Roana's Kitchen

Vacation by the numbers

2020-01-11T17:14:00.000-06:00

Days away: 27
Days in Europe: 26
Days with more than 3 hours travel: 8

Countries: 4 (5 with layovers)
Cities: 9 (12 with layovers)

Pictures: 2059
Backpack weight (beginning): 18 lbs
Backpack weight (end): 22 lbs
Passport stamps: 4
Miles walked: 215.26
Average/day: 8.61
Longest day: 17.05
Shortest day: 1.26
Mountains climbed: 2
Weight lost: 3#

Total cost: ~$1272.65
Nights in hostels: 15 in 3 different hostels
Cost: $322.65 ($21.51/night)
Nights at a friend's: 4
Cost: $0
Nights in hotels: 8 in 4 different hotels
Cost: est. $950 ($118.75/night)
Note: I didn't pay for the hotels.

Total cost: ~$1960
Planes: 8 (each leg)
Cost: est. $1500
Trains: 10 (each leg)
Cost: est. $450
Automobiles: 1
Cost: $0 (friend's car)
Cable cars: 2
Cost: $10

Total cost: ~$225
Museums: 7
Archaeological ruins: 10
Castles: 5
Libraries: 2
Churches: 14
Cemeteries: 3

Total cost: ~$500
Eating out: est. $300
Grocery stores: est. $75
Toiletries: est. $25
Shopping: est. $100

Items lost: 1 shirt, 1 pair of panties
Items left behind intentionally: 1 pair of boots, shampoo, conditioner
Items gifted: 1 oversized sweater

Romanesque bookbinding from the British Library

2020-01-05T23:08:00.000-06:00

A major highlight for me on my trip to Europe was visiting the British Library and finally inspecting books that I've only read about. I wrote about how I one can go about getting that privilege here, so I won't go into that on this post. Instead, I'm going to totally geek out on the books that I saw.

There were six books on my list to see, which I've listed below. I was allowed to see those marked with a star.

Liber Exechials, Davis 80
Gospels of Matthew and Mark, Davis 386
Modus poenitendi..., IA 4708
SALOMONIS, Add Ms 24076 *
Gospels of Luke and John, Add Ms 27926 *
Theological and ethical, Add Ms 38820 *

As I mentioned in the earlier post, taking pictures weren't allowed of any of these books, which meant that I had to take notes and draw pictures to try to remember the important bits and bobs that I found. Unfortunately, I can't draw well at the best of times, and my right hand is damaged right now, so it's not even the mediocre of times. Nonetheless, I'm going to try to share what I learned.

Oh. First, I'm going to note that most of my knowledge about Romanesque bookbinding comes from two major researchers, J. A. Szirmai and Christopher Clarkson. Both of them, however, left major questions regarding this time period and the books made then. I once emailed Prof. Clarkson to ask him a question regarding the spine treatment of Romanesque books, to which he replied that there were any number of ways that they were handled, and that I needed to go to England to study the books myself if I really wanted to understand how the books were made. He died four months later, years before I was able to do as he suggested.

(Funny side note, he mentioned that he seemed to remember Szirmai asking him the same question and he thought he'd given Szirmai the same answer. Guys! Are you hearing this??? Squeee!)

Okay, so, back to the trip to the British Library. I knew that the chances of seeing the actual spine treatment of any of these books would be infinitesimal, but I wanted to see if some of my other assumptions about Romanesque books were on point. Let's go through them one by one. (All pictures of actual books that follow come from the British Library website.)

SALOMONIS

The British Library link for this book is here. That gives you all of the information regarding where and when the book was made and of what materials, so I won't go into any of that here. These are the notes that I made (ie that I found interesting or noteworthy about it).

Ends - Leather was cut off rather than tucked in
End bands - Wide herring bone pattern at about 1 cm wide
Boards - 3/8" thick and (at a guess) 5" x 9" (I forgot a ruler so all measurements are guesses)
Pages - Protrude past the edges of the boards and are neatly trimmed; the book block was only as thick as the two boards together
Sewing stations - Three sewing stations on double leather cords sewing with thick linen threads
End pages - These were glued down over the leather cover; appeared to be the front and back pages of first and last quires
Stamped leather design - Blind tooled in a symmetrical design as shown in the following pictures

Gospels of Luke and John

The British Library link is here. This one appears to be a combination binding, having been bound in the 13th or 14th century with the limoges enameled metal pieces, but stamped on the back at some time in the 15th century. At least, that's what the experts at the BL claim, and I don't think I'm the one to question them.

Ends - Leather is tucked around the end bands, which I found fascinating having never seen that before; this only takes place on the page portion of the book
End bands - No way of knowing as they're covered by the leather
Boards - The top board is 1" thick, carved into for the metal pieces to set into; bottom board is 1/2" thick; roughly 4" x 10"
Pages - Slightly protruding past boards, but I think they were even with the boards when it was first made. It's really hard to tell.
Metal covering - Carved metal with limoges enameling and attached metal heads on the four figures; one major faceplate with four flat bars 1" wide framing the book cover; beveled flat bars of stamped diapering covering the beveled area between the faceplate and the framing bars
Sewing stations - Three on leather thongs split for double sewing; appeared to be false sewing on the 1" board side of things. Looks like the top board only held on by the outer red leather and additional linen cloth at the spine which is not seen on the back board at all.
End pages - Reused music sheets that were attached to the front and back quires

Theological and ethical

The British Library link is here. This book, like the two above, was bound in red leather, which appears to be fairly common across multiple countries. The interesting thing about this book was the three attached bookmarks. I don't think I've seen those before in a period book earlier than the 15th century.

Additionally, because there weren't any end pages, the leather thong attachments to the boards were easily seen. They were mostly in line, of a similar size and shape, with the top three aiming toward the top and the bottom three aiming toward the bottom. (See the picture below and try to ignore my crappy drawing ability.)

Ends - The leather is tucked flush with the end bands and glued down tightly
End bands - Double end bands with an initial sewing in white linen then covered in a herring bone pattern in colored silk
Boards - 1/4" thick top and bottom; 4" x 8"
Pages - Protrude past the boards, trimmed neatly; book block is 2" thick
Sewing stations - Six stations on a leather thong split and sewn double with thick linen thread
End pages - None seen and it appears there were never any
Bookmarks - Finger loop braided in the same color silk as the end bands and attached to the end bands

I found it interesting that all three books were bound in red leather. I'm not sure why that surprised me, except that it seemed odd that I randomly selected three books from the 12th century and all three had red leather. Something to dig into a bit more, I think.

The metal-covered book fascinated me. I'm dying to try to make one similar to this one. It looked to me like the top board was only held on by the outer leather cover, which seems impossible given the weight of the board with the metal on it. So I want to play around with using the leather thongs, additional spine coverings for support, and the leather cover to see which works best.

I also thought it was pretty cool that each of the three books treated the leather at the end of the spine differently, too. There isn't a right or wrong way, apparently, to do it so long as it's cleanly done. Also, what the what?? They tucked the leather over the end band on one?! Not at all what I ever expected to see.

Mostly, this showed me that I need to look up a whole lot more books with Romanesque bindings to get a feel for what's common and what an exception, or even if such a thing exists. I'm also hoping to contact the BL research librarian that I was working with to get pictures of the parts that I drew. I'll share them when I do.

My experiences in hosteling

2020-01-05T20:02:00.001-06:00

My friend Misty asked me how I even knew where to go to find decent hostels, what to do when I was there, and basically, how this was even an option. There are a lot of answers to those questions, so I thought I'd just go through my process to give you an idea of how I figured things out.

Let me start by saying that my experiences overall in staying in hostels in Barcelona, Naples, and Rome were very positive. It helps that I'm a good sleeper who doesn't struggle with new rooms, noises at night, and sharing a room with strangers. Basically, when I'm tired, I sleep. Very little prevents that. But it also helps that the hostels were, by and large, well-run and clean.

I've heard of hostels for years, but believed that they were intended for young people to stay in, and folks my age weren't really encouraged to stay there. I went into this vacation with this fear, even though I planned to stay in hostels the first half of the trip. Nothing could be further from the truth. Yes, overall, most of the people that I met at my hostels were young - early 20s - but not all. There were several older people - 40s plus - at each hostel that I stayed in. So, if you also had that impression, let it go. Hostels accept anyone, happily.

How to find the right place

My first stop in looking for hostels was HostelWorld.com*. I was able to put in my criteria, the city I was going to be staying in, the dates that I needed, and then click "Search". It gave me a list of hostels in the city that I then scrolled through, reading the reviews diligently, and looking at a map to see how near or far from the things that mattered to me were. I was able to book the hostels from the US at a nominal cost, and received a full refund if I had to change my reservations for any reason with at least 24 hours notice.

The average cost of my bed was ~$20/night. This included bedding, a locker, laundry facilities, and kitchen privileges in an all-women dorm. (Those were my criteria.) The more popular the city, the more it cost. The closer to the holidays the more it cost, as well. In Barcelona, I booked space in a 4-bed all-women room for six nights. I had a roommate only my last night there. The hostel had a capacity of over 120 beds, but had fewer than 25 people staying there until that last weekend. That was unusual, but was also very much the "off-season", too. I didn't have my own room again the rest of my trip.

You can, however, book your own room. That's an option. Still less expensive than a hotel, but not nearly so cheap as $20/night. So if you need your own space, it's still worth looking at hostels for less expensive options. (Plus, you'll still have access to the kitchen, so that'll save you, too.)

Okay, so I spent time looking things up based on my preferred criteria. Which still gave me a long list of options. That's where reading the reviews became imperative. I filtered the reviews by the newest ones posted, and then by those in the 40+ category. That gave me a good idea of what to expect from that particular hostel for folks my age. Plus, people my age who are looking to stay in a hostel often have similar expectations to me. We're not looking for spotless, five-star accommodations with a concierge and laundry service. We know better. But we are looking for a safe, relatively quiet, comfortable place with receptive owners/operators.

Had I paid attention to those reviews - and the responses from the owners/operators - I wouldn't have ended up at the one hostel that I had issues in. Someone had complained about how difficult it had been to find the place (they weren't wrong) and how unsafe they felt while looking (again, they weren't wrong). The owner's response? "Don't come back." Why that didn't set my Spidey senses off, I don't know. I booked it anyway, and found that the reviewer wasn't wrong, and the owner/operator was very unhelpful with the issue (lack of hot water) that came up. So yeah, pay attention and listen to those who have gone before you.

What to expect once you're there

When you're staying in a dorm, you're sharing space with anywhere from three to 15 other people. I opted for the smallest dorms I could find that were in my budget that also were women-only. The dorms that I stayed in had four beds, five beds, and six beds. At no time were all of the beds full, though the six-bed place in Rome had up to five people on various nights. But you should go in expecting them all to be full. So, if you can't sleep with five strangers around you, don't book a dorm with that many beds.

The showers are shared, so bring shower shoes and a shower caddy. Two of the hostels that I stayed in had communal showers. The one in Naples had two bathrooms on the same floor as our room but didn't have hot water while I was there. I ended up having to go up to the next floor to take a hot shower. Given how important those showers are to me after a really long walk, where the showers were located ended up mattering to me a lot.

Bring a microfiber towel and washcloth. I know, they're not nearly as luxurious or wonderful as your fluffy towels at home, but they do a great job of drying you while drying themselves very quickly. It wasn't uncommon for me to take two showers a day when I overdid it, and the towel and washcloth were always bone dry each time I needed them. They're relatively cheap, too. At least, cheaper than paying the 2 or 3 Euros a day for a rental towel, and those are also nothing like your towels at home, I promise.

Don't bring a robe. I'm glad I didn't waste the space on one. I'd have felt very uncomfortable walking from the shower to my room in a robe. Instead, I undressed and dressed in the shower room. Your mileage may vary, but it just felt odd to be undressed walking around the halls, even in a robe.

Because I was spending so long traveling around with only one backpackful of stuff, laundry was incredibly important to me. It didn't occur to me to check to see if the laundry facilities cost money, so I was surprised in Rome when I had to pay 8 euros per load to wash and dry, plus the cost of the laundry soap. In Barcelona, I just paid for the soap, which I got from the front desk. (In Rome, there was a vending machine for everything from paddle locks to our breakfast tickets, including laundry soap.) I didn't even try to use the laundry in Naples as it wasn't worth trying to ask any of the hostel staff for help.

The lockers usually require a small lock. I brought one I had from home, only to realize that while it worked in one place, it didn't in another. I had to buy a smaller lock from one of the Rome hostel vending machines to use in their lockers. The hostel in Naples didn't have lockers in the room itself. Rather, the lockers were down in reception, which was a pain for me to keep my Chromebook in. I ended up hiding the Chromebook in the room instead of locking it up, but that was a risk I wouldn't suggest. It helped that the room was mostly empty. I don't remember the hostel's description mentioning this.

Party place or restful roost

Hostels are geared toward younger people, so there are plenty of places that have bars on site, lots of party buses, and any number of other ways to get drunk and stupid. If that's your jam, they're not hard to find. They're also pretty easy to identify via the reviews and options on HostelWorld.

That being said, while I really wanted somewhere quiet to sleep once I was done climbing mountains or walking for miles, I also really enjoyed having somewhere to visit with other people during down time. It helped me feel connected to humanity while traveling alone.

The Barcelona hostel had a bar on the ground floor with inexpensive beer and sangria and a dedicated bartender. I ended up spending nearly every evening sitting at the bar, nursing a drink or two, and writing on my blog. It was a lovely way to meet folks, and still have down time.

There wasn't really that option at the hostel in Naples, nor was there really any place to sort of relax outside of the dorm itself. The congregation spot was really the kitchen, but while the workers/volunteers gathered there, they never really seemed open to my joining them. I don't know if it was an age thing or what, but no one else in the dorm joined them either. Not having that dedicated space to gather, I think, was a major factor for my feelings of loneliness while I was there.

In Rome, there was a bar, but it didn't have the same comfortable feeling as the one in Barcelona. The bartender was a delight but it seemed like more of a place for groups to gather rather than for individuals to meet. That being said, I did end up meeting a couple of very nice people there over the course of my stay.

Your hosts and hostesses at the hostels

The bartenders and breakfast staff in Barcelona, Sy and Estephania, were volunteers from California and Illinois, respectively, who came to spend eight weeks at the hostel. In exchange for their room, breakfast, and all they chose to drink at the bar, they worked somewhere between 20-30 hours a week either in the bar or setting up breakfast. I found that volunteering at hostels is actually a great way for younger people to spend time in another country at a minimal cost to themselves.

Not everyone are volunteers, however. Most are paid staff. Nearly everyone speaks English. They come from all over the world. But please, don't make the assumption that someone of another race isn't from the country you're in. There were Spanish employees in Barcelona who were black. In Rome, the bartender, a paid employee, looked decidedly south Asian and was born and raised in Rome. Be just as respectful in those countries as you would be in the US.

At no time did I ever encounter the actual owner of any of the hostels. These are company-owned, for the most part. The employees are your only recourse when problems come up, so be kind to them from the beginning. I mean, you should be kind anyway, let's be real. But these people are mostly young, mostly from elsewhere, and mostly unsure on a few of the things that can come up. Be gentle in your requests, critiques, and comments.

What I'd do differently next time

There are a few things that I will do differently next time I book a hostel.

Verify that laundry facilities don't have additional costs
Look for spaces with a bar but the reviews aren't all about how much fun partying the reviewers had
Pay attention to the reviewers' comments
Spring for the smaller dorms or get a single room whenever possible
Use the kitchen more often to make meals rather than wasting money on eating out

But in general, I really enjoyed the whole hostel experience. For a cost-reducing option on long trips like the one I was on, it's worth every penny. You'll have to be open to unusual experiences, and be willing and able adapt to different personalities. I met some great people on my trip because I could and would do those things. It made traveling alone a lot less lonely.

*I get nothing by mentioning HostelWorld to you all. It was incredibly useful to me, so I'm sharing that with all of you. I promise, no quid pro quo here. *grins*

Paris - Cemeteries, museums, and fondue

2020-01-05T16:06:00.002-06:00

New Year's Eve in Paris had been exceptional, but it had also taken it out of me. For the first time in this trip, I was grateful that no museums were open on the holiday. We slept late, barely making the 11am cut off for breakfast. My body ached, my head felt like it weighed 100 pounds, and my chest felt like another 100 pounds were sitting on top of it. I was Sick, with a capital S. A day of ease sounded amazing, especially since I was out of medicine.

So we did exactly that. I mean, on my terms. We walked to Pere Lachaise Cemetery. Okay, yes, it was a 2.5 mile walk, but we moved slowly, a relaxed pace along the Seine, on the south side of the Notre Dame, and up to the cemetery. The day fit the destination: cold, wet, and gray. I had bundled up in two sweaters, jeans, and my newly purchased Paris scarf to replace my lost Barcelona one. Maybe I should have stayed in bed for the day, but that's not really me.

This particular cemetery became famous in the United States as the resting place of Jim Morrison of The Doors. In fact, his gravesite is visited so often - and vandalized so readily - that they've now gated it off from the casual visitor. Devoted fans now use the gate as a new way to show their love of the man, by adding locks to it.

Additionally, and I don't really get this, there appears to be some big thing about putting chewing gum on a tree next to the gravesite. Anyone know what that's about??

Having seen The Doors movie and growing up with my older sister Andrea playing them, I knew who they were. I understood the appeal to a degree. But, let's be real here. This is me. Do you honestly think that I drug my happy, sick butt to a cemetery to see an American singer who died of a drug overdose? Uh, no. Dude... this is the cemetery where Abelard and Eloise were buried! Squee!

Who are they? Oh guys, come on! They were the love story of the 12th century! I'm still struggling to understand how there haven't been a million movies and books about this devoted couple who lost one another but gained prestige on their own while still sending each other love letters. This is the tragic love story everyone should know. *le sigh*

We wandered around for a good hour, looking for Chopin's gravesite, seeing the amazing monuments to those long gone, and seeing broken and disheveled stone cairns. Despite its more famous inhabitants (can I use that word here?), this is a living (*coughs*) cemetery where people are still being buried today. The juxtaposition of old and new, cared for and dilapidated, felt jarring and yet appropriate.

Oh, and I found where Voldemort was buried!

The weather fit the mood, and I'm glad we went. But again, I was doing pretty poorly, so when it was time to go, we went. The long, leisurely walk back to the hotel brought us up against the Notre Dame along a pathway with an explanation of what happened to it. This pathway was filled with people, of course, which made me feel a bit panicky, but at the same time, I wanted to see the story. So, I plowed through, a very patient Brian following along or leading the way in turn, before we made it back to the hotel. Where I crashed hard. While I slept, Brian went out to find food at a nearby bakery. We ate, and then discussed whether or not to go out that night. He was tired, I was sick, and the decision to stay in was made.

The next day, we got up relatively early and headed to the Musee Cluny, now known as The National Museum of the Middle Ages. Here's where I admit that I didn't have any idea that the Cluny was in Paris. I mean, sure, I've heard of it. Who hasn't? But until Brian suggested it as a place to visit on our last day, I'd no idea how close it was. As in, like, four blocks from the hotel close. Dude!

A day of rest (mostly), a hot shower, and hot coffee, I was feeling a little better. We walked to the Cluny, arriving about 10 minutes before it was set to open at 9:15. At around 9:25, someone came out, spoke in French, and then left. Those who seemed to understand him, smiled, shrugged, and waited. We assumed that meant that this was the typical Parisian "We're going to be opening late; blame the trains strike" speech.

We waited a little while, then Brian got restless. He wandered off a bit; I followed. And saw a pharmacy a block over. Yes, please!

I'm just going to say this. If you have the option to buy all the medicine you need in the UK before going to Paris, do it. Because the medicine that I got in Paris was literally gag-inducing. Both were powders. Both did the required job of making me feel human. One was a little meh in flavor; the other made me gag. But you can bet that gag I did for the rest of my trip, because it worked.

(It could be argued that I broke my "no US chain" rule here by running over to a nearby Starbucks to get a cup of hot water, but since I didn't actually pay for it, does it count?)

We continued to wander on, finding a beautiful cathedral to walk through.

Then walked back to the Cluny, which was now open. (I think it was around 10am by this time. No idea what time it actually opened its doors.) I will warn you now, this is a small-ish museum. They appear to be under constant improvements, and a number of their exhibits weren't available to be seen. Those that were, however, were exceptional to a Medievalist, especially an embroiderer.

Well, and for those interested in in enameling and repousse, there was the altar piece showing the missing pieces. (More info here: https://www.musee-moyenage.fr/collection/oeuvre/retable-de-la-pentecote.html)

But let's get into the nitty-gritty of what the Cluny is famous for: The Lady and the Unicorn.

To show my complete ignorance on these tapestries prior to seeing them, I'm going to share what I learned. There are six tapestries with the Lady and the Unicorn (and the Lion, which for whatever reason, is always completely ignored though it's equally prominent in all of the tapestries). Five of them are believed to be representations of the senses: sight, smell, touch, taste, and sound. The sixth tapestry, shown above, has been interpreted multiple ways by multiple people over the past 600+ years. It's the only one with words, which have been interpreted multiple ways, too. I'll let you do the research on that.

The other five, however, follow. I'll let you try to figure out which represents which sense.

As I said, I knew next to nothing about these before we saw them in the Cluny, but I do now understand why others are so intrigued by them. Sitting in the middle of the room, staring at the tapestries, both Brian and I found odd inconsistencies between them. As the general assumption is that each of these tapestries showed something specific, we assumed that those inconsistencies meant something to the artist, and we spent some time together trying to figure out what they could mean.

Yeah, I know. The Geek Side is strong in me. I was just grateful to be traveling with someone else who not only got that, but encouraged the discussion. He was also kind enough not to remark on the excited squeaks and squeals that regularly escaped as I walked through the museum.

I have a ton more pictures on the Cluny that will be put up on Flickr or PhotoBucket or something else for my fellow geeks. Needless to say, if you're in Paris, pay the slightly high fee and go see the things. Even if they open late.

After the Cluny, we tried once again to see Saint Chapelle, and failed once again. Then we stopped by the hotel to rest a bit before heading out to meet our friend from the forum, Telmo.

We had a drink, walked around a bit, then had another drink. Our conversation focused on the amount of smoking I've encountered in Europe, politics, the train strike and how it's affected Paris, and just stuff about our lives in general. Then he headed off while Brian and I went in search of our last meal together in Paris.

I'd mentioned that it seemed silly to come to Paris and not enjoy some fondue, so Brian insisted that we have that. We'd come across several restaurants in our wandering, so we backtracked until we found one that looked good. We each ordered a pot of cheese (which wasn't our smartest plan as one pot was plenty for both of us), I ordered a glass of wine, and we sat and had a wonderful talk about life, the universe, and everything over pots of hot cheese.

Before this trip, I'd spent time with Brian in Portland and chatted with him plenty on the forum and via PMs. What I learned this trip, however, was how much I appreciated him. He's conscientious, kind, and willing to push himself outside of his comfort zone. We travel well together, and despite the occasionally awkward moments of people thinking we were a couple instead of just friends, I think we had a great time exploring as a team. I'd enjoyed my time traveling alone, but I also really enjoyed traveling with my friend.

Thank you, Brian, for enhancing an already amazing trip. For putting up with my whinging while sick. For being willing to explore with me. And for spoiling me with your hotel and train choices. You're a gem. I hope you know that.

New Year's Eve in Paris

2020-01-04T19:40:00.000-06:00

When I planned this trip, I had three objectives that drove my itinerary:

Tapas and drinks with my friend Isaac on my birthday
Christmas Eve Mass with the Pope
New Year's Eve under the Eiffel Tower

On my birthday, I visited three museums before meeting up with Isaac. We went to one more museum, then spent the evening going to several places, eating tapas, drinking wine, and getting to know each other's cultures (and lives) better. Objective: Achieved!

For Christmas Eve, I'd called things early and headed up to the UK, giving up my tickets to mass with the Pope. I don't regret this one bit. I attended the Sunday Blessing by the Pope and then Vespers' Mass at St. Peter's Basilica later that evening. Fewer crowds, less standing in line, and I was able to rest a little longer before my final push. Given my current cold, it was probably one of the smarter things I did during this entire trip. Objective: Failed!

That left the goal of spending New Year's Eve under the Eiffel Tower in Paris. Spoiler alert: It didn't happen. Instead, I did better. Objective: Improved!

And that's really, really okay. By the time midnight came around, Brian and I had already traveled four hours via train, walked 17 miles, and seen and done so much. Including going to the Eiffel Tower.

It had been a Very Busy Day(tm).

We arrived at the Gare du Nord train station, which was roughly a two-mile hike from our hotel, situated on the Seine across the bridge from Notre Dame. By now you realize that two miles isn't a big deal for me. It is, however, unfun when carrying a 20-pound backpack and a 10-pound shoulder bag... while sick.

(Look, I'm going to be complaining a lot over the next few posts about being sick. It's rare that I actually get sick-sick - not counting allergies - and this was easily the worst that I've felt in years. Had I not been on vacation and a stubborn idiot, I would have spent all of last week in bed whinging. So, I'm being a total baby about it, and it's going to show up a lot on my posts about Paris. Feel free to tell Brian that he was a total saint for putting up with me during this time. I agree.)

Anyway, we walked from the train station to the hotel partially because of the train strike, but also because it was for the most part a nice walk. I mean, the area around that train station is a bit sketch, but a few blocks away, we got a pretty good feel for what Paris is like without the tourists. Since pretty much everywhere else we went that day we saw mostly tourists, it was nice.

The hotel was a delight, even if the elevator was a bit small... and slow. But the building was old, quirky, fun, and interesting. Our room had a ceiling so low that I worried that Brian would bump his head on the massive beams that crossed it. (He didn't.) And our view was extraordinary.

After unloading our bags, we headed out to see what we could see. Turns out in Paris, there's a lot to see.

Okay, let's take a step back for a second here. Before I left for this trip, Paris was sort of my throw-away city. I planned to travel to multiple capital cities, so it made sense to include Paris. On top of that, it was an easy hub to fly out of, and a million friends of mine have gone on and on about how incredible Paris is. For me, however, it held minimal appeal. It seemed to be yet another major city, where most of the history was in the past couple of hundred years. Cool, I was sure, but not really my kind of thing. So, my expectations were pretty low.

I was told that I needed to experience it to fully understand. As it turns out, having now experienced it, I'm more interested in going back to experience much more of it.

We walked out of the hotel, across the Seine, and towards the Saint Chapelle Chapel. The line had been mostly small when we'd walked by, and we knew that it closed early. Only we didn't know that it would close earlier than the posted time because they didn't allow people to buy tickets to enter with just an hour left to see it. Over the course of our time in Paris, we tried to see Saint Chapelle every day. When it wasn't closed, the line was insane. We never made it inside.

So, we walked on. We turned to the Eiffel Tower, as we'd gotten a glimpse of it from the Seine. Along the Seine, one can choose to walk up at the street level or down at the river level where motorized vehicles aren't allowed. We choose the lower route.

We approached the monument from the East, meaning that the setting sun lit it from behind. It was breathtaking.

The grounds around the tower hustled and bustled with hucksters and tourists alike. For the first time, I felt a bit of unease about how many people had gathered. For a number of reasons, we opted not to go up into the tower and instead walked around it.

It turns out that when I'm sick and exhausted, my paranoia plays up. Being in large crowds of people in Paris - where multiple terrorist attacks have taken place in exactly these situations - made me... skittish. Yeah, okay, that's downplaying how I was feeling. As Brian and I walked around Paris and the crowds grew with the sun going down, I knew that I would not be okay in a crunch. Thankfully, Brian had already said that he would be okay if we didn't stay out until midnight, so I didn't feel too guilty for asking to head back earlier than we'd initially intended. For now, though, we plowed on to the Arc de Triomphe.

The walk to the Arc was rather unsettling. Not only were the streets filled with people, but the police presence was obvious and ubiquitous. There seemed to be a constant cacophony of sirens and lights on the relatively short walk from the Eiffel Tower to the Arc, especially along the Place du Trocadero where people sat waiting to see the fireworks at midnight.

On top of this, my cold medicine was beginning to wear off so my sinuses were throbbing and chest felt tight. We wended our way through the crowds and finally made it to the Arc. The crowds weren't quite as crazy on our approach and I managed to get a couple of really beautiful shots of it.

We walked on, having heard that the Sacre Coeur may be the best place to watch the fireworks. As we walked past the major road leading up to the Arc de Triomphe, lined in beautifully illuminated trees - and filling with police and people - I felt my heart in my throat. My pace increased and my head throbbed worse.

One can know that logically, nothing is going to happen. Or be like Brian who takes it as it comes, feeling like he can't do anything about it anyway, so why worry? It appears that I am not that person. The lower the sun sunk, the more people we encountered, the more I felt the panic rise. I'm sure it doesn't help that I'm claustrophobic at the best of times, and these were definitely not those times. People towered over me, and if Brian weren't so tall, I know that I would have lost him several times. Thankfully, he's not only tall, but also conscientious and made sure that I was within site the whole time.

As we left most of the crowds behind, I realized that I may have pushed myself too hard already. I felt weak, light-headed, and sick to my stomach. I suggested stopping for food - and a break from walking. Brian agreed, and then suggested a McDonald's that was on our route. Not because he wanted McDonald's, but because it was likely to have an English menu, be open, and have a bathroom. At this moment in time, I was willing to break my one rule for the trip: No US chain restaurants.

Thankfully, the restaurant wasn't open, so it didn't happen. Instead, we went to a pizza restaurant on the same street. After a solid hour and a bit more of resting, eating, and just being, we both felt better. Time to head on to Sacre Coeur. This included a trip through a lovely park where we stopped to rest and enjoy the quiet.

Had I known this walk would be up a million stairs, I may have stayed at the park longer. I didn't, so off we went. I am so glad that we did. What a stunning cathedral with a more beautiful view of the city.

This cathedral was different from most of the others that I'd gone into. Most of those had been empty of people except for tourists, with few kneeling in the pews. This church, however, had as many or more congregants as visitors. Every inner chapel had at least one person kneeling in prayer, though most had quite a few more. Additionally, we saw those touching a statue in prayer, which touched my heart. The throngs of people praying made the massive space feel intimate and inclusive.

Leaving the church, we stepped outside to look once more at the view before heading back to the hotel. By this time, it was coming up on 10pm, and I was fading fast. Down, down, down the stairs we went.

One would think that we'd already hit it out of the ballpark with our walk. We'd seen four of the major tourist attractions in Paris in one go. What more could we want?

When you go to Paris, see those attractions, preferably at sunset. I can't recommend that enough. And then, after a leisurely dinner while the sun sinks completely away, walk over to the Louvre. We did that. Not on purpose; we just happened on it as we walked back to the hotel from Sacre Coeur. And wow. Nothing could have prepared me for the exquisite beauty of the Louvre at night.

We didn't get back to our room until after 11pm as we simply couldn't be rushed to leave the Louvre. But by then, my headache made thought nearly impossible, and my feet and back screamed at me. I took a long, hot shower, downed the last of my medicine from the UK, and crawled into bed. A glass of red wine on the bedside table, I felt better than I had in hours.

Funny thing about hotel rooms that overlook the Seine and Notre Dame. There are almost always people hanging out on the streets near them. Especially at nearly midnight on New Years Eve. So, despite my desire for sleep, when midnight came, we heard the fireworks, the shouts from below, and Brian went to the window to see them. I got up, too, because come on. How do you not? And from our hotel room overlooking the Seine, we watched the fireworks over the Arc de Triomphe, and cheered with the crowds below who were staring at the Notre Dame.

No, I didn't celebrate New Years Eve under the Eiffel Tower, but that's okay. There was a better way that hadn't even occurred to me before I made my plans.

The British Library Reading Rooms - Where I went wrong so you don't have to

2020-01-01T15:12:00.000-06:00

I'm not going to lie; getting into the Reading Rooms is a process even if you're a student. For us independent researchers, it's a bigger process yet. And it definitely helps to have a friend who is a high-up muckity-muck in the librarian world who is also willing to help you out.

To start out, you need to apply for a Reference Number. This, in itself, is really simple. You can go to this url and read the instructions before clicking on the link in the paragraph titled "You can register online today". (You're going to want to read the instructions all the way through because they're helpful. I skimmed them, which was my first mistake.) That Reference Number is only good for three months, so don't apply for it too soon. Once you provide proof of identity and address at the library itself, you'll get a Reader Card pass that's good for three years.

So, once you have your Reference Number, you can set up an account on the British Library page, which is essential. It's how you request access to books and manuscripts in the Reading Rooms, which is where all of the things us history geeks are excited about. There are some caveats on the stuff you can request, however. Every book that I wanted required that I have a Letter of Introduction from a professor or librarian who could vouch that I wasn't going to do something stupid with the materials once I had them. We'll get to that in a second, but I wanted to make sure to mention it here because otherwise you'll just get frustrated on requesting things.

Okay, so, I acquired my Reference Number, I set up my BL account online, and I looked up the books that I wanted to see. Here's where Problem #1 came up. I study bookbinding, which is to say, how books are held together. My main area of study is the Romanesque Era, or roughly 1100 - 1350. There are a number of books from this time period, but historical librarians did a number on us bookbinders. It was common practice for manuscripts to have their entire book covers be replaced if they showed wear and tear rather than conserve the original bindings. This means that of the dozens of Romanesque books listed on the BL website, I had absolutely no idea which ones would actually have a Romanesque binding.

So, this is entirely for my bookbinder friends and the rest of you can skim or skip over this, but... on the BL website, there is actually a searchable database on bookbinding time frames. I had absolutely no idea, and it would have saved me about an hour at the library itself had I known, because I could have replied to the nice email that I got from Zoe asking for what I wanted to see so she could have them ready for me. Here's the link for that database: https://www.bl.uk/catalogues/bookbindings/ You get there by clicking on <All Catalogs> in the Catalogs & Collections link, then again on the <All Catalogs> on that page. It's the fifth link down.

What you're looking for is the Shelfmark ID. Most of the books that I was interested in started with "Add Ms #####", though a few were something like "Davis ##" or "IA #####". The Add Ms items are all gotten through the Archives and Manuscripts Reading Room, and usually only require that Letter of Introduction. The others required approval from the Curator, which meant I had to fill out a form explaining who I was, what I wanted, why I wanted it, and how that knowledge was going to be used. And then wait 48 hours for approval, and another 24 hours to actually receive the item. You can see now why knowing what you want ahead of time is incredibly helpful.

There's also the part where if you do your research online, you'll be able to see what you need in order to actually be allowed access to some of the materials. My area of research is old - some of the oldest codices still in existence - so I needed some verification that I wouldn't be an idiot with them once I had my hands on them. This required a Letter of Introduction from a trusted academic on their learning institution's letterhead with a signature. My lovely and wonderful friend Heather S graciously agreed to write a Letter of Introduction for me, even though she was on winter break and enjoying time with her son while he was on leave from the military. I <3 her so damn much.

Her letter basically said, "This is how I know her. This is what I know of her studies. I heartily recommend that she be given access for her independent research. Signed, Dr. Heather." It came to me - and to them - as a pdf in an email, which they printed and filed with my Reference Number.

Because I couldn't figure out which books I wanted, I couldn't send the reference librarian a list of books or request them online. This meant that I had to wait until I had gotten my library card and was allowed into the Reader Rooms in order to get the help of a living, breathing librarian. This took time, and I was on a limited schedule.

After you've done all of the legwork online prior to arriving in London, it's time to present yourself to the Registration Staff in order to prove you are who you say you are and provide proof of your address. It's a simple process that is more about waiting in a queue than anything overly difficult. (Thus is the British Way(tm).) When you walk in the door of the library, after you've had your bags searched, you go up the stairs to the right of the Information Desk. From there, turn right, and then right again, and you'll find the Registration Desk. There is likely to be a queue, which you can stand in if you'd like additional direction, or you can skip the line and go straight into the computers on the left-hand side of the desk.

Since you've already signed up online and gotten a Reference Number, you can select Option #4, use your Reference Number to sign through, and then update the requested information. You'll be assigned a queue number. Note that number, because that's what they'll call out when it's your turn to provide your documentation. Then sit down on one of the round settees and wait. Depending on time of day, how many people are in front of you, and how many people are working, the wait can be anywhere from five minutes to half an hour. I went as soon as the doors opened on the Monday between Christmas and New Years. I waited two minutes.

When your number is called, you go to the desk, sit down, and provide your passport and drivers' license/ID with your current mailing address. If you don't have that, bring a utility bill with the correct address and your name on it. The registration person will verify the information you've already put into the computer, give you a lecture on what's allowed and not allowed in the Reading Rooms, take your picture, and give you a card. That is your Gold Key into the Inner Sanctum.

Now, you're ready to go to the Reading Room!

Oh wait! NOPE! You're not! And here's why: you are not allowed to bring any bags other than a clear plastic bag, and you are not allowed to bring in any sharp objects, pens, or anything else that may be used to injure or harm the books or documents. No coats, no purses, no backpacks. (For the record, this is true of nearly any Rare Books Library that you go to. Expect it.)

Luckily, they provide for this. There is a Coat Check in the bottom floor where you can leave your belongings that you won't need and pick up a plastic bag for the things you will need (your wallet, notepad, pencil, magnifying glass, etc.). Leave the Registration Room and go down the escalator to the basement, where the Cloak Room is readily apparent. Give them your coat and bags (sans wallet, etc), they'll give you a number, grab the plastic bag from the shelf on the back wall, and off you go to the Reading Room! No, for real this time. You're finally ready.

The two rooms that I was interested in were one on top of the other on the left side of the building from where you entered, the Archives and Manuscripts Reading Room, and the Rare Books Reading Room. First floor (which is second floor to Americans) is the Rare Books Reading Room and where I would have gone had I been able to get the Curator's approval prior to arrival. As I didn't, the books that I could access were in the Archives and Manuscripts Reading Room on the third, er, excuse me, second floor.

Because of all of the weirdnesses with my experience, I should have gone straight to the Reference Librarian to ask for help after I showed my Reading Room Card to the guard at the front door. She was off to the side of the main desk. If you happen go to the main desk first to ask where she is, they'll point you to her... after they ask you a million questions to make sure you should go to her. Which you already know because you haven't actually reserved any books, which is where the main desk comes in. But they'll verify it anyway... taking up some of your precious few minutes. (But I'm not bitter.)

Here's where I'm going to sing the praises of the Reference Librarians at both of these Reading Rooms. They went above and beyond in helping me acquire access to books quickly, efficiently, and with minimal fuss once they learned that I only had a few hours to do any research. They moved heaven and earth to get me the books I was able to request, and painfully explained the process for the next time I want to come in and get the other items on my list. (And believe you me, people, there will be a next time. My Reader Card Pass is good for three years!) Truly, these men and women were extraordinary in their care of this poor, stupid American woman.

Now! I have put in my request, waited the one hour and 10 minutes I was told to wait, and gone to the main desk in the Reading Room to get my books. Yay! But hold on just one moment, little lady. There are rules to these books. Rules like no photography. At all. None.

Okay, that's really the only rule, but it was awful! First of all, I can't draw for crap, so anything I tried to draw out came out looking nothing like the actual item. Second of all, I still have a broken right hand, so even if I could draw, after about 10 minutes, my hand hurt like crazy and I could barely hold a pencil. In a morning of frustrating red tape and exceptional rules, this one about undid me. I stood there, looking at the man behind the desk, mouth agape, and I kid you not, growled. He looked taken aback, as was I, so I quickly closed my mouth, apologized, acknowledged the rule, and slunk away with the first book. (Turns out, books that old can only go out one at a time. Yeah, okay, that one actually makes sense to me, too.)

At the end of the morning, I'd had the opportunity to examine and explore three books that were over 900 years old. I'd been able to run my fingers along the spine to feel the cords and linen thread. I'd inspected the end bands - and found one where the leather was actually tucked around the threads!! - and seen the way the metal cover was attached to the same book. I'd had a lot of my research verified, and several of my assumptions, as well. Yes, I wish that I could have gotten pictures of the books, but I also know that I can reach out to the Reference Librarians, and they can and will take pictures for me and email them to me should I ask it of them.

All-in-all, this was an incredible day for me despite the small irritations and slow downs. Make the effort, if it's an option for you. It's oh so worth it.

London - A stupid head cold, the British Library, and a night out with friends

2020-01-01T13:17:00.002-06:00

At some point between Edinburgh and arriving in London, I started feeling a bit crappy. Nothing serious, just a headache and tiredness. A cold, I guessed, which made sense given all of the planes, trains, and automobiles I'd been in over the past few weeks. Lots of time and space for germs to spread during one of the germiest times of the year. Unlike most other times, I decided not to brave it out and got some cold meds. With nearly a week still left in my vacation - and another train ride in my near future - the sooner I beat those germs into submission the better.

Quick trip to the local shop had cold and flu powders in hand, as well as some Vitamin C with Zinc tablets for Brian. I've been taking the cold powders diligently since Sunday night and I can 100% tell when the meds wear off. So yeah, definitely needed them. This head cold, you'll see, will play a recurring role in the next few days. Not a happy Roana. *mad*

So back to London. We arrived at around noon and headed straight for the hotel. They allowed us to get our room early and drop our stuff off, and then we headed out to see London. I had two objectives, but otherwise was happy to let Brian take the lead.

Objective 1: Trafalgar Square. I wanted to get a picture of the lions for my oldest two boys. I brought them to the UK for their 10th birthday (15 years ago), and Trafalgar Square was a highlight for them. They spent ages climbing up on the lions, running around with other kids, and generally have a great time. It led to one of the few things that they really remembered of the trip.

It was a bit of a walk from the hotel - and remember, I was feeling a bit puny - so we took it at a slightly slower pace. When we got there, I was surprised at how completely packed the square was, though I'm not sure why. It was Sunday during the holiday season. Of course it was packed. Plus, there was a holiday market going on. Nonetheless, I managed to get a picture of one of the lions to send to the kids.

From there, we decided to stop by Buckingham Palace on our way to Objective 2. It was a slog; partially because of the crowds in Saint James Park with the Winter Wonderland Festival going on, partially because we were still fussed from the two-mile walk from the hotel to Trafalgar, and partially because of my cold. We stopped midway through to rest on a bench in Saint James, and to people watch, like you do. Except, in my case, I bird-watched.

Buckingham Palace, like every other tourist attraction in London, was awash in people. And I was edgy and uncomfortable from my throat itching and my head throbbing, so my patience was a bit thin. Brian, thankfully, kept me going in the right direction with minimal frustration. We took the long way around to get to the main gates, but I think that may have helped my disposition a bit. Fewer people being... you know, people.

Brian pointed out that all of the iron fencing poles had ER on them for Queen Elizabeth, and that once Charles was king, that would all have to change. This kind of made my heart ache a bit, so I took a picture of the pole to keep. When she dies, I think I'll have that made into something cool like a mousepad or something to have a lovely memory of this trip and her. (This was later found to be untrue when my friend Berry said that they don't actually make that change until or unless they need to replace the poles, anyway. Still, glad I got the pic.)

From there we went on to meet Objective 2: Speakers Corner. Like Trafalgar Square, this was a highlight for the two boys. When we'd been there before, a Christian pastor from Atlanta, GA, had been up on a soapbox detailing the evils of Muslims. A younger couple, obviously Muslims, were arguing with him and starting to get visibly frustrated when we walked up.

One of my sons, Carter, jumped into the fray, giving the young woman a moment's pause before she started grinning. The pastor tried to dismiss Carter as just a child, but then his twin brother, Jackson, jumped in, too, both using solid, fact-based arguments to shut the guy down. I don't think I'd ever been prouder of those two as I was at that moment. The young Muslim couple stood back, arms crossed, and just let the boys take over. When they were done, the young woman came over to shake their hand and to tell me how brilliant - absolutely brilliant - both boys had been.

At first, I'd been embarrassed that an American could be so unyielding and cruel to those of another religion, but then I knew that my boys had shown that not all Americans were like that guy. Score two for the good guys.

Anyway, I wanted to get a picture for the boys there, too. Sadly, yet another pastor from the American south stood on the corner telling all assembled - and there was quite a crowd - that if they weren't Christian they were going straight to hell. This time, he was surrounded by a large group of Muslims shouting him down. No need for an American to step in, so I stepped back, took a picture or two, then we left to find food.

Oh dang, people. The food we found! Before I'd left for Europe, my friend Sharon R had told me about this place that had just opened in London that was basically conveyor belt sushi, but for cheese. No, like seriously, exact same idea - different colored plates going around a long, round bar on a conveyor belt, each with a different type of cheese and an accompaniment that you pick off the belt to eat. Once you're done, the server comes over, tallies up your bill based on the color of each plate you've taken, and you pay for what you've eaten. But ... for cheese. Brilliant!

Yes, we ate way too much. Yes, it was amazing! Yes, we did find at least one each we didn't care for and so didn't finish, but it was a stinky cheese. Do you really blame us?

Then off to get cold meds, unpack at the hotel and rest a bit, before going back out later that night for Mexican food. (Don't judge. It was across the street from where we'd already had dessert. Okay, don't judge that, either. We're on vacation!)

The next day - Okay, look. I'm going to get a little ... I don't know... worked up? Excited? Going to be a total dweeb? about what I did next. On Monday morning, I got up early, showered, took more cold meds, and headed off on my own for one of the highlights of this entire trip: The British Library.

Lemme explain. No, that will take too long. Lemme sum up: I had an email exchange with one of my bookbinding heroes (don't judge!) named Christopher Clarkson three years ago where he suggested some books to examine at the British Library to have some of my questions on the Romanesque bookbinding methods answered. Prof. Clarkson died two years ago, but I still have his emails to me with what to look for.

I'll make up an entire post about my trip to the British Library to help anyone else interested in doing this kind of thing because it wasn't as simple as sending an email and getting access to the books. It took me two hours to work my way through the red tape and actually touch any of the books I requested, and I wasn't allowed to get threeother books on my list. It's a process, and I know at least a few of my friends will benefit from learning from my mistakes/efforts. But this is not that post. (This is.)

I will tell you all about two of the books that I got to see - not touch, but definitely see: The Lindisfarne Gospels and St. Cuthbert's Gospels. The Lindisfarne Gospels is one of the oldest examples of illuminated manuscript that we still have available to us, having been created in the 8th century. St. Cuthbert's Gospels is the oldest completely intact codex with the original binding in Western Europe, having been made and bound in the 7th century. (The Lidnisfarne Gospels was rebound in 1852, so while the manuscript is brilliant and impactful, the binding held little interest to me.)

I was forbidden to take any pictures of the books that I was allowed to handle, so I've little to show for that other than my hand-scribbled notes. I will tell you that I actually teared up when I saw the third book, a gorgeous metal-covered tomb of the Gospels of Luke and John. Had I only seen pictures of this book, I would never have been able to understand how it was put together. By handling it, opening it, closing it, examining it in finite detail, I believe that I get the process and can't wait to try to recreate something like it. That "aha moment" where it was clear that by being there, in that moment, in that space, I learned something I would never have learned without that happening brought me to tears of gratitude.

After I'd fondled the books to my satisfaction, I joined Brian and my dear, wonderful friend Berry, whom I'd met on the forum I mentioned earlier but had yet to meet in person. We met Berry's lovely friend Cath and her delightful three-year-old daughter, Tabitha, for lunch. In true European fashion, we spent a long, leisurely lunch chatting, getting to know one another better, and enjoying the antics of a lively, sprightly three year old. (She became my buddy, I'm happy to say.)

With full bellies and happy hearts, we walked from the restaurant to the Globe Theater, as it is one of the few things in London on my list that I hadn't seen before. The area was packed, or course, with tourists, but I got a few good pictures.

By this time, Tabitha had hit her limit of Adult Time, so Cath whisked her off, leaving Berry, Brian, and me an hour or so to kill before we met up with our other friends, Kyle and Shaun (also from the forum). The Tate Modern loomed above us, and we figured why not. It was... interesting. (Side note: I'm not much of a modern art fan in general.)

An hour of "Art or Ass" later and we headed on to Fleet Street to a Christopher Wren pub that I'd chosen. As most of London appeared to be that day, it was packed, so Berry asked a couple of guys if we could join them at their table, as they had room. Conversation ensued, and it turned out that Steve - unbeknownst to his very surprised buddy Dave - had been a historical reenactor in his past, so had plenty to talk to Berry and me about, so we passed a lovely half hour chatting with our new friends while we waited for our old friends.

First, huge shout out to Kyle who flew in from the states that afternoon and still came to join us for drinks and dinner that night. It had been 14 years since I first met Kyle in person, and somehow he hadn't changed much at all. Though Berry had met both men before, I'd never met Shaun in person, and Brian hadn't met either man yet. In a matter of minutes of sitting down, however, my experience with my forum friends bore true here. Conversation flowed easily and well, we laughed a lot, and I truly enjoyed the evening. From the pub, we moved on to a pizza place for dinner. After an extensive wait for our server to allow us the privilege of paying, we finally said our good-byes.

This trip has been amazing in a million ways, but that day - Monday, December 30 - fulfilled so many of my wishes. I honestly don't know how to explain to someone who doesn't care for history the way that I do what it felt like to hold books five times older than the Declaration of Independence. Or what it meant to finally meet people in person (and see one I hadn't seen since he was barely an adult) that I've held dear in my heart for 15 years. All of this in a city that I chose as my first foray into international travel 19 years ago because I'd studied its history for so long. When I went to sleep that night, for the first time in a long, long time, I had no nightmares and no unsettled thoughts.

The next day, Brian and I set off for the last leg of my trip. We hopped the Eurostar to Paris! (And my cold got worse.)

These friends of mine

2019-12-30T00:11:00.001-06:00

In February 2005, nearly 15 years ago, my ex-husband introduced me to a political forum that he'd been part of for a few years already. Most of the folks on the forum had met on a gaming group and moved to this forum in order to better discuss world politics, the news, and whatever else sounded interesting that wasn't particular to the game. They live all over the world and have a myriad of different jobs, so it has made for some interesting perspectives in the geopolitical arena.

Over the years, as the internet has changed and social media platforms have taken over most forum boards, our group has dwindled down from the 500-plus posters we had to a core group of about 50 of us. I am the soul remaining regular female poster. Many of these men I consider very good friends, or as I've told them, like brothers. You spend 15 years sharing your life stories and hearing theirs, it's hard to imagine life without them.

You've heard me mention several friends I've met on this trip: Isaac, Tracy, and Brian. Isaac and Brian are from that forum group. (Tracy is a good friend from Portland.) The day that Brian and I left Edinburgh, we traveled down to Preston to meet another friend from the forum, Pete.

The train ride was uneventful, and I slept on Brian's shoulder most of the trip. (Okay, arm. He's a very tall man, and on my best days I wouldn't be able to reach his shoulder.) I felt like I was coming down with a cold and he graciously let me try to sleep it off.

Meanwhile, Brian and Sarah, Pete's bride of 32 years, were working out arrangements to meet up. Pete, apparently, remains a Luddite and refuses to use a Smart Phone or text. Thank the heavens for his wife!

When we arrived in Preston, Pete, Sarah, and their 17-year-old son Teddy met us at the station. They walked us to our hotel, waited while we checked in, and then brought us to a lovely pub for a drink.

The pub was built sometime in the 17th century, I believe, and Sarah made it a point to take me to see the well in the center of the floor in the basement. Well lit, the deep stone walls and clear water at the bottom were easy to see under a very thick clear cover that we could walk on. Sarah stepped on the cover and jumped a little to show me it was safe, but I stayed to the outside. Six inches of plexiglass may have protected me from those depths, but I'm not the girl to take that chance. (No pictures, I'm afraid, as the pub was packed and I felt touristy enough.)

We relaxed, chatted, and swapped stories of our lives over drinks. Then Sarah and a very patient Teddy headed off to see visiting family while Pete, Brian, and I found food. We walked a good half mile to this little vegetarian Indian sweets shop that also served food. (Not kidding; that's how it's billed and how it presents itself.) The food was cheap, filling, and tasty, though a little too spicy for Brian's palate. It also tasted nothing like the Indian food I've had in the states, which I found interesting given it was owned and operated by an Indian family.

From food to another pub, where a young man at the table next to us was explaining to his mates that the entire middle of the US had nothing. Nothing at all, you see. I glanced over and raised an eyebrow. One of his mates caught my eye and started laughing, which made the young man turn to look st me.

"Yeah?"

"Careful there, friend. That's my home you're talking about."

His mates start laughing at him and telling him to watch it. He doubles down. "No, but for real. Tell them. There really isn't anything in the whole middle part of the country."

"I disagree. I'd argue that corn and soybeans count as something. And there's a whole lot of that there. " I grinned and took a drink while he said, "See! I told ya'!"

We then started talking about how big the US is compared to the UK, and why what he was saying really was impressive. In short, the area he was talking about as having "nothing" was three times larger than the whole of the UK. That nugget of information actually impressed his mates. The young man asked us how many time zones the US had, and Brian and I had to define what he meant by that. Are we including Alaska and Hawaii? Does that make it five or six? Silence from the table as they stared at us.

Pete has driven a huge part of our country on two different road trips with another friend from the forum, Josh. They'd done a grand tour of the east coast, the south, and ended up in Chicago. Josh is American (as much as an Alaskan can be, anyway *wink*) and he'd taken Pete around on a misadventure to meet a bunch of guys from the forum. They had a blast, and Pete still tells the stories with fondness. They took a second trip up the western shoreline from San Diego to Seattle, but Pete wasn't as impressed. He said the PNW was effectively England, so it wasn't as interesting. (He's not wrong.)

After a couple of beers at that pub, we wandered off to one more. This is apparently a European thing, by the way. One avoids getting drunk by never settling in at any one place. You have a drink, maybe two, then pack up and move on. Isaac introduced me to this on my birthday, and I think it's brilliant. Hard to get too drunk if you know you have to walk after a pint. The downside of this is that I left my new scarf I'd bought in Barcelona at one of the several places we visited, and by the time I realized it, I was too tired to try to find it.

So one last pub, one last drink, and Pete walked us to our hotel, gave hugs and handshakes around, then toddled off home. Brian and I had an early train to London, and this was easily the latest we'd stayed up yet. It was, afterall, 11pm, and we aren't so young anymore.

A castle, a market, and a cemetery - 25 hours in Edinburgh

2019-12-29T03:48:00.001-06:00

When I changed my trip to include the UK - specifically to head up to Lincoln to hang out with Brian - he suggested that we take a day and go to Edinburgh. That sounded like a lovely way to spend some time, so he booked our travel and hotel, and after four days of lounging around, we hopped an early train north.

On the train, we met a lovely young couple on their way up for a weekend in Edinburgh. The young man had spent a few Chirstmases up there with his family going to the Christmas Market and was looking forward to going up again. I looked at Brian. He shrugged. He'd not known anything about a Christmas Market, but now we were both interested in checking this thing out.

The train arrived on time with no issues (yay!), and we trudged through a couple of "closes" (very narrow alleyways for pedestrians, generally with a crapton of stairs) to the hotel, dropped our bags off, and then headed up to the castle. Yes, there was a Christmas Market, but that would simply have to wait. There was a castle to explore!

Edinburgh Castle was first laid out 2000 years ago by digging into a mountain of black lava rock and building a wooden fortification on the top of it. Over the years - and variable governments - new, better, more intimidating buildings were built as a message to others to avoid stopping by without an invitation. Without question, this was a brilliant plan, as one look up at the mountain from below pretty much says, "Keep out!"

In our case, however, we paid 20 quid each for the privilege of an invitation, so we happily wandered around the multi-level, multi-building space. One of these buildings housed a large military museum that showed the various ways that Scottish men and women contributed to or abetted wars in and for the UK since the 18th century. (For whatever reason, other than a nominal display on the Jacobean Rebellion and the room where James VI & I was born, almost nothing at the castle referenced Scottish history prior to 1725 CE.) I admit that I struggled with this museum. Yes, some wars are necessary, but I've never appreciated celebrating them. I tried to explain to Brian that my issue stems from the idea that men have forever felt a need to "die like my father did" or to prove themselves as their fathers or grandfathers have done, which has inevitably resulted in more wars.

We left the military museum and climbed up to the Grand Hall where a musician was keying up to play on his lute. While he tuned his lute - and the audience - he spewed really bad history, and after my third rolling of the eyes, Brian asked if I wanted to leave. Yes, please. (And for the record - and those at the back of the room - water was perfectly fine to drink throughout history with few exceptions. *grumbles*) We then explored the King James VI & I halls, including where he was born, and where the Scottish Crown Jewels and the Stone of Scone were kept.

In some spaces, we were asked not to take pictures (like in the Scottish Crown Jewels room), and in others, I chose not to take pictures as I struggled with the contents of the rooms (like the military displays). As such, you'll note that a lot of my pictures here were more about the buildings outside and the surrounding views.

One building, however, held me enthralled, and I took a number of photos there of the stained glass windows. (It was only later that I found out that the windows were created in the 1920s.) This was the chapel dedicated to Saint Margaret, a Scottish Queen from the 12th century. The room was small, no more than eight feet by 12 feet, with a cordoned-off apse at the front. The aforementioned stained glass windows told the stories of several legendary citizens of Scotland, including Wallace (which should have tipped me off on their ages, but sometimes I'm slow). It was a sweet chapel for a woman who birthed three kings of Scotland and one queen of England.

Once we'd hit all of the major points of the castle, we wandered down to the Christmas Market to see what we would see. This wasn't a Christmas Market like any I'd seen before.

First, there were carnival rides. Second, there was no Christmas music anywhere in the space. And finally, the only Christmas trees that I remember seeing were in the Christmas Tree maze. Still, I loved it. It was vibrant and fun. There were delightful shops selling all the usual things like ornaments, kitcshy doodads, illuminated candle holders, etc. Of course, as we were in Scotland, there were also a bunch of wool items everywhere in a variety of plaids or other brilliant patterns in bright colors.

This was billed as a German Christmas Market, so the food tended toward German, like sausages, kassel, and pretzels. There were also a myriad of crepe/waffle stands, and mac & cheese. The vegan mac & cheese place in particular was fantastic. (Yeah, I know. I was surprised, too.)

The market spanned multiple levels that we walked a few times, then we wandered off to see the castle from below the hill at night. Brian and I took turns taking pictures, and then playing with our filters to get different effects. A lot of the pictures we came up with were beautiful, evocative, and at times, downright creepy.

I really enjoyed playing around with photography with Brian. He, like me, loves to play with angles and shadows to see what will come of the shot. Comparing pictures became a bit of a competition for us; one that we both won, I think.

The next morning, we got up early, checked out of the hotel, and walked out to the cemetery that I'd taken pictures of from the castle.

I have a thing for cemeteries, the older the better. I love trying to come up with stories about the grand tombstones one finds in these old, often abandoned places of rest, where entire families are laid out with dates and ages of their deaths. Morbid, yes. A great exercise in imagination and storytelling? Absolutely.

From the cemetery, we headed towards the National Museum of Scotland, a lovely compact art museum free and open to the public. (We got distracted by a monument in the middle of the road that appeared off in the distance. So, we walked over to it and, despite Brian's objections, down the hill a bit beyond it, before turning around and going back to the art museum.)

Once back on track, we found a delightful museum organized by dates, with a number of prominent Scottish painters highlighted. There were also two Rembrandt pen-and-ink drawings on display, which I found fascinating. (No pics of that, sorry. I was distracted and pulled away before I thought about it.) Another painting kind of threw me for a loop, so I took a couple of pictures to get input from my late-period costuming friends.

There was, as seems to be a theme, a Cranach painting.

As well as a beautiful set of paintings of the goddess Diana.

After the museum, we had a bit of time left, so we walked a little down a path where we found a fountain that Brian absolutely hated, calling it garish, and that I thought was adorable.

From there, we went to a pub across from the train station to relax before catching a train to our next stop: Preston.

A break from the storm

2019-12-28T08:48:00.001-06:00

On December 23, I flew from Rome up to Gatwick Airport near London, UK. From there, I made every viable attempt to make it up to Lincoln, where my friend Brian lives. He'd offered me refuge from the onslaught of all that is foreign, and to join me on the final leg of my trip. Unfortunately, life is what happens while we're busy making plans.

The train from Gatwick to Stevenage went very smoothly. From Stevenage to Retford, however, things didn't go so well. A gentleperson, finding life far too difficult during this holiday season, chose to take their life by stepping in front of a different high-speed train north of Stevenage. This brought us to an abrupt stop while the authorities worked through what happened. For 101 minutes, we waited to hear how we would proceed. By then, I'd missed my connecting train in Retford, which meant it would be a solid hour plus wait for the next. Brian, gods bless this man's soul, suggested that I disembark in Grantham where he would drive down to pick me up. This worked beautifully.

(My heart goes out to the good gentle who chose the way out that they did, as well as the conductor forced to deal with such a horrific event themselves. It's a really hard time of year, folks. If you need help, please, I know it's hard, but reach out. Pick up your phone, text a friend, or call 911 and tell them what's going on. You're worth fighting for.)

The next several days, Brian did his level best to help me kick back, relax, and simply enjoy down time. As you all know, I'd been pushing myself stupidly hard, and this reprieve allowed me to recoup some seriously necessary spoons.

On the first day, after a leisurely morning in, we drove into Lincoln (he lives in a suburb thereof) to see the Lincoln Cathedral. It turns out this was the only day while I was in the area that it was open. The church was stunning.

In the Cathedral, an imp lives. He's hidden well, but a keen eye (and reading the little plaques scattered throughout the church) will help you find him.

The Cathedral has over a dozen chapels inside it, each in a covey off to the side. For the first time, I found a section of chapels dedicated to Her Majesties' Royal Army, Navy, and Air Force. Each of these chapels held a listing of those local lads and lasses lost in various battles, as well as various plaques of remembrance and prayers for currently serving men and women. Out of respect, I didn't take any pictures of these chapels, but I did stop and say a small prayer while I stood in the chapels, wiping away a few tears as I left.

As Brian and I walked around the Cathedral, I marveled at the stained glass windows, the incredible wood and stone work, and just how freaking massive this church was. I get that it's a Cathedral. I really do, But dang...

After we'd spent an hour exploring the church, we wandered down the second most steep road in the UK, or so Brian claims.

It was most definitely steep, and despite Brian's obvious annoyance, we walked down to the bottom of the hill to see what we would see. There the street leveled out, lined on either side with a variety of shops and restaurants, all bustling with last-minute shoppers. As I'm not much of a shopper, I turned around to head back up the hill. Brian, needless to say, wasn't happy, but being the game guy that he is, went along. (He did make me stop halfway up to rest, er, enjoy the view, though.)

We went home and spent the evening making dinner and watching bad holiday romance movies. (I told you Brian was a game guy and a saint among men. :D )

The next day, Christmas Day, we went in search of ruins. The sun only shines for about five hours up this way at this time of year, but the sky was clear, the air was crisp but not cold, and we were ready to explore. First, Brian took me to see a Knight's Templer tower.

This tower is all that's left of what was once a large and thriving castle and church. It sits in the middle of a working farm, but as is the way in the UK, is open to the public so long as you're respectful of the residents. We went inside, and though it was obvious that there has been some restoration work, the bulk of the tower remains as it was 900 years ago under the watchful eyes of the greatest knights known to the UK.

From the Templer tower, we drove east to the ruins of an abbey called Tupholm, or Sheep Hill. Funnily enough, the field where the ruins are was filled with beautifully fluffy sheep.

The abbey had been one of seven different churches and abbeys in this area, though it was the largest by far. When King Henry VIII ordered the dissolution of all Catholic churches, the abbey became a grand manor for a few hundred years. At some point in the 18th century, the manor was abandoned, falling into ruins. Then, in the early 20th century, the remaining wall of the abbey was built up and into a stretch of small homes. Those, too, were abandoned and all that was left was a single wall with a myriad of different patchwork stones, creating a few ruins to explore.

Our final destination for the day was to the birthplace of King Henry IV of England, Bolingbroke Castle. This one fascinated me. I mean, okay, yeah, the other two were freaking amazing, but these ruins were the outline of the castle walls, with the moat still circling them. Plaques explained the different towers, what they were used for, and where the keep would have been inside the walls.

Brian and I walked along the tops of the remaining walls, which were easily four feet wide, and took turns taking pictures of the different areas. The sun streamed through the remaining windows, shining on the brilliant green moss and grass. It took my breathe away.

We drove back to his place, made a Christmas dinner of heated up savory pies and mince pies with brandy sauce, and then settled in for a marathon of Star Trek Discovery.

On Boxing Day, we rose relatively late because we had no real agenda other than going to see Star Wars. This was to be both Brian's and my first movie in the UK, as he hadn't been to a movie since he moved here last year.

Things I learned about movie theaters in the UK:

They don't have butter for the popcorn - none, zilch, nada - and if you ask, they're frightfully apologetic but still have none to give.
Their candy section includes some prepackaged candy a la the US, but they also have a bank of loose candy to the side that you can buy by the cup. Oh hell yeah!
While concessions do not have butter for the popcorn, they do have sweet-and-salty flavoring which almost made up for the lack of greasy oil that I prefer. Almost.
There are rude people here just as there are in the US, and there are also shushers here, just as there are in the US. Gotta love people no matter where you are.

Loved the movie, but I won't get in to that here. Suffice it to say, it worked for me. Brian had minimal nits to pick, but overall, he liked it, too.

We headed back to his place, where we made a quick dinner out of leftovers, then settled in to watch more Star Trek. At a certain point, it got a little too dark for me, so we switched to Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra. By the intermission, we were both done with that, so moved on to a great sitcom called Upstart Crow about Shakespeare. We both fell asleep on the couch.

This morning, we walked into Lincoln, hopped a train, and headed up to Edinburgh, where we are now. I'll post about that later.

It's amazing to me how much being in a foreign country - in this case two - demanded of me. As I was trying to explain to Brian, while I was in Spain and Italy, I never felt that I had any real downtime for my brain. At all times, I was constantly trying to think of the right phrase, the right question, the right courtesy thing to do. That taxes a person. Add to that my physical effort, and by the time I flew to the UK, my mind and body were fried. The three days of relaxation with my friend, doing the bare minimum but still exploring, allowed me to reset for a bit. I now feel ready to finish my trip with the right frame of mind and the energy to do it well.

Rome with a friend

2019-12-27T17:01:00.002-06:00

As luck would have it, my friend Tracy had made plans to be in Rome at the same time that I would be there. She was coming in to spend the holidays with her brother and his family, and it turned out that we had overlapped for two days. So, we made plans to get together the afternoon that she landed and the next day.

I'd held off on going into any of the ruins in Rome until Tracy got there, thinking it would be fun to explore them together. I wasn't wrong. Tracy, like me, wanted to know the why and how of things, so she and I would poke and prod and work through different scenarios together until we had a working hypothesis on how different aspects of the ruins we came across might have been used. Call me kooky, but damn, that was fun. This also meant that we took a lot longer to go through different areas than the average person and ended up being rushed out of the Palatine Hill and Forums areas. Ah well. An excuse to come back another time.

We wandered aimlessly her first afternoon while I kept her awake to help acclimate her to the new timezone. In all honesty, I'm pretty sure she barely remembers much of that afternoon, but we saw some pretty cool stuff.

We walked around the city, goggling at the numerous spots where ancient ruins just sort of popped up.

We walked the Circus Massimo track, trying to figure out what the center aisle would have been used for and how the seating would have worked.

We went to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier where we got to see the changing of the guard, and then up on the giant monument so she could see the Forum ruins with the domes overlooking them.

The next day, we met up early and headed to the Coliseum. We spent a lot of time trying to work out what was from the various incarnations of the space.

From the amphitheater to a series of stables to a fortress to ruins again, the Coliseum's history is nothing like that of Pompeii, which lay completely untouched for nearly 2000 years. No, the Coliseum was massive and stood in the midst of a living, thriving, ongoing city structure. Abandoned by the Roman dictators of old it may be, but untouched it was not.

We took a break after exploring the amphitheater and went to lunch with her nephews at a market set off by the Tiber. Most of the shops were closed, and those few open held clothing, food, and leather goods. We grabbed lunch, hung out with the boys (they're 17 and 14), then they left and Tracy and I headed back to the ruins of Rome.

Entering Palatine Hill, we found a section that had once been baths. Here, we spent most of our time, trying to work out the different areas, pumps, drains, levels of flooring, etc. In short, we totally geeked out together on how it all would have worked.

We spent so much time here, however, that we ran out of time. During the winter season, things close down early as there is limited sunlight. So, we quickly walked through as much of the area as we could, though we missed most of the space. We headed to the forum, but it, too, had closed. A bit disappointing, but honestly, I really enjoyed the time we spent exploring the baths so I didn't mind it much.

Tracy had offered to take me out to dinner as a belated birthday celebration, but the ruins had been closed way too early to meet up with her niece and nephew for dinner. So, we headed over to a delightful restaurant covered in fairy lights with an outdoor seating area. We were set next to a flaming heater (these were ubiquitous throughout all of Barcelona, Naples, and Rome), and ordered an appetizer and wine.

In true Roman fashion, we dawdled over our wine and food, talking about life at home as well as in Rome. We ordered dessert and coffee, and again, relaxed into the space and time. It was lovely. The wind blew lightly, the lights above us swayed, and in the distance, the walls of the Coliseum kept us company. Magic.

We met up with the kids, and they took us to a lovely Italian restaurant where I got my first real Italian meal that wasn't pizza. The kids had been in Italy for over a year and a half, so they navigated getting the table in Italian, then helped Tracy and me order. We shared a bottle of wine, sampled brilliant pasta, and then wandered to a lovely gelato store where I got a cup of tiramisu.

I walked with Tracy and her niece and nephew back to their apartment, gave her a hug, and set off toward my hostel. Birthday Dinner Take Two had been an absolute delight.

Rome, Oh Rome

2019-12-26T05:12:00.000-06:00

I fully admit that Rome's appeal for me came from 1950s romance movies and a desire to see Ancient Roman Ruins. (It's important that those three words are capitalized.) Modern-day Rome was the setting, but my romanticized experiences had written the plot, the music, and the credits. And true to form, expectations drove the story, until reality couldn't conform to expectations. Here, as they say, is where the magic happened.

A couple of friends of mine travel to amazing and distant places on a whim all the time. It's become one of my joys to read their posts on social media as they take us along on their journeys. Recently, one of them wrote a lovely piece about how the difficulties they faced on their trip to Antarctica this month never really affected them because they'd gone on that trip as they did all others: with minimal expectations. "To go" defined the level of their expectations, so anything that happened was supposed to happen. It was part of the adventure.

Most of my life, I've tried to live by that credo. When things go wrong, it's not a bug, it's a feature. It's part of the adventure. It's a grand story to tell later while we're sitting around the kitchen table drinking wine and becoming family. One of my favorite quotes is: Life is what happens while you're busy making plans.

Until this trip, however, I didn't realize how many expectations I brought with me. Naples, for example, was Naples. It didn't change because I was there, become something nefarious and awful because I arrived in its train station. Naples is as it's always been, and because I came to Italy imagining it all to be as I experienced it once or saw in a few movies, my expectations ruined my new experiences.

Rome, on the other hand... oh Rome.

There is something extraordinarily beautiful and intoxicating about the city of Rome. For the last few days I've been trying to work out what about the city gave me such joy. Part of it, I'm sure, was the juxtaposition between Naples and Rome. The garbage found throughout Naples didn't exist in Rome. In fact, as large cities go, Rome was relatively clear of debris (thought still a bit grimy, it is winter and a large city, after all).

But most of it was Rome herself. There was a grace and elegance to the city and her casual antiquities. Turning a corner - any corner - would reveal another ancient wall or cathedral or relic of times long since passed. From the corner of my eye, I'd see something glisten in the sun, turn, and there would be a giant monument to some general of old in a small square leading to goodness knows where.

In an earlier blog post, I mentioned being frustrated with how blasé my friend Isaac was about all of the amazing history in his city of Barcelona. To me, every wall, every gutter, every rooftop created before Columbus stumbled on the Americas meant something. Then I went to Pompeii and Herculaneum.

They are history. Their role is to teach us what was, not what is, because there is no "is" for those places. They died 2000 years ago, and those cities' role is to give us a window into another time.

Rome, however, shows us mounds of history while continuing to live and breathe. Like Barcelona, a city has continued amid and around the history it presents, but unlike Barcelona, a Roman colony, this is where the history of Rome began. And where she has grown, shifted, changed, and become something new and wonderful while capitalizing on her past without minimizing it.

The challenge in Rome became, for me at least, to not become as blasé about the history I came across as Isaac was about Barcelona's.

Walking has become my de facto method for sussing out a city on this trip. I would pick a direction, walk until I found something interesting, stop and spend time there, pick another direction, and continue on. In Rome, there was no "bad direction" to pick.

My first day in Rome, I walked out of my hostel and turned north. Within five blocks, I found a cathedral built in the 600s in the remains of a grand bathhouse built some 700 years prior. (Here's where I'm going to point out that I'm throwing around hundreds in a historical context for buildings when my country's current government - the longest running democratic government in history - isn't even 250 years old. This must be what it's like to be a millionaire with a few 20s in your pocket.)

From that cathedral, I found several others, each with a distant and wonderful story to tell. I walked into each one in a state of awe, that first day. I blessed myself and my rosaries, and I took a million pictures, and I understood how the Christian church stood for so long. When their very buildings are built in history on nearly every corner, steeped in traditions not even their own, and they speak with the authority of their god, one must stop and listen. One must give credence to the words spoken.

As I wandered along the narrow stone roads, I came across Trevi Fountain, the Maker of Wishes. It is, as one tourist article reminded me, the only fountain in Rome bestowed with the ability to make your wishes come true. Tossing a coin in any other fountain merely makes the city a bit richer, while Trevi... ah Trevi Fountain brings true love a la Maggie McNamara in Three Coins in a Fountain. It brings your dearest wish to you, be it love, career, or simply joy, when you throw a coin into it with your right hand over your left shoulder. It was Roman iconography to me, even packed to the gills with people.

And on my day went. Direction picked, walk, stop and take a million pictures. Rinse, repeat.

Until I glanced up and saw the Colosseum. And stone pillars coming from a deep hole in the ground. And ... and ... and ...

Click. Click. Click.

Yeah, I took a lot of pictures.

The people wandered past, smiling and nodding as we caught one another's eyes. They were of all sizes, shapes, ages, and races. Languages and accents enlivened every street corner. Buskers, hustlers, tourists, and locals alike brought color to the streets I walked down. Not only did this city provide history. She brought to her streets a crossroads of our world today just as she had 1500 years ago. Rome continues to bring people together to enrich society.

This was Day 1, people. I'd stumbled onto a trove of joy unending and was completely lost on how to even respond or react. My heart raced, my face flushed, and I'm fairly certain my pupils dilated. I was unquestioningly, unequivocally, in love with this city.

I'm tired, worn out, and ready for a break

2019-12-23T02:42:00.001-06:00

I'm leaving Rome today. It's been wonderful here, and I'm already making a list of what to see when I come back, but I'm also glad to be leaving. Not because of anything negative or bad. I'm just...

... tired.

Those who know me well know that I push myself hard, and I'm not one to let little things like pain or exhaustion get in my way. If I want to do something, I'm going to do it all the way. This trip is a perfect example of this.

Going to Europe for one's birthday happens all the time. I've met four other people since I've been here who came specifically to celebrate their birthdays. We've actually bonded over our Sagittarian wanderlust and need for adventure without a plan. But... they came for a couple of weeks. They went to a couple of cities. Then they went home... while I'm still here. Still pushing myself to see it all, do it all.

The next few days, however, are promising to be far more low-key and less taxing in every possible way. I'm going to hang out with my buddy Brian in the middle of England, where there isn't the stress of roommates, trying to navigate a foreign language, and feeling like I have to walk everywhere and do everything. And guys, he has a bathtub! I may soak every morning and night the entire four days I'm there, my body aches so much.

In general, travel stresses a person. Being somewhere new, anywhere new, not sleeping in your own bed, not choosing your own meals or schedule, it all stresses you. It's exciting. It's fun. It's an adventure! But yeah, stressful. Add trying to navigate a different language and culture to the mix while sharing a room with strangers that can bring their own personal and cultural differences (even those from your own country), and what you have, my friends, is a constant state of anxiety.

I want to make something very clear here. I have enjoyed every second of this trip, even the time in Naples. It has been amazing. I've learned so much about myself, the world, and what it means to "live globally". I've checked off boxes, but I hope in a meaningful way and not just a "yep, saw it; time to move on" kind of way. I have a massive stack of research books saved on Amazon right this instant because I'm leaving with a desire to learn more and to understand better. To come back better prepared to truly understand the history of the cultures I'm visiting.

But...

As of yesterday, I've averaged 10 miles of walking every day for 14 days. I've climbed thousands of stairs. I've slept an average of 6 hours a night, and eaten primarily carbs. My body is done. I need fresh vegetables (don't laugh at me, Tracy), and lean protein, and rest. Oh so much rest. Because, I want to remind you all, I'm an old lady. I turned 50 a little over a week ago.

Last night, I was talking with one of my bunk mates, a grad student from Texas. She's young - maybe 26 or 27? - and here for a month as well. She's actually going sort of the opposite direction that I did, starting in France, then Italy, and then ending in Spain. We talked about what we'd seen, what was coming up, compared notes on Naples (she agrees that the city feels angry), and generally had a great conversation. Then I told her that I'd seen four museums on my birthday before going out for drinks and dinner with Isaac. Her jaw dropped. We talked about all the walking, and how many miles I'm averaging, and she flat out said there was no way she could, or would, do that.

It gave me pause. I thought I was building a lot of downtime into my schedule. I walked 10 miles yesterday, sure, but I also spent an hour and a half sitting at a cafe table watching it rain in the middle of the day. And an hour sitting during Vespers at St. Peter's. I was back at the hostel by 7pm after leaving at 10am. But it's not enough. I need those rests without the mad dashes from Point A to Point B.

So, time to rethink how I handle the rest of this trip. It will help having Brian along. I'll temper my speed, my drive, to make sure he's comfortable. I'll slow down.

To date, I've made it a point to soak in the moments, the experiences, wherever they happen. But now I'm also going to soak in the passages, the walks, the in-betweens. And if I don't get to everything, that's okay. I'll be back. This isn't a one-and-done.

I have nothing to prove, no one I'm doing this for but myself. And my self is saying to take it down a notch.

I'm listening. I promise. I'm listening.

Vatican City made me cry, and not from fear of heights

2019-12-21T12:26:00.000-06:00

I know I'm behind on my thoughts on Rome as a whole, but I wanted to write this up while I was still basking in the glow of St Peter's Basilica and Vatican City. It had an impact on me that I didn't expect, and I had to sit down for a little while to compose myself.

Many of you know that I was raised Catholic, and in fact, was very devout until I was 27 years old. It was the church of my godmother, a woman who taught me true unconditional love. It supported her and loved her and helped her through the most difficult parts of her life. She recognized the power of the church in her life, and shared that joy and love with me. Through our neighborhood church, I found peace in a chaotic life. By saying the rosary, I found calm in the storm of my soul.

And then I lost my son, and the church couldn't help me. I ached on a level I'd never known before and for the first time in my life, the church didn't soothe my soul. In fact, because of the turn it had taken being more angry and more aggressive against women who wanted a choice in how and when and with whom they should have a child, I found that the church felt abrasive against my heart, and I had to walk away. The Catholic church no longer brought me joy; it added to my pain.

For the past 23 years, I've still said my rosary when the need came, though it's been rare. Usually only on the death of a loved one, like my godmother or my friend Brian. I've gone to mass for occasions, not as a balm to my soul. I've been angry and hurt and felt betrayed by the men who drive what the church has become.

A few days ago, I came to Rome, the heart of my former church. One cannot turn a corner without coming across a church with history. One church that I stepped inside had been built inside the ruins of an ancient Roman bath in 600-ish CE! Know how I found this church? I walked up the street. No, seriously.

I've brought those two rosaries I bought in Montserrat to each of these churches and blessed them with the holy water that is in all Catholic churches.

I've knelt in each of these churches and prayed. I've lit candles, bowed my head, and with all of my heart, spoke to Jesus to bring this world back around to what He wanted, to bring His followers back into line with what He'd asked of them.

Several times, I've been brought to tears with the pain that's slowly breaking free of my heart. It's been a very long 23 years, and a lot has happened to close me off from the joy that I felt in the church that I know so well.

So, today... I went to Vatican City. It's so hard to explain to someone who isn't Catholic what this means. It's almost like ... walking into the pearly gates while still alive. There's a palpable air about the space. It vibrates with history, with lore, with joys, with sorrows.

I blessed myself and my rosaries as I did in each church before, and within moments, I felt the tears threaten. This wasn't just any church. This was St. Peter's. This was the church.

The Pope wasn't in attendance, of course, but that hardly mattered. This basilica held all Popes, past, present, and future. This space cowed to the power of all that had come and all that would come. I don't mean power in terms of politics, though that's also an obvious factor here. No, I mean the power of the love of the Christian God. I mean what Man would - and has done - in His name, and how that's changed the world several times over. The weight of that, the power, the strength in that conviction - I felt that as I walked the floor of that church.

At some point, as I wandered the floor, annoyed at the people who clearly didn't understand the sanctity they were being given access to, a choir began to sing. They were practicing, and sang only a few parts of a few songs, but the reverberations, the echoes, the added power to that space, undid me. I stood to the side and closed my eyes as tears streamed down my face. My soul broke free, and I felt.

What did I feel? Oh, so much. Everything. Nothing. All. None. My heart burst into a million pieces, and then pulled itself back together into something stronger, better, broken yet whole. I wish I could explain it to you in a way that would make sense, but I can't. It was wholly me, and yet, wholly, all of those who've been there. Who've felt true loss.

After I caught my breath and gave myself a minute to breathe again, I sought out the cuppola. Lance, the guy from Vesurvius, had strongly encouraged me to climb to the top, to see it all. He said that it was worth it. He, like me, is a "recovering" Catholic, so he understood without having to be told, and so I trusted him.

Going into St. Peter's is free. It's God's church, and therefore the church of the People. But the cuppola is a different beast. You can pay 10 Euro to take the elevator, or 8 Euro to walk the 554 stairs. Guess which I did? Yeah.... I took the hard route.

Wait. So here's where I should mention that I don't like enclosed spaces. Or heights. I'm not just a little leery of these things. I've been known to go into full-on panic-attack mode under the wrong circumstances. (I once ripped myself out of my dress in a blind panic because it felt too constraining. Not kidding.) But this was important. So, up I went.

The first stop was the rotunda above the church apse. (That's where the alter is in a Catholic church.) Here, we were at the mosaics. Oh, those mosaics. I couldn't help but think of CJ, Selene, and Ericka while I strolled along that walkway. Oh, you guys. You would have died!

Then, the choir began to sing again, and I paused, catching my breath. Then a priest gave a benediction of some sort. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but his intonations were beautiful, and I stood there, my hands on the railing, just taking it all in, my fear - for the moment - gone.

Once the priest was done, I moved off the rotunda and back to the staircase... going up. Because the rotunda wasn't the cuppola. That was another 300+ stairs - in incredibly tight quarters - up. Which I did, trudging along after multiple other people. Women, children, men, all huffed and puffed up those stairs to the very top. And I don't know how to explain how it looked from there other than... wow. Just... wow. Lance was so right.

Oh, I mean, I shook like a leaf, and breathed heavily, and at least one person looked at me a little alarmed. (There were a lot of people looking green around the gills, so it was kind of a thing up there. They were looking out for each other, and I got caught up in their concern.)

After a fairly short time, I decided that I'd had enough and tried to find the stairs down. They were not, however, readily apparent, and I started to panic a little. I did lamaze breathing (because I'm going to tell you right now that that stuff helps you through anything), and followed the wall until I finally came to the exit and made my way down, down, down those stairs. I've never been so grateful that my knees are solid as I was walking down those narrow, tight, winding stairs. (No picture of these because WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE I WAS TERRIFIED!!)

Once you come down from the cuppola, you end up on the roof of St Peter's. Not kidding. And there's a gift shop here. Again, not kidding.

I bought myself a case for my rosary (I'd already bought one for Graciela's) as well as a lovely little prayer from Pope Francis in Spanish to give to Graciela with her rosary. Then I hightailed it back down those 554 stairs to the bottom floor. I'd had enough of heights and ridiculously closed-in spaces.

The exit from the cuppola is through the church, so I walked back through the church to the holy water at the back to bless myself out of the church. (It's a Catholic thing.)

Only, there were people standing in line at the bowl taking pictures putting their hand into the holy water. WTF? *rolls eyes* So I went in, disrupting some girl's picture, put my finger in the holy water and blessed myself while glaring at the girl, and then walked out of the basilica.

Then, I sat on a stone bench and cried for a little bit. Not long - and not heaving sobs - but I just allowed myself to feel. I felt the pain, the anger, the frustrations of the last couple of decades ebb away. I felt the sorrow for my son come to my heart, hold it, and then seep away. And then, as I sat there, the bells of the church began to toll.

It was 4:40. I don't know the significance of that time (sundown?), but the bells rang loudly, clearly, and with gusto for several minutes, and people stood and stared at those bells in stunned silence. Then cameras came out, videos were taken, chatter began, and humanity fell back into the cadence and rhythm we all recognize and feel comfortable with.

I walked away from St Peter's Square then, my hand tightly coiled around the rosary box I'd bought, my heart sore and tender. And yet, I felt as though I'd fought a dragon in the hours I'd been in and on the basilica. I was bone tired, exhausted, and yet feeling completely alive and whole.

Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli - Photo dump

2019-12-21T04:40:00.000-06:00

I was told that this museum is where the bulk of the household items from Pompeii were kept, but I either wasn't smart enough to follow the map correctly or they weren't on display when I went there. The mosaics and frescoes, however, were! And a bazillion statues. Plus a few curators putting the museums creche scene together, which was fun to watch for a bit.

There are more pictures than this, but I thought 100 were more than enough for right now. Once I've got a bit more time, I'll do a massive dump of all of my pictures onto Flickr so you guys can decide for yourselves which you find most interesting.

NOTE: There is a section of this museum called The Secret Rooms. It's for all of the "naughty" artwork they found in Pompeii. I've included a few pictures from there at the bottom. Feel free to stop at the header if you're not comfortable with the idea of these.

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From here on down are pictures of a more risque nature. I'm pretty sure that most of my friends are fine with them, but in case you're showing your kids the pics and would rather avoid some uncomfortable conversations in the moment, now is a good time to stop scrolling down. (See how nice I am about building in a bit of a buffer here for you? You're welcome. :) )

The Secret Rooms

Mid-point check-in

2019-12-19T16:20:00.001-06:00

I'm heading into my second day in Rome and I still haven't put up anything on the National Archaeology Museum in Naples. The pictures are piling up, and it's getting hard to keep up, mostly because I'm still doing a lot every day! And honestly, that's the problem I was hoping I'd have.

So, just a quick recap on where I am, what I've done, and what's coming up, with a promise of catching up on the pictures as quickly as I can.

Where I've been

Barcelona - Wonderful experience that left me looking for an apartment at the airport while I waited for my flight. High points included:

Wandering the streets of Barcelona until I found a great restaurant, beautiful churches, open-air markets, and the Mediterranean
Museums with my wonderful friend (and native guide) Isaac
Tapas and drinks with Isaac
A living nativity show that still makes me catch my breath when I think about it

Naples - While I appreciate that there are those who can love Naples, I am not that person. My highlights here were all out of the city:

Pompeii and her wonderful ghosts who walked with me as I visited
Vesuvius and Vulcan's shadow
Herculaneum teaching me how the sausage was made

Where I am

Rome - I'm here now, and wow! This city has already lived up to the hype and I've been here just over 24 hours. Not doing highlights yet because, well, it's only been 24 hours! But I'll mention what's on the agenda:

Roman ruins - the big ones, not just the "Oh, I've turned a corner and look! Roman stuff!" Think Coloseum, Forum, and Palatine Hill. That's planned for tomorrow with my friend Tracy E who happens to be in Rome at the same time I am!
Dinner out with Tracy for a belated birthday treat.
Catacombs, which everyone and their brother who's been here has told me is an absolute must-see. So, I'm going to see them.
Visited six cathedrals today, but none in Vatican City, so that's a definite go for Sunday

This includes mass with the Pope to get his blessing on my two rosaries

Where I'm going

UK - I'm bugging out of Rome early due to feeling more than a little homesick. Since I'll be with a friend in the UK - and English is the preferred language - I'm hoping that will staunch the worst of it. That means giving up midnight mass with the Pope on Christmas Eve, but it does mean giving my worn out body a rest from 10-mile-a-day city hikes for an extra 48 hours.

Lincoln - Time in, catch-up on pics, cathedral, castle, Christmas dinner with Brian
Edinburgh - This is a whirlwind 24 hours in Scotland, so we'll do the castle, of course, and then see what other mischief we can manage
Preston - Dinner and drinks with our friend Pete!
London - BRITISH LIBRARY!! And dinner and drinks with our friends Berry, Kyle, and Shaun

Paris - The last leg of this amazing tour. Brian and I are taking the train through the Chunnel on our way to a (in theory) relaxing three days in Paris, including New Year's Eve. We'll also be having drinks with another friend, who's real name I honestly don't know. Huh. I know him as Duque. *grins*

Find textile museum that Tracy mentioned
Louvre
Arc de Triumphe
Notre Dame (outside only, of course)
Stroll down the Seine
Coffee while sitting at a table, just watching Paris go by

Then, the day after my eldest two children turn 26, I fly home to my dog, my new kitten, my children, and my job. And an unprecedented amount of sleep, I'm going to guess.

Herculaneum - Pompeii for geeks

2019-12-17T16:40:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, I spent the day communing with the dead of Pompeii. I didn't mean to, and yet, there I was, watching scenes play out in my mind while I wandered villas, gardens, and streets. The experience regularly made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and me to question my ability to tell the now from the then.

Truly, I felt the dead walking with me.

If I had wanted a similar experience in Herculaneum, I would have been sadly disappointed. The city sits in the center of a thriving town called Portici, now referred to as Portici-Ercolano. You see, the difference between Pompeii and Herculaneum is that Herculaneum had been built on top of, while Pompeii had not. So when Herculaneum was found - in the middle of an already-established town - the dig site became part of the city. Just... deeper down.

I'd spent a lot of time in Pompeii framing my pictures to exclude anything modern or supportive. In Herculaneum, that was considerably harder. Many of my pictures show modern buildings all around it, or scaffolding, or any number of other bits of debris and detritus that come with it still being a work-site for archaeologists and construction workers surrounded by a living town. I think this may be what kept the ghosts at bay.

What I did learn at Herculaneum, however, was the how of living like a Roman. More importantly, as I noted in my post on Pompeii, many of the questions that I had after that visit were answered in today's. Things like where were the stairs? (Hard if not impossible to tell since they were often wooden, and not attached to the walls at all. They were also often outside the main building rather than inside, making it more difficult yet to determine where they may have been.) What were the holes in the upper walls? (Where the wooden beams sat to support the upper floors, or if they went all the way through, water drains.) Where the ruts in Pompeii streets actual wagon wheel ruts, or something else? (Apparently, they were probably wagon wheel ruts that would have likely been filled in with clay or packed dirt.) What were the hollow columns near the portico pools? (Yeah, still no idea on that one. Some way to pull the water up?)

Okay, so I had a lot of questions, and many were answered. I spent around an hour wandering the streets of this weird, lovely, incredible city, staring at things that others likely ignored. I mean, if you know me at all, you know that my greatest joy is in working out the how, what, and why of history. That is exactly how I spent my afternoon. Win!

I took over 150 pictures, many of which were to make sure that I remembered the things that I learned as well as to reinforce that what looked like something actually was something. I'm not going to subject you lovely people to all of those things. But I wanted to show you what I saw.

A couple of notes: There are two pictures that show a building before it's been cleared of the rubble from the blast. I thought those were rather interesting so I'm showing them here. Additionally, there are a handful of pics at the end that were of Ercolano that I took while I waited for the train. They were lovely, so I wanted to share them, too. :)

Vesuvius - or how I climbed a mountain, er, volcano on purpose

2019-12-17T13:28:00.000-06:00

One of the fun things about this trip is getting to spend time in and around places that have been in my thoughts and dreams since I was a little girl. Pompeii was one of those places. Vesuvius, by default, is another. Today, I climbed Vesuvius, looked it in the eye... and saw a god looking back at me.

A bit of a travel story on this one first. Before I left the states, I'd spent a lot of time doing research on how to get from point A to point B for the least amount of money, time, and energy. Then I balanced which was more important, and settled on a way forward. Usually, energy got the short end of the stick because that's an easily renewable item. Plus, I love to walk, as has been established, so money and time usually won, in that order.

The problem with a 26-day trip in 7+ cities is that it's easy to forget what you've learned if you can't book it at the time that you're doing the research. And most of the stuff that one books in the Naples area can't be - or shouldn't be - booked in advance. Most of the tickets require cash, ie Pompeii, Herculaneum, and Vesuvius. Train and bus tickets could be bought in advance, but doing so locks you into an itinerary that may have to change due to weather, physical limitations, or any number of other things. The path to most of these places from the train can be walked in a minimal amount of time, Vesuvius being the one where that's not the case, and where a bus is required to get to.

So, despite careful research and planning, it's not hard to drop the ball and forget minor details. Plus I really didn't want to have an itemized plan for every moment or every day, having to remember exactly which bus or train to take when. That's my day job, and damnit, I'm on vacation. As you'll see, sometimes, that comes at a price. Sometimes, that price is worth it.

Today, I took the train from Naples to Pompeii, which is the gateway to Vesuvius. Easiest way to get there, cheapest, etc. Then I made a rookie mistake. Walking off the train, I stopped into the little shop attached to the station - where there is a booth set up obviously for tourists - and asked for the bus to Vesuvius.

Two things wrong with doing this: 1.) It's a tourist trap meant for those who would rather pay money than do their own research, and so they pay a lot of extra money; and 2.) No way anyone in that little shop is going to point me toward the city bus that also goes up to the volcano parking area, which is a bit further down than the tourist bus but only by about 50 meters, and costs ~$3. I knew both of these things and yet...

Twenty euros later, I'm sitting in the tourist trap extravaganza shop waiting for a bus to pick me up to take me up a mountain. Once on the bus, I'll be expected to pay the 10 euros to get into the park to the driver when he stops to pick up last couple of riders. My head screamed scam, but a bit of research while I'm waiting says that no, the tickets really are 10 euros cash at the top of the mountain. My best guess is that this tourist group buys them in bulk at a slight discount, and then sells them to us at full price to make a little extra. And honestly, I'm okay with that.

Oh, so we're on this bus, going up this mountain on ridiculously narrow roads, and for the first time I'm actually damn glad that I messed up. This driver is a freaking pro. He's careful, safe, and he's conscientious over the other drivers on the road. Every time we came up on a hairpin turn - which was often - he honked lightly to let anyone else coming know that hey, we're here! He was generous to motorcycles careening down the mountain, giving them as much space as he would a car. And overall, he made me feel completely safe in his bus.

I know, I know. All the tropes about Italian drivers, and I'm saying that this guy made me feel safe. I'm not kidding, though. He truly was a genius going up that volcano, and given my fear of heights, I appreciated every dime I paid to him and his company.

Once at the drop off, we trudged up a steep, winding path to the rim of the volcano. I'd had two full nights sleep in a row, and while I'd walked a lot the day before, it had been more meandering than power-walking. So my legs were good! But that hill... it was steep. And it was quite a ways up. I mean, not Montserrat distance, but you know... still a lot. And I once again thanked dumb me for stepping into that tourist shop and getting that bus, because that extra 50 meters at that incline would not have been fun. Call me a wimp, but I still had to climb down that mountain and planned to go to Herculaneum after! (Which I did, and I'll post about that next.)

Okay, so up the mountain I went, walking off-and-on with a nice young guy from Delaware named Lance who had been on the bus with me and, like me, had planned a European trip for his (29th) birthday. I'd be proud to say that I made it up much easier than he did, except that he's a smoker, so... meh. Shallow victory. As I said, the path was steep, of course it was rocky (by default, right? active volcano and all), and there were parts of it that had actually washed away because you know, steep. I never felt unsafe, but it did mean that there were times that I needed to maneuver a bit differently.

The rim, though? That view... that scenery... that freaking massive hole in the top of that mountain? So. Worth. It.

I'd thought I'd feel like I was on Mars or the Moon, but I didn't. I felt like I was on a mountain that didn't have a top, with really bumpy rocks. It wasn't surreal like I thought it would be. It was interesting, awe-inspiring, and beautiful. And very, very earthy. Well, until I saw the face on the inside of the volcano, but I'll let you find it yourself in the pictures below. See if you can find Vulcan himself.

If you find yourself on this side of the world, make this trek. It wasn't a horrible climb, and most people can do it without much trouble, though stopping to catch ones breath happens to the bulk of them. It's lovely. Truly. And spoil yourself if you have the extra money by stopping in the little shop at the Pompeii train station and hiring their bus service. Definitely worth it.

I'm annoyed with my current hostel

2019-12-16T14:37:00.000-06:00

There's a part of me that keeps wondering if things feel so wrong here because Barcelona felt so comfortable. The hostel was a delight, the employees/volunteers were friendly, and the city truly did feel like it was happy to have you there. I don't know how else to explain it. Several of the hostel volunteers, mostly American, and I were talking one night at the hostel bar about how comfortable everything in Barcelona felt. In unison, we all breathed out, "If feels like... home." And it did. Before my plane took off for Italy, I was looking at apartments and houses on the outskirts of Barcelona to see if it were at all possible to buy a place. (It is.)

My stuff all packed up and ready to leave HelloBCN. :(

Then I get to Naples and, well, it's not home. It's not even your worst aunt's house. It feels angry that I'm here, and when I walk down the street, even in the early morning hours, it's as if sandpaper rubs against my skin. I've seen two school girls laugh, while all others keep carefully neutral faces at best, scowl at worst. Even the woman at the coffee shop where I picked up my croissant and cafe leche this morning seemed annoyed that I spoke to her (which I'd made every effort to do in Italian). It all feels ... wrong.

Add to it the hostel that I'm at. First, it's nearly impossible to find the door as it's unmarked. (Okay, this isn't entirely true. I saw the sign this evening when I came back from Pompei. It's impossible to read as it's completely covered in graffiti, but it's there.) It's in a back alley (probably a street, but to Americans, it will look and feel like a back alley) that has minimal lighting. The giant green-painted iron door pivots quietly and easily, though it looks like a prison door.

Once inside, it's actually fairly nice. It's clean(ish), with travertine flooring throughout. The entrance is on the ground floor, and the reception and lockers are up one flight of stairs (First Floor in Europe). The room that I'm staying in is up another flight of stairs (Second Floor in Europe, but my legs know it as Third Floor). One must unlock another large, iron door to enter the Second Floor area, then go down a winding hallway into a sad, drab little sitting area.

To the right is my room, a large, airy space with five beds. It's clean, has large cupboards (that don't lock) against one wall, and each bed has a small table and lamp.

There's also a tiny balcony outside the window, which absolutely terrifies me. I've gone out there twice: Once to take pictures, and once to hang out my towel and washcloth. I shook like a child both times.

To the left of the sitting area is the Second Floor kitchen. (There is another kitchen on the Third Floor, which is where breakfast is served.) Through the kitchen is another hallway that curves around to two bathrooms and the staff/volunteers' quarters.

It's an interesting set-up, and once I got inside last night, I felt fairly safe and comfortable with the place. Until this evening.

To say that I've been running around a lot is putting it mildly. As of today, I've averaged 22,000 steps a day, or around 10 miles. Today was over 27,000 steps. My body aches, and I'm exhausted. I just wanted a warm dinner, maybe some friendly conversation, and a hot shower. I had pizza leftovers from lunch, so once I could drag myself off my cot, I went to the kitchen to heat it up.

Three of the volunteers were in the kitchen making spaghetti for dinner. One showed me how to use the oven while the other two said nothing. I put my pizza in the oven, and sat down at the table to wait for it to heat up. The three volunteers - two young women and one young man - sat down at the other end of the table to eat. They chatted among themselves, but made zero effort to talk to me. Their conversation was such that it was kind of impossible to insert myself into it without being rude, so I sat quietly.

Once the pizza came out, I pulled it out, sat back down, and ate it, still being totally excluded by my tablemates. They weren't rude, but they weren't friendly, either. They just kept to themselves ... completely.

After, I put my things away, cleaned up my dishes, and went to get my things for a hot shower. I'd had hot food, had, um, listened to conversation, and now I needed the hot shower. I loaded up my arms with all that I needed, and headed to the bathroom, which is, as I mentioned, on the other side of the kitchen from my room. All three volunteers saw me walk past them obviously going to shower.

The bathroom isn't huge, but it isn't small, really. There just isn't a lot of space to set things down. So, I put most of my stuff on the floor, turned on the shower, and got my towel and washcloth out. I turned around and realized that the showerhead was pointed at the wall without the water tray in the bottom, so water was pouring onto the floor. I squeaked, turned the head, and then grabbed my clothing and dropped them into the (thankfully) dry sink. I cleaned up the water as best I could with the rug and handtowel, but as I did so, I realized that the water I was cleaning up was cold. Not even tepid. Cold. I had turned the showerhead quickly, but not paid attention. Now I checked to make sure that I'd turned the handle to the correct side, and felt the water again. Yes, definitely cold.

Maybe it just took a bit to warm up. I mean, it's an old building. I waited. And I waited. And finally, I gave up, turned off the water, put on my pajamas, and gathered up my things to leave. I was once again locked into the bathroom and it took me a few minutes fiddling with the ancient key and lock in the door before I was able to free myself. (This is a common theme here regarding door locks, by the way.)

I walked to the kitchen and asked if there was a problem with the hot water.

"Oh, there's no hot water on the second floor. You'll have to go up to the third floor if you want hot water. The boiler for this floor is broken and the guy didn't come today."

I just look at the young man. "I see."

"Sorry!" says one of the young women with a bright smile.

"So, go to the third floor? That's okay?"

"Oh, sure. Yes. Shouldn't be a problem."

"Mmhmm." I sigh deeply, go to my room to drop off my clothing, and head up the stairs to the third (fourth) floor for my (hopefully) hot shower. This bathroom was smaller yet, so I was really grateful that I'd dropped my clothing off prior to going up. I dumped my pajamas into the sink (still dry!) and turn the water on. It was, indeed, hot! *happy dance, albeit slowly and with considerable pain*

I showered, brushed my teeth, cleaned up the bathroom (the shower tray leaked so there was water on the floor again), and headed back downstairs. I put my shower stuff away, then headed out onto the terrifying balcony to hang up my towel and washcloth before crawling into my fairly comfortable cot.

Oh, and did I mention that the tap water in Naples isn't safe to drink? I asked one of the volunteers where I might be able to get a bottle of water, and she suggested the bar at the end of the alley. "I mean, they serve beer and wine, but I'm sure they'd sell you a bottle of water, too." There's no grocery store nearby? No convenience store? "No. Just go there." (Google says there's a grocery store a five-minute walk away that closed half an hour ago. *rolls eyes*)

So, while my room is comfortable and I feel safe here, I'm not thrilled with my accommodations. It's not HelloBCN by any stretch of the imagination, and Naples is most definitely not Barcelona.

I leave Wednesday morning. Not that I'm counting down or anything. (36 hours)

Pompei in pictures

2019-12-16T12:34:00.000-06:00

Today, I walked 2000-year-old streets. I gazed into homes, guessed at mosaics, and wondered at holes in marble. I left this amazing place with more questions than answers, and I'm excited to learn more.

I took over 300 pictures. I've winnowed them down to just over 200. It was not easy to do. Enjoy!

Naples is.... yeah....

2019-12-16T02:19:00.000-06:00

I arrived in Naples rather late last night, close to 10pm. My first impression of the city was that it is filthy. Not the typical grime one finds in large cities. No, I'm talking about garbage strewn everywhere, with piles of it on nearly every corner. The ground is covered in litter and no one seemed to notice or care.

My friend Jay later told me that the mob has a strangle-hold on garbage maintenance in the city, which accounts for the gross lack of care in that regard. Apparently, the city maintenance workers have effectively been on strike for 30 years.

I walked 35 minutes through the dark, garbage-strewn streets, dodging cars and pedestrians alike, until I found what looked to be the right street.

It took me a solid 5 minutes in what was effectively a dark alley with several loitering young men for me to find my hostel. I had to call to get explicit directions as there was no indication on the door, nor any address number outside. Instead, I had to read various number pads outside several doors to find the place. And that was with the receptionist on the phone.

Once inside, the place was fine. Populated with about a dozen young adults, most hanging out together in the kitchenette, I found the space arrangement to be interesting, and, more importantly, clean. I'm in a room with two other women, both obviously college age, and there are beds for another three. The room is large, airy, and comfortable.

I found the bathroom to clean up and brush my teeth, and there was my first encounter with a bidet.

My daughter has forever said that she wants one as she thinks they're brilliant for their intended purpose. And I've been chastised by at least one Frenchman for not understanding the necessity of such a thing. So I suppose now is as good a time as any to Google how to use one.

Ah, Americans and their weird hang ups. You'd think after a week in Barcelona, where shit jokes are a dime a dozen, I'd have gotten over my ridiculous Puritan oddities. Nope! Clearly not.

Finding tickets to Pompeii was also a trip. In general, I'm pretty savvy when it comes to public transit. I've ridden it all over the world with minimal trouble. Naples, on the other hand.... ah, Naples.

It took me a solid 20 minutes, asking four different people, and a guard to effectively hold my hand to find the right train to Pompeii this morning. I'm finally on the right train - I hope - and am speeding toward the ruins that have dogged my dreams since my friend Brian and I saw the exhibit in Portland two plus years ago.

En route to Naples

2019-12-15T11:35:00.001-06:00

Last night, I got a roommate in the hostel. A delightful young woman from San Francisco, she'd made a last-second decision to travel Europe for two weeks. Her birthday is in January, she'd just had a break-up, and she found round-trip tickets for under $400. All good reasons to run away to Europe for a couple of weeks, if one is in need of good reasons.

She is five days into her travels, having been in Barcelona and Toulouse, so far. She was heading out to Italy today, as was I, so of course, we compared notes. Turned out we were actually on the same flight to Rome! So we planned to travel together at least as far as the airport in Rome.

Talking to her reminded me a lot of talking to my friend Lisa A. Very little got her down, and she was just excited about all of it, but not bouncy or silly. Just really happy to be where she was. I enjoyed living in her glow for the couple of hours we traveled together, and wished her nothing just continued fun when we parted at the airport.

I have managed to get to the Roma Termini with plenty of time to grab a bite before heading south to Naples. (Buyer beware: you pay a nominal fee to use a table at the restaurants here. I was promised no more than €0.50, and my legs ache, so I'll pay it. Just not sure how widespread that's going to be.)

My train to Naples leaves at 8pm local time, so a solid 1.5 hours to enjoy my €0.50 table.

Few pictures taken here so far, but this was the sunset when I landed in Rome.

Pessebre Vivent in Corbera (Living Nativity in Corbera de Llobregat, Spain)

2019-12-14T17:50:00.001-06:00

Tonight I took part in something that truly make Catalonia unique: a pessebre vivent, or living nativity show. It's not like in the United States, where someone playing the Holy Couple stands in a square built to look like a stable, maybe tending a living child or possibly a doll. No, this is a complete example of medieval Catalan living coupled with the story of the birth of Jesus.

This particular show is the oldest running living nativity in Spain at this time. It started on 24 December, 1962, in the amazing landscape within Corbera de Llobregat. I'll be posting a bunch of pictures, but honestly, until you're in the space, it will seem like a movie set. It's not. It's the actual rock in the village. (You can find more information here: https://pessebrecorbera.cat/pessebre-vivent-de-corbera-de-llobregat/?lang=es )

One of the hardest parts of walking away from the Catholic church after 20 years attending mass weekly was saying good-bye to the rituals, the stories, and the weight of the centuries of experiences. Attending this pessebre vivent put so much emphasis on the things that I loved about being Catholic. When the angel showed himself for the annunciation, I am not ashamed to say that I got choked up. The power of that imagery made my soul ache.

I want to explain something. I started this post by saying that I "took part" in the show. In this particular event, the audience does the moving while the actors (primarily Corbera village people) portray their roles in static places. We were shuttled along from place to place to see the variety of "sets" created for this event. My friend, Isaac (who also played translator and guide), and I wondered what became of this space in the "off-season", and now I want to go back in the summer to see if the space is used as a garden or park, as Isaac suggested.

Something to note: the men with the red caps and wool vests and women with the long, striped skirts are wearing traditional Catalan clothing. Like a lot of the "resurgence communities" similar to the Welsh, Irish, and Scottish of the 19th century, the Catalan language, clothing, and "national pride" came back into being at this time period. The Catalan language, which had fallen out of favor with the upper crust of Spanish society, suddenly had a place at the table, along with many of the traditions that prior to this time period had been considered "country" or "peasant". So, while the actions portrayed by the actors go back hundreds of years, the clothing worn by the men and women only go back about 150 years or so.

There are a lot of pictures because I couldn't winnow them down anymore than I already have. Each on spoke to me on some level, and I wanted to be sure to share them with you. Enjoy!

Pacing myself

2019-12-14T06:54:00.000-06:00

When I'm at home, I walk on average between 7 and 10 miles a day whenever possible. I'm in pretty good shape so far as that goes. Here, in Barcelona, I'm averaging 10-13 miles a day, with one notable 17-mile day with Isaac. It's a lot, but not hugely different than my norm.

That being said, I'm freaking exhausted. And for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why. Then it occurred to me.

First, jet lag/time difference. It's a thing. And while I could easily bounce back when I was younger, it's just not as easy now.

Second, when I'm walking at home, I'm just... walking. Walking along the Willamette, or a few train stops down from my usual one. I walk miles, but it's just walking. Here, everywhere I go, everything I see, I'm on edge. Not in the negative, high-anxiety type of edge. Rather, in an excited, omgdidyouseethat!! kind of edge. But it's still on edge; I'm still keyed up. For miles.

There are so many things to see, so many constant assaults on my senses, that I'm struggling to keep up! It's an amazing problem to have. I get it. But it's still a problem.

On Thursday, I took a "down-day." Slept until noon, walked about 10-12 miles, then was back at the hostel by 6pm to make dinner. I was in bed by 11pm. Today, I had to do laundry, so I had breakfast, did laundry, and then laid down for a nap while I waited for it to finish up. Hung it all out on the line, and promptly fell back to sleep again. It's now nearly 2pm, and I'm just getting out the door.

I feel guilty for "wasting" so much of the day, but at the same time, as my friend Erik keeps reminding me, this is just the first leg of a long trip. Recuperating slowly, a little at a time, is far better than ending up flat on my back for several days, unable to move.

What I'm getting at here is that even while on vacation, it's okay to take care of yourself. It's okay - and sometimes necessary - to build in time resting. I'm only on day 6 of a 26-day sojourn. There's time to relax in my bunk if that's what I need.

And damn if I didn't need it today.

A few random pictures of things I've seen in Barcelona as a thank you for reading the above whinge. :D

A day of museums in pictures

2019-12-14T03:21:00.000-06:00

For my 50th birthday, I went around to four different museums in Barcelona. Not sure how I'm ever going to top this, if I'm honest. Each museum gave insight into the city, as well as some unique perspectives on history in general. If you know me at all, you know that's pretty much what I live for.

You'll notice that I only have pictures for three of the four museums I went to today. The Gaudi Exhibition didn't allow photography, and I wanted to be respectful of that direction. There are a million pictures online about Gaudi, his history, his workshop, and his architecture. Feel free to do a bit of perusing on your own. I definitely think it's worthwhile.

Archaeology Museum of Barcelona

This museum was so worth the money. It's small-ish, and most of what they have is pottery, but for the six euros, I feel like I walked away knowing a lot more about Barcelona's ancient history than I had known. Maybe it helps that I looked at the pottery and saw how they would have been made, thrilled at the craftsmanship, and excited that these examples of everyday items are still around thousands of years after they were made. Or maybe it's just because it's all damn cool.

Art Museum

Not going to lie. I went a little ape-shit at all of the pictures of books I found here in the Romanesque Art section. MOST of my pictures are close-ups of the books that you see in the following photos. I'll post a separate blog post on those for my fellow bibliophiles. That being said, I was pleased to see two Cranach paintings (my least favorite two, but take what's given), and a delightful picture of what appears to be a gentleman very comfortable with his feminine side from the 17th century. Not to mention the portrait of a black man. Representation matters.

History of Barcelona Museum

You understand what history means when the historical museum of your city is housed in a Roman-era building that was built on top of three additional times. Yeah, I mean, the Des Moines History Museum is cool and all, but damn.... I visited this with my friend Isaac who has been showing me around his city. He explained a good bit of what I saw, but my background in experimental archaeology actually gave me a bit of a leg up on a few things. (Like the drop spindle that wasn't marked for what it was, or the thimbles that he couldn't figure out the English word for. Because why would he, really?)