines and dances that supposedly were based on traditional rituals and dances.  It all was colorful and lively, and the musicians were skillful, but we wondered how authentic the show actually was.  Sometimes, it seemed pretty campy to us.
         After flying back to Lima the next day, we had a couple of days to see more of the city, although once again Victor kept trying to protect us.  Maybe he was afraid that he'd lose his job if something bad happened to one of us.  Since the new Lima archaeological museum wasn't included in the tour, Sherrill and I got the hotel to order us a taxi to take us, drop us off, and return a couple of hours later.  The driver actually did return exactly when he promised.  The museum was crowded with splendid artifacts, but most of them were unlabeled, not even in Spanish.  Once again, we saw few other foreign visitors.  

            All in all, Sherrill and I enjoyed Peru and its people and found the country and its long history fascinating, but the travel experience wasn't one of our best.  The tour company was considered upscale, but that seemed to mean protecting its clients from everything local and  native, including the people.  The great advantage of traveling on our own—even if it was more work—was that we could decide how long to linger in a place and whether or not a risk was worth taking, plus we usually had more opportunities to meet and get to know local people.           In the future, Sherrill and I decided, we'd either travel with friends or on our own.  In the long run, it would be less stressful.  Fortunately, we had good friends who agreed with us about how to explore the world. 

​              We hoped to return to Peru for a more complete experience of the country, but we never did.  As it turned out, however, some of the best, most exciting, travel experiences of our lives were ahead of us.   
To be continued....   
 

​              If you find these posts interesting, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you—including a bio, information about my four novels, along with excerpts from them, and several complete short stories. 
              Please pass the posts on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.  
 

​Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 year marriage.  This is number 62 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. 

​              "How can it be here?" the four of us wondered as we stared through the dusty windows of our rental car at the marble-sheathed base of Pisa's leaning tower.
              Instantly, two shiny Carabinieri cars spilled uniformed officers on both sides of us.  Cathy, who happened to be at the steering wheel, rolled down her window.  The officers told us in emphatic Italian, with gestures, what we were guilty of, but we already had a good idea.  Larry and I knew a little Italian, so we tried to communicate that it all was a mistake. 
              "Abbiamo fatto uno stupido errore," we admitted.  

​              Cathy and Larry and Sherrill and I were staying in an updated 1750 farmhouse in the Tuscan village of Migliarino between Lucca and Pisa.  The trip had been organized to celebrate Larry's 70th birthday.  One evening, when we'd joined them for dinner at home, Cathy had surprised him with a cake decorated with a green, white, and red frosting map of Italy and a miniature Italian flag and handed him a binder with details of the trip.  Now, it was happening. 
           As stupido as we might be, sometimes, we'd known better than to drive into the center of Florence, so we'd parked in Pisa and ridden a local train the rest of the way for our second of three days exploring the city.  Now, we were in Pisa again, on the way—we hoped—back to the farm.  The town, however, was a jumble of one-way streets.  Somehow, we'd got trapped on one so narrow that it was impossible to turn around, but with no cross street onto which we could escape.  The only person we passed was a man who gave us a perplexed look as he folded a sidewalk cafe umbrella.  Then, we saw a pair of open gates ahead.  

​              Cathy nodded toward them.  "I'll turn around in there."  
              It seemed like the only option, but as soon as we passed through the gates we confronted Pisa's famous campanile and its guards. 
              The officer at Cathy's window copied information from her license while tossing out a series of questions in rapid Italian.  Eventually, though, he seemed to relent and told her how we could get out of Pisa, despite the one-way streets, and onto the road for Migliarino.  It probably was obvious to him that we weren't clever enough to be terrorists.  As soon as we were back in our little two-bedroom, two-bath apartment, we opened a bottle of wine and celebrated our escape.  

​              We'd already had several good days in Tuscany.  We'd discovered a local deli just up the road from our farm, become friends with Maria, its vivacious proprietor, and found a little market for basic shopping.  We'd explored the historic center of Pisa, begun our pilgrimage through Florence's many treasures, and visited Puccini's atmospheric tower and villa at Torre del Lago on the edge of Lake Massaciuccoli.  We could visualize more easily than in most homes of the famous, the handsome, dapper, cigarette-smoking genius who lived, worked, and entertained there—even composing on his piano while behind him his pals played cards.  

​              We'd strolled atop Lucca's thick Renaissance walls and through both its Piazza San Michele, where a Roman Forum once stood, and the Piazza dell' Anfiteatro, which followed the shape of an ancient amphitheatre, then wandered along its narrow winding streets until we found a tiny outdoor restaurant for dinner.  Lucca wasn't as spectacular as some Italian cities, but felt comfortable, like a friendly neighbor who'd welcome us whenever we dropped in.  

​          When Sherrill and I visited Italy with our daughter back in 1978 we encountered far fewer tourists.  We'd had no trouble just walking up and climbing Pisa's leaning tower, but in 2005 we had to go online before we left home to buy advance reservations for both the tower and the museums next door—just as we had to buy advance reservations for the Uffizi gallery in Florence.  As the days vanished under our weary feet, the four of us, determined to make the best use of our time in each town, walked almost without stopping, it seemed, from church to museum to palace to cathedral. 

      Florence almost overwhelmed us with its riches.  We crowded in one experience after another, from the magnificent trio of the Duomo, baptistery, and campanile to the fortress-like Bargello palace to the restrained, humanist beauty of Brunellesco's Pazzi Chapel to the art-filled rooms of the Pitti Palace sprawling on the hill across the Arno.  It was impossible to study every single object in either the Uffizi or Pitti Palace, so we split up and focused according to personal taste and interest.  At the same time, could anything capture the power of the human spirit as dramatically as Michelangelo's David, standing tall, ready to battle evil, in the Academia?  Well, maybe the gelato that we indulged in from time to time.  

​              Knowing where we'd put our heads every night made it easier to wander and explore each day, maybe taking a picnic lunch, maybe trusting to fate that we'd find a perfect cafe.  Why not just head into the hills beyond Lucca, for instance, to seek out the elegant summer villas built by the city's elite when it was at its economic peak?  Why not stroll among their gardens and prowl through the grand houses that now were open to the public?  Even though they were built by bankers and merchants, they reflected the ideals of the renaissance, and their vast gardens adorned with grottos and fountains, lakes and arbors, transformed the landscape surrounding the villas into a civilized paradise.  We even picnicked (discretely) on an old stone wall by one of them.  

​              It was inevitable, however, that as we wandered we'd get lost, miss a turn, read the map wrong, aim the wrong direction, but the local people were unfailingly friendly and helpful—whether we could understand them, or not. 
              The young man gassing up his motorcycle certainly was friendly and willing to help.  He listened patiently to me and seemed to understand my Italian and answered my question with great detail, even as he got ready to get back on the road.  The problem was that half of his words were lost in the plastic dome of his helmet.  Then, before I could ask for clarification, he grinned, jumped on his motorcycle, and shot off with a roar. 
                Somehow, though, we always made it back to Migliarino. 

​              We couldn't miss Siena, extravagant, unpredictable city of the notorious Palio horse race, seventeen neighborhoods in death-defying competition.  Although we weren't there for the race, we explored most of the city and the great sloping brick Piazza del Campo where it took place every year and managed a reunion lunch with some old Berkeley friends who also happened to be in town.  Even Siena's cathedral was out of the ordinary—the plague had interrupted its construction, so what had been intended as a side arm of a much larger building became the center aisle and front.  The alternating zebra-like black and white stripes of both the church and its campanile added to their magnificent weirdness.  Sherrill bought a copy of one of the distinctive Palio banners and decided that we needed to return sixteen more times so she could collect all seventeen—one at a time, of course.  I made no promises.  

​              Every morning, a chorus of excited birds babbled at us through the windows of our apartment on the farm.  A drive north one morning to La Spezia and then a train got us to the rugged Cinque Terre with its dramatic cliffs plunging straight to the sea, then—although the day was a bit drizzly—we alternated hiking along the cliff-side foot paths with riding the local train as we explored the five little towns with their brightly colored buildings piled like children's blocks on the cliffs.  Sometimes, from certain angles, they looked as if they were starting to tumble down to the rock-littered beaches.  A few years later, the towns and the trail connecting them were seriously damaged by an earthquake.  Even before that, local government had set limits to the number of visitors allowed to invade at one time—to preserve the local culture, they said, because cruise ships were starting to turn the place into a Disneyland, just as they already had with Venice. 

The marble mountains of Carrara, 60 miles north of our farm, had been quarried since Roman times, but still seemed to be yielding countless blocks of their famous stone.  We could picture Michelangelo stomping through marble dust, eying and rejecting hunks of marble and then finally approving one for the job he had in mind.  Oddly enough, he didn't look like Charleton Heston, at least to me, but more like his painting of a muscular God the Father giving life to Adam.  We could see that modern machinery now was cutting and moving the huge hunks of marble, so it seemed that only someone with such power could have done what Michelangelo did almost to the day he died.  

​              Life before and during the renaissance was hard and violent, so you had to be strong and well prepared to survive.  As we explored Tuscany and environs, we saw proof of this in palaces that were more fortress than home and defensive towers into which besieged occupants could retreat.  The walled hill town of San Gimignano was the supreme example.  Like many towns of the time, the population regularly broke into quarreling, battling factions, which led to the famous towers that thrust up like stone arms and fists across the town's hills—as well as a once-secret network of underground passages.  Sherrill and I knew from trips to other countries just how deadly quarrels between neighbors could be.  

            "Why," I asked the others, one evening on the way home, "do we always end up aiming for Bologna?"
           It was true, as we drove between towns, carefully following our maps in that pre-GPS era, sooner or later we saw that we were targeting an exit that would take us to Bologna.  Whoever was driving then had to do some fancy maneuvering to keep us from being swallowed by that huge city.  We decided that it was a plot of whoever had put up the road signs, but we defeated their evil intent and enjoyed dinner accompanied by a show of fireflies back at our farm.  
          It would've been a challenge to say which of the hill towns we visited—Monterchi, Pistoia, Volterra, Barga, Cortona, or another—was the most beautiful, but the most memorable for us may have been Arezzo, where Piero della Francesco spent most of his life—and where we toasted Larry at his birthday dinner at an outdoor restaurant on the Piazza Grande.  Of course, we prowled around the city, seeking out Piero's paintings.  At one point during the day, while Larry—the art historian among us—was explaining some of the technical aspects of renaissance painting, other visitors began gathering around, also listening. 

             "Is this a class?" somebody asked.  "Can anybody listen?"
             "No, it's not a class," Cathy answered.  "He just knows a lot."  
            With a smile, Larry told them that they could listen if they wanted.  They gratefully accepted his offer and even asked questions.  After a while, we continued along the Piero trail, seeking more of the master's paintings. 
              It hardly mattered which town we were in, we always were surrounded by beauty, both natural and manmade—as well as superb food and wine. 
              "And gelato," the others would be quick to add. 
              "Why don't we stay here?" we asked each other more than once, meaning Italy.  "Can it get better than this? 
              Right then, I'm sure that all four of us would have agreed that life couldn't possibly be any better. 
To be continued.... 
​

​ 
              If you find these posts interesting, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you—including a bio, information about my four novels, along with excerpts from them, and several complete short stories. 
              Please pass the posts on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.  

​Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 year marriage.  This is number 61 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. 

​              Forty years after Sherrill and I impetuously married at the Cupid Drive-In Wedding Chapel in Las Vegas on the way to Mexico City, we found ourselves traveling in a remote corner of Eastern Turkey.  Eight of us were exploring with our friend Hala a part of the Middle East that saw few tourists, but over which military planes flew frequently and noisily.  Driving through a dry, sparsely populated area near the Iranian border, we chanced into an experience that seemed almost symbolic.
              We noticed what looked like a party in progress next to a faded blue house set back from the road.  A group of men and women were dancing in a wide circle to recorded folk music on an open area between the house and road.  We stopped and Hala and our driver walked over to find out what was happening.  It turned out to be an engagement party for a young Kurdish couple—and we were invited. 

​              Several children ran down to greet us as we walked up the dirt driveway.  The adults welcomed us with smiles and gestures and the energetic dancing continued. The joy on the faces of the dancers, especially the younger ones, made us grin, too.  Legs and feet pranced and stomped and kicked as arms stretched over the shoulders of other dancers.  Some of the women wore long skirts, loose jackets, and kerchiefs, but the younger women left their hair uncovered wore less bulky clothes.  Sometimes, the men and women moved in one large circle, other times they separated into two circles moving in opposite directions.
              "Where are you from?" one asked.  When we said the United States they were surprised, but pleased.  They offered us fruit juice and sweets, then pulled us into the dancing circles.  Laughing, we all did our best to copy the steps. 

​              Jet planes suddenly roared overhead, slicing trails like chalk scratches on the blue sky.
              "What was that?" I asked.
              "A U.S. airbase is near here," someone explained.  "The border is just over there."
              Sherrill and I dropped out of the circle, but a young man came up and, with his few words of English, invited us to follow him into the house.  The engaged couple was inside, sitting with family members in a low-ceilinged room carpeted with overlapping rugs.  Very young, the boy and girl gazed up at us, the bride in a long white gown with high collar and full sleeves, the thin young groom, with hollow cheeks, dark eyes, and big ears, in an ill-fitting black suit.  Were they as terrified of the future as they appeared?
              "Please," I asked the man who took us in, "tell them that we wish them happiness and good fortune."  Then, hand over my heart, I bent toward them and backed away.  

​              When Sherrill and I arrived in Istanbul at the beginning of the trip, we realized once again that it was one of the most beautiful, exciting cities in the world.  With Hala and others in our group and alone we visited new places in the city, as well as familiar, including the restored Aya Sophia and the Topkapi Palace, but two days later we were up at 4:30 a.m. for an early Turkish Airlines flight across most of the country to Trabzon on the Black Sea, where we began our exploration of Eastern Turkey. 
              From Trabzon, we drove east along a narrow coastal strip between green mountains and the sea, then turned inland until we drove along a fast-running river at the bottom of a deep gorge, tall cliffs on each side.  Our goal was the Sumela Manastriri, an ancient monastery famous for its frescoes.  Eventually, we parked and began a climb on foot up a steep trail of dirt, broken rock, and boulders until we reached a stone staircase of 90 steps and then saw the monastery complex rising like an organic part of the massive cliff face.  Then, we descended and walked across the various levels of the ancient buildings, studying early frescoes depicting the life of Mary and various saints.  Although damaged, the paintings powerfully dramatized the beliefs of the artists.  

​              After lunch at a restaurant above the river, where we ate trout fresh from the running water, we drove steadily inland, ascending until we reached a high area of forested mountains and small farms with traditional wooden houses like chalets. Stopping for a while, we walked out a gravel road to the side of a long blue lake and a cluster of old houses.  In a corn field, two women bundled in colorful layers and head scarves were cutting corn stocks with curved hand scythes.  On the way back, we saw women carrying huge bundles of dried corn stalks on their backs.  We noticed a few men and boys in the fields, too, but more often saw them smoking and drinking tea.  Then we drove back to the coast and our hotel. 

​              The next morning, Sherrill pranced barefoot across the boulders and rocks below our room to dip her feet into the cold water of the Black Sea, then after breakfast of olives, tomatoes, feta, bread and honey, and hard-boiled eggs we continued following the coast, passing tea plantations on one side and cormorants dive-bombing into the blue water on the other.  Eventually, we reached the mountain town of Artvin, where we spent the night.  Then we continued our exploration of the area, seeking out the surviving ninth and tenth century Georgian churches and monasteries that a thousand and more years ago—along with mostly gone fortresses and castles—dotted the trade route to the Black Sea.  

​              After a long drive along a narrow road clinging to the side of a canyon, we left the pavement and began climbing a steep, winding, even narrower, road until we reached a small village and an abandoned but beautifully decorated ninth century church.  A little girl ran to get the key to the closed church.  Several other children soon appeared.  One of the smaller boys wore a faded Pokemon tee shirt, but since there were no televisions in the village he probably had no idea who the Japanese cartoon characters on his chest were. 

​              As the days went by, we left the historic Georgian part of Turkey, driving south into a high plateau region once called the land of Aramea by the Mesopotamians and Syrians, so the people who settled there became "Armenians."  At the border city of Ardahan, we passed a huge military complex keeping watch over Turkish/Georgian (formerly USSR) border. 
              Sherrill and I celebrated the day of our wedding exactly forty years before with a party our good friend Hala gave us with our group in the lounge of our hotel in the historic border town of Kars.  We even were treated to a stirring performance of young costumed, sword-flourishing, Armenian dancers: a memorable celebration with good friends in an exciting place.  

​              Continuing south, we passed small herds of horses—this was a famous horse-breeding area—and villages of sod-roofed houses surrounded by tall cone-shaped haystacks and piles of dried dung to burn in winter.  Eventually, we were confronted by the huge double wall and gate of the ancient city of Ani, which stretched to a steep gorge.  Visiting this vast archeological site shared by Turkey and Armenia—including the huge remains of both a cathedral and a mosque—required special permits.  In fact, we had to report at a military tower, one of a series on both sides of any section of border where there had been violence.  Even a farmer had to get permission to retrieve an animal that had wandered across the border. 

​              The hills grew steeper and more rugged, striped with red.  Then the snow-capped peak of Mt. Ararat appeared ahead, capping an area where Turkey, Persia, and Armenia came together.  We stopped in a dusty, beige-hued village to take photographs of the 17,000 foot peak.  In the evening we, sat on a second floor balcony at our hotel nearby, drinking Turkish vodka mixed with cherry juice and watching the sun set over it.  The next morning, Sherrill went with a group up the mountain to look for the remains of Noah's ark, while I stayed behind writing and listening to booming sounds from the direction of Iran's border.  We never learned what was behind those sounds and Sherrill told me that the "Noah's ark" they saw was just a strange rock formation.
              The next morning, a small two-deck boat took us to the island of Akdamar in Lake Van. The captain's son, a boy of about eight, never stopped working, coiling and uncoiling ropes, moving ladders, serving drinks, passing out napkins, carrying sugar for tea, moving fearlessly up and down the steep outside stairs as the boat churned through the lake waters.  

​              If you've never seen a whale, you might assume that it was a big fish with stubby little legs and a piggy head.  At least, that was how the 10th century sculptor who decorated the Armenian church built on the rocky island around 915 A.D. portrayed the Biblical whale that swallowed Jonah.  A belt of deeply carved reliefs of people and animals illustrating Biblical stories, including Jonah, Abraham and Isaac, and David and Goliath, wrapped around the outside of the stone church.  A procession of other whimsical animals circled above, just below the 18-sided cone of the dome.  The carvings weren't sophisticated, but were great fun. 
              So much of Eastern Turkey is mountainous and rocky, we had to wonder why people fought over it  for so many centuries.  The university town of Bitlis, named after one of Alexander the Great's commanders, was another vertical city, streets and neighborhoods climbing treacherously steep cliffs.  Here, as all over Eastern Turkey, 90 percent of the people on the street were men, the few women trudging along the dusty streets under their heavy bundles, completely covered.  The cafes, Sherrill noted, were filled with men sitting on low stools, smoking, talking, and sipping small glasses of tea.  

​              We saw soldiers, armored cars, and tanks along here, as well.  Of course, we were close to the Iraqi border.  When we stopped at the town of Batvan to examine a gracefully arched Ottoman bridge from 1165, several dusty little boys ran over, pointing toy guns guns at us and shouting "Money!  Money!"  The children of Kurdish refugees, possibly from Iraq, they weren't allowed to go to school, we were told, because they spoke little or no Turkish.  Apparently, little effort had been made to help them fit into the local society.  

​              Further along, we came to the ancient city of Diyarbakir with its fourth century Byzantine city wall, older than the great walls of Istanbul.  Built of black stone, with 82 massive round towers, it is largest city wall on earth and the longest wall anywhere, except for the Great Wall of China.  We saw no other foreigners and the local people did tend to stare at us.  However, in the evening, at an internet cafe, I saw teenagers listening to loud music with their earphones and playing computer games—even  in that remote corner of eastern Turkey.  The next day, though, we discovered a large military presence.  Even the police had a tank, painted blue and white.  While we were in the mosque's courtyard, we saw fighter jets roaring overhead.  Later, as we crossed the Tigris River on an 11th century bridge, we saw more—U.S. planes on their way to Iraq.    

​              More mountains followed, more vertical cities, more fascinating and often beautiful historic sites—and, unfortunately, more displays of military might.  Several times, as we strolled through markets, people asked, "Deutsch?"  Once, a man asked, "Canada?"  Nobody asked "American," but when I identified myself as American people simply looked surprised or even responded, "Welcome." 
              The Biblical Abraham was said to have lived in the ancient village of Harran around 2000 B.C.   Large mounds called tels were scattered around the village and as far away as Syria, all of them the remains of prehistoric settlements.  We climbed the huge Harran Mound, or tel, many layers of history dating back at least to the third millennium B.C. beneath our feet.  We almost could feel the layers of history underfoot, stories waiting to be told: tales of the Iron Age, Pagan, Jewish, and Moslem stories, perhaps Christian stories, as well.  Harran and environs is said to be the first place in the world to build with adobe mud brick.  About 1,000 of the traditional mud brick beehive houses survived.  We visited one, four connecting beehive-roofed rooms, cool inside, despite the heat outside.  

​              Passing the huge Attaturk Dam, second largest in the world at the time, after Egypt's Aswan Dam, we to Mt. Nemrut, where, around 50 B.C., King Mithradates built his great monument to himself.  Gradually, the road began to climb, spectacular peaks around us.  Eventually, we entered the Mt. Nemrut National Park, driving through a village of stone houses with flat roofs of mud, straw, and dung.  Some of the rooftops were bright yellow with corn drying on them.  
              Finally, we reached a small parking lot below the summit, from which we could walk up.  A few people elected to ride donkeys.  Later, Sherrill told me that her donkey driver spoke enough English to tell her that he supported a wife and five children with his job.  Half way up to the summit, she heard an odd ringing sound.  His cell phone.  Although the donkey stopped while he took the call, when Hala and I reached the summit on foot there was Sherrill, sitting on the stone steps leading to the altar on the Eastern Terrance, staring at the great stone heads that had been placed in front of the monumental statues from which they'd fallen—the king and the gods, including Hercules and Apollo.  

​              At the park guest house that evening, Sherrill and I met a red-haired woman from Texas who was traveling through Turkey for three weeks with her guide.  She indicated a mustached Turk standing behind her. 
              "She is under my protection," he said—a very Moslem/Middle Eastern way of expressing the situation, I thought.
              The plane from Gaziantep in the east to Istanbul was crowded, but the flight was smooth and from the air we could see how empty and rugged much of Turkey still was.  The next morning, we were up early for our flight to Ankara, the capital of the country and much closer to Cappadocia, our next destination.  First, we visited the State Archeology Museum in a large Ottoman-era building.  Ranging from prehistoric to Neolithic to Hittite and more, the collection gave a breath-taking picture of early Turkish history, even pieces from the 8th century B.C. burial treasure of King Midas--and his skull.

​              The drive to Cappadocia turned a bit hair-raising after dark.  Buses and trucks seemed to be trying to squeeze our van off the road.  Once, we nearly ran into an unlighted farm wagon and horse plodding along at the edge of the pavement.  At times, we suddenly came upon unlighted road construction and a surprising number of trucks and cars didn't bother with headlights.  Finally, we passed the remains of a Silk Road caravansary and drove up a narrow cobblestone-paved alley until we reached massive white cliffs, the lower part of which was pocked with windows, doors, staircases, and terraces, part of it our cave hotel.

​              After climbing up steep staircases and crossing several terraces dug from the cliffs, we reached our rooms.  Sherrill and I were surprised by the size of the room that had been carved from the tufa rock and the modern bathroom and comfortable furniture.  Then we hiked back across the main courtyard to the restaurant, where we ate classic Turkish dishes and drank Cappadocian red wine, which was very good.  After breakfast the next day, our guide took the six of us to explore the natural wonders and history of the area, ranging from chimney-like formations that sometimes resembled giant mushrooms to an abandoned town of cave houses to an underground city in which early Christians hid from persecutors.  We also found the remains of cave churches dug into the cliffs.  

​              After our two day exploration of Cappadocia, we drove to the airport at Kayseri, a modern city on a site dating back to Hittite times.  (Any trip to the Middle East automatically redefines the word "old.")  The little airport reminded Sherrill and me of provincial airports we'd encountered in many third world countries: small, crowded, chaotic.  A group of elderly men and women sprawled in the waiting room chairs or paced the grubby floor.  The women were short and stout, in long skirts, long sleeves, and high necklines, white scarves covering their heads and shoulders.  The men wore loose trousers, baggy shirts and jackets, and on their heads knitted caps with little knobs on top.  They were going on a pilgrimage. 
              By the time we landed in Istanbul, the city glowed with electric lights.  After a few days on our own in the city, Sherrill and I flew back to San Francisco, but we promised ourselves that we'd return.  Three visits simply weren't enough.  That didn't happen, but we always remembered Turkey and Istanbul as among our favorite places.  

​              If you find these posts interesting, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you—including a bio, information about my four novels, along with excerpts from them, and several complete short stories. 
                             Please pass the posts on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.
 

​Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 year marriage.  This is number 60 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. 

​              All roads lead to Rome, somebody once said.  Sherrill and I had been there at least twice before and would return several more times, but it's one of those cities you never exhaust.  We stayed in a favorite little hotel near the huge train station—so we wouldn't have to make an early morning journey across the city when we took a train north later.  First, we explored some areas we'd missed on those earlier trips. 

​              Sherrill was eager to see the mosaic floors at ancient Rome's port of Ostia Antica.  We were lucky to catch a team of specialists at work restoring an elaborate mosaic of the signs of the zodiac that covered the floor of what had been a large building.  Down the road, we watched a group of children in Roman costumes getting ready to perform in the ancient theater.  Another day, we rode Rome's Metro to the Borghese Gardens and Museum.  On the crowded subway afterwards, two well-dressed men pushed between us.  Later, I discovered that a few small Euro bills had vanished from my front pants pocket.  All of our other cash and passports were safely under my clothes.  I'm still impressed by the skill of whoever got those bills.  I hope he was disappointed to get such a small stash. 

              At the Vatican, we recognized a movie star stopped by one of the guards at the entrance to St. Peter's Cathedral because her arms and shoulders were bare. The man with her let her wear his jacket.  It was too large, but made her respectable.  We had no trouble getting in the great church, but were disappointed later when we discovered that Michelangelo's frescos in the Sistine Chapel were off limits because the cardinals were in there electing a new Pope. 
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​              We traveled with only carry-on luggage, so it was easy the next morning to walk the block and a half to the station.  Two hours after leaving Rome, Orvieto's gothic cathedral appeared on its rock throne above the Umbrian plain.  One reason Italy's hill towns are so spectacular is the way they're perched atop their hills.  Unfortunately, the train stations are far below.  Great views, but how do you get there?  A few, at least, have funiculars or trams to take people up.
           Once again, we were traveling with a list of places to stay but no reservations.  Every day was an adventure.  We were lucky this time.  After riding in Orvieto's funicular to the top of the cliff, we walked to a hotel across the central piazza and were given a room with a view of the cathedral's ornate front with its stained glass, sculptures, and mosaics—although half of that elaborate facade was covered with scaffolding.  Inside, we discovered three enormous frescoes overflowing with naked bodies: Luca Signorelli's paintings of The Damned, The Resurrection, and Paradise.  
           "I think the subject was an excuse for him to show off," Sherrill commented. 

​              A local guide took the two of us through caves and passages dug long ago through the volcanic tufa stone beneath Orvieto: up and down carved stairs, through dark chambers and rooms lit only through holes in the tufa walls and around a well dug for a Pope in hiding.  After the day visitors had gone, we strolled along the cobblestone streets and found a trattoria for a quiet dinner and a local vino rosso classico.  
                                                          *           *           * 

​              We were surprised to discover an escalator from the train station up the hill to the town of Perugia sprawled like the five fingers of a hand on its rugged heights.  An easy walk past the fortress-like city hall and a many-sided pink and white 13th century fountain, brought us to our first choice hotel in a  building in which Goethe stayed during his Italian tour—and they had a room for us.  Nearby, several dozen old cars from all over Europe were parked in the Piazza della Repubblica for an antique automobile rally.   
              We ate well in Italy's hill towns, sometimes hunting up a restaurant that had been recommended to us, but usually just stopping at one that looked good.  The dishes were interesting, the ingredients fresh, and the wine usually local and excellent—and it was fun eating with local people.   As we strolled through Perugia's medieval streets, through stone arches and narrow passageways decorated with carved coats of arms, along a Roman aqueduct for a while, passing the old buildings of the University, and stopping to visit the National Gallery to study masterpieces by Perugino, Piero della Francesco, and Pinturicchio, we discovered some enticing neighborhood restaurants and weren't disappointed. Often, in these little places the chef himself (back then, they usually were male) came out to talk about the menu with us, urging us to try a dish with the local truffles or their special way of preparing lamb with olives—and, of course, there always was a local wine that we couldn't miss.  In fact, the only times in all of our travels through Italy that we were disappointed by a restaurant were when we stumbled into places targeting tourists, which did happen a couple of times in Venice and Naples.  

        Rosy-cheeked, the just-ordained young priest stood next to the long table accepting congratulations from family and friends and a couple of older priests.  We were at La Fornace di Mastro Giorgio, a traditional Umbrian restaurant on a steep hillside street in the ancient town of Gubbio.  Sherrill and I, watching from our table against the thick stone wall under the restaurant's low arched roof, considered walking over to offer him a hand, too, but decided not to intrude on his big day.  When we traveled, we often ate our main meal in the early afternoon.  This time, we also had a front-row seat to the celebration for this handsome, much-loved new priest.  
          Gubbio rose on one side of a valley, its cobblestone streets a series of horizontal steps climbing up the mountain like a ladder, pocked occasionally by piazzas, churches, a few Roman ruins, and several medieval public buildings—the crenellated Palazzo dei Consoli (city hall), the ducal palace—and our favorite, the Palazzo del Bargello for the Society of Crossbowmen.  Every December, the biggest Christmas tree in the world was created here with 12 kilometers of electric lights that stretched from the bottom of the city to the top of the mountain.  We were there in May, but at sunset the ancient stones and tile roofs of Gubbio blazed as if washed with liquid gold. 

​              Soon after we left the restaurant, we came to a piazza in front of a small church, a few cars parked to one side, and a couple of men in suits smoking near the church steps.  While we stood there, a woman in an elegant dress and high heels came out of the church with a boy about three or four, gave him to one of the men, and went back into the church. 
              "A wedding," Sherrill told me, "and papa has to take his turn with the kid."
             Sure enough, before long the big wood doors opened wide, spilling a crowd of well-dressed people, a priest, members of a youthful chorus, and finally the wedding party, bride and groom last of all: a petite, lovely girl in white and a husky dark-haired young man who looked uncomfortable in his suit.  Several more restless children scurried around the adults and darted into the piazza. 
              "Our lucky day," Sherrill said, and I agreed. 
              Traveling can be a disorienting experience, simultaneously being here and there, in the present and the past, as if we've been in submerged in a great stew, bits and pieces of time bubbling around us.  Later, that stew only partially congeals, tricking our memories: the Roman theatre, the gothic church, the Victorian farm house, the Romanesque cathedral, the bride lifting her skirt as she maneuvers over cobblestones, the hotel room with sagging floor: which was where and when? 
*          *          *
              We were sweating already and had just started hiking up the winding road from the Assisi train station to the town center someplace on the mountainside in front of us.  Since Assisi hotels booked up far in advance, we had a reservation at a small hotel near the central piazza, supposedly walking distance to everything—except the train station, we now realized.  Our two suitcases were carryon, but heavier than we'd thought.  Stoically, we trudged forward. 

​               Suddenly, a dust-covered miniature car jerked to a stop next to us. 
             The driver's door opened with a flourish and a tiny nun emerged.  She walked around the hood until she was face to face with us. 
              "Where are you going?" she demanded, in accented but understandable English. 
              "Piazza del Comune," I answered.  "Hotel Umbra."
              The nun, older than I'd realized at first, swung open the passenger door.
              "Get in," she commanded, reaching for our suitcases.  Before we could react, she'd opened a miniscule trunk, somehow got the two bags into it, and slammed it shut.  "In!" she repeated.
              We obeyed.
              The nun forced the little vehicle into motion, whipping around every bend in the road, detouring violently around any object—car, human, animal, or structure—that rose up in front of us.  Crammed into the car next to the nun, no seatbelts, hoping the door wouldn't fly open and we wouldn't crash through the windshield, somehow we survived our first experience of Assisi, emerging at last in a large piazza, where our nun slammed to an abrupt stop.
              "Hotel?" she barked.
              "Hotel Umbra."
             We didn't see anything that looked like a hotel.
              She tumbled out of the car and trotted over to a uniformed poliziotto parked a few yards away.  A moment later, they walked back to us, talking and gesturing.  Struggling out of the car, Sherrill and I looked hopefully at the young cop. 
      "Hotel?" the nun asked again.
           "Hotel Umbra."
          "Ahh!" said the poliziotto after a minute, then pointed down what looked like a cross between a tunnel and an alley.
            "Bravo!" cried the nun, triumphantly, hurling our bags onto the cobblestones. "Buona fortuna!"
            "Grazia!" I cried, as she slid back into the car, gunned it, and drove off.
            "What just happened?" Sherrill asked. 
            "Our fairy godmother was an Italian nun." 

           We picked up our bags and hiked into the shadowy tunnel, found a door with the words "Hotel Umbra" above it, and discovered a beautiful little place that was everything we'd hoped, including a view of the Umbrian plains, a spacious room, and a fine restaurant.  And a bathroom where we washed off the sweat and grime of our journey.  That evening, we celebrated our survival with a dinner we couldn't afford and toasted our fairy godmother with glasses of the local Montefalco wine.
            The next days spun into a kaleidoscope of wonders, from the Roman Temple of Minerva practically next door on the Piazza del Comune to the monumental multi-level complex honoring St. Francis of Assisi astride the hill above.  Both the upper and lower churches had been restored since the 1997 earthquake and the great frescoes by Cimabue and Giotto and his followers restored as much as possible.  From the lower church we descended to the crypt to pay our respects at the tomb of the saint.  Despite the hills, we enjoyed exploring the medieval city: the narrow streets lined with stone houses, the arches joining buildings over the streets, the reddish roof tiles, decorated cornices, even the occasional bricked up door and window, sometimes still blackened from a long ago sacking.  From time to time, the medieval austerity of the neighborhoods was lightened by window boxes and baskets of geraniums. Climbing farther afield, we came to a delightfully odd neighborhood of medieval houses built within the circular framework of what had been a Roman theatre. 

          The Ducal Palace in Urbino was even larger and grander than we expected, but—despite some fine art works here and there—was as impersonal and cold as it was spectacular.  However, Sherrill and I enjoyed the city, itself.  With its hills and university and busy streets crowded with young people, it reminded us of Berkeley.  One of the students that Sherrill struck up a conversation with suggested a restaurant upstairs on a side street.  Following his directions, we hiked up the street, climbed the stairs, and entered a large room with a beamed ceiling and big fireplace.  A young waitress, probably a student, told us what was on offer that day.  

              The chef himself, a tall middle-aged fellow with a great belly under his food-splotched white apron, brought out the food, himself.  As he set it in front of us he announced in English that his son had a magnificent voice.
              "He sing alla radio tonight.  You must hear him.  Magnifico!" 
              We didn't hear the chef's son sing, but the food was pretty magnificent—and so was the bottle of ruby red Rosso Piceno Superiore.  Somehow, after that feast, we made it back to our hotel—although I seem to recall that one or two university students helped us get there.
                                                        *          *          * 

             We were greeted at the Spoleto train station by a monumental black Alexander Calder sculpture.  Unfortunately, we still were three kilometers below the upper town.  Eventually, a bus got us to the top of the hill and we found a room.  The jumble of twisting, narrow streets weaving through the medieval town was a challenge, but at every bend we discovered a wonderful sight: handsome piazzas, medieval churches, a Roman theatre, a spectacular 14th century aqueduct, and—down a broad flight of steps—the elegant facade of the Duomo, part Romanesque, part Renaissance.  By the time we'd admired the Filippo Lippi frescoes of the life of the Virgin inside, we were starving.  

            We'd read about several good-sounding restaurants, but we discovered the Osteria del Matto (Inn of the Crazy), ourselves—down an alley from the Piazza del Mercato.  The main dining room turned out to be full, but the owner-host took us to a big table in the wine cellar that we shared with some other diners.  Everyone was served the same set menu, beginning with appetizer and white wine, then moving on to a main course served with a Montefalco rosso, and for dessert a chocolate torte—a memorable meal.  Of course, we went back the next day. 
              A couple of days later, we checked out of our hotel and went to catch the local bus to the train and bus station.  When it didn't show up, we returned to the hotel and learned that it didn't operate on Sunday.  A brisk walk with our bags got us to the station just in time for the bus to San Marino, proudly the world's oldest republic and Europe's third smallest independent state—although completely surrounded by Italy.  

​              Small though San Marino was, its rocky cliffs and hills were spectacular, fortresses and palaces rising like organic outcroppings among gardens and trees.  Every other building on the capital city's main street seemed to be a museum, especially about San Marino's glorious history, one with some strange waxwork figures.  Then Sherrill and I were astounded to see a parade of young men peddling bicycles up the steep, switch-back road to the city center.  We learned that it was the Giro d'Italia bike race held in late May or early June each year.  The cyclists looked determined, but in pain.  

​              Rimini on Italy's Adriatic coast, famous as a beach resort and as the birthplace and childhood home of film director Federico Fellini and the setting of several of his movies, was a short bus trip from San Marino.  Sherrill and I knew Fellini's movies almost frame by frame, so we had to make the pilgrimage.  Walking out on the long beach with its little changing cabins and wooden beach chairs facing the water we almost felt as if we'd wandered into one of Fellini's movies, maybe 8 1/2, in which the boy Guido (inspired by Fellini's own memories) dances on the beach with a hefty prostitute, and we wandered into the Grand Hotel, where Fellini stayed when he came back to Rimini and where elegant couples danced on the terrace in both Amarcord and I Vitelloni.  Too bad we couldn't afford to stay there. 

           From Rimini, we took a train to Rome for our final days in Italy, and then flew back to California, our brains and stomachs full of memories.
 
          If you find these posts interesting, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you—including a bio, information about my four novels, along with excerpts from them, and several complete short stories. 
           Please pass the posts on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.
​