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Category: travel

Boiling Point

Boiling Point

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In case you haven’t heard, there’s a heat wave in the Eastern United States, with temperatures of 100 degrees, which will feel warmer with the humidity.

The chances are you have heard, though, because the weather folks have been beating the drum about this since Monday. Through lovely cool mornings and passable afternoons, we’re heard about heat domes, hydration and cooling centers. 

It’s not just a different kind of weather these days; it’s a different kind of weather report.  

(One of the hotter places I’ve visited recently: the Alcazar in Seville, Spain.)

A Birthday

A Birthday

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Through the years, birthdays become attached to the people who hold them. Today will always be Nancy’s day, even though Nancy is gone. 

It was on this day, long ago, that I landed in Europe for the first time. The date wasn’t accidental. It was Nancy’s 20th birthday, and I was meeting her in Luxembourg. We had planned to be chamber maids in a Swiss hotel, but our employment fell through at the last minute. Instead, we traveled through Europe for two months on what I will politely call a lean budget. 

We trudged through London in rain so heavy I thought my shoes would never dry out. We explored what seemed like every Viennese hovel in which Beethoven had ever lived (and there were a lot of them). We toured Paris, Venice, Florence, Rome and Pisa. We scrambled to find places to sleep, and sometimes they were train compartments. 

The trip cemented our friendship, brought it through the decades. I think of our travels now with great wonder and gladness. They bring Nancy closer, which is where I want her to be. 

(Nancy and I spent many hours in train stations, though not this one, which is in Edinburgh.) 

Finding Hildasay

Finding Hildasay

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People who know me know I like to read, and sometimes they give me a book they think I’ll like. Finding Hildasay is one of those. It’s the story of a veteran from the United Kingdom who decided to walk the entire UK coastline. 

I’ve walked a few feet of the UK coastline (!), and books about walking are a sub-genre I enjoy, so it’s no wonder that this volume found its way into my hands.

I’m so glad it did. Christian Lewis took off on his journey with £10 to his name. He foraged for food, survived 70-mile-an-hour winds, and never gave up on his quest. Hildasay is the Shetland island where he spent three months during the pandemic lockdown. It was where he finally had the time to reflect upon what he had achieved: the depression he had beaten, the money he had raised for a veterans’ charity, the  sense of purpose he had found.

The book stops mid-journey, so I wondered what was up. Could there be a sequel? Well yes there is. I have a feeling I’ll be reading it soon.

(The coastline of the Orkney Islands, as close to Hildasay as I’ve traveled.)

From the Top

From the Top

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It’s the Feast of Corpus Christi, and in Seville, Spain, a procession of statues and icons on floats is — or, given the time difference, already has — snaked its way down the narrow streets of that wondrous city.

I like to think about the places I’ve been, and this is the day I think about Seville, the air scented with orange blossoms, temperatures near scalding (I almost passed out at the Alcazar), the warren of streets around the cathedral. 

We walked to the top of the Giralda, or bell tower, where the city was spread at our feet. It was two years ago. It could have been yesterday.

Golden Stroll

Golden Stroll

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Back from a long drive, I take to the road. Not as a motorist but a pedestrian. I’m not often walking during the “golden hour,” when the sun slants low and bathes the landscape in soft light, but I was yesterday, and I reveled in it.

I first learned of the golden hour traveling with photographers. While writers can ply their trade at any hour (observing, interviewing, soaking up the local color), photographers prefer mornings and evenings to snap their shots. I see why. The world looks better then, and so do the photographs.

I didn’t intend to stroll during the golden hour yesterday; that was just the time available. But once I was walking through it I realized my good fortune. Here was beauty to soothe the nerves and still the mind. 

(The golden hour in Khulna, Bangladesh.)

Sold Out at Singletary

Sold Out at Singletary

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In Kentucky for the weekend, I take in a sold-out concert at the Singletary Center for the Arts, including a spirited performance of the Mozart Requiem. The stage was packed with the orchestra and combined choirs of the University of Kentucky. 

The last time I was at this venue I was on the stage. Last night I was (gratefully) in the audience. And what an audience it was: attentive, respectful, spirited, just what the excellent music deserved. When the final notes sounded, the audience leapt to its feet for a standing ovation.

Though I love attending musical events in the D.C. area, I especially enjoyed last night’s performance. There was a communal feeling to it, a sense of togetherness among musicians and listeners, as we all fell under the spell of the Lacrimosa, said to contain the last eight bars of music Mozart wrote. 

Ir As Compras*

Ir As Compras*

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A week ago we were just returning from Portugal. Since then I’ve been to three local grocery stores, an unusually high number — but necessary given there will be a crowd here on Sunday.

With every shop I visit there is one tugging at my memory. It’s Pingo Doce, the Portuguese supermercado chain that was so much fun to visit, it was almost not like grocery shopping at all. 

The first one we found was less than 10 minutes walk from our apartment in Funchal. There we bought milk, eggs, bread and vegetables. Another one, just slightly farther away, had delicious tangerines as well as prepared foods. 

On our second-to-last day in Madeira, we found the largest Pingo of all, in downtown Funchal. It was not unlike a Wegman’s in size and scope. I picked up Portuguese Easter treats for the kiddos there.

And finally, we discovered that the chain extended to (probably began in) Lisbon. We never visited the flagship store there, but did dip into a smaller market in Cais do Sodre. As with the others there were self-assured locals doing their weekly shop, confused tourists searching for toothpaste, and harried clerks trying to deal with it all. Life itself, in other words. 

(*”To go shopping” in Portuguese. Above, a Pingo shopper in Funchal, just back from a hike.)

Our Own World Again

Our Own World Again

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I woke before dawn this morning, early enough to see the yard emerge from darkness, early enough to hear the first birds calling. 

Speaking of birds, the day after we arrived home, I spied a male cardinal at the feeder. A common occurrence. But I saw him with new eyes. 

Do they have cardinals in Madeira or mainland Portugal? I saw none. So I imagined seeing a cardinal for the first time, resplendent in his red coat. Gleaming red coat at this time of year. 

Here is a gorgeous bird I take for granted, and I’m seeing him as if for the first time. Isn’t that what we hope travel will give us, the ability to see our own world again — only with fresh eyes?

(Turns out, I don’t have many good cardinal photos. I need to remedy that.)

Point A to Point B

Point A to Point B

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On Sunday, I walked to a friend’s house. This would seem unremarkable unless you knew the narrow hilly road that connects our neighborhoods. There’s no shoulder, no margin of error. The road was built long before all the development that’s clogged our county. 

Luckily, I had a secret weapon: a path through the woods that goes from my house to my friends’. It takes about 30 minutes, compared with a five-minute drive. But since I’m just back from a world where walking with purpose is far more common than it is here, I was more than willing to do it. 

While I was strolling I was thinking about how natural it seems when you’re doing it: walking not just for exercise but because you need to get from Point A to Point B.

I wish I could do more of it.

(Pedestrians in Funchal, Madeira)

Pastry of Champions

Pastry of Champions

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The bags are unpacked, the laundry is done, and the souvenirs are stowed away, waiting for their recipients. All except one: the final pastel de nata, the custard tart Portugal is famous for and which I bought a six-pack of in the airport. That one is for breakfast. 

Pastéis de nata weren’t the only pastries I purchased at Humberto Delgado Airport. I also sprang for a travesseiro, which was labeled “traditional Portuguese pastry” but which I learn means pillow and is the signature dessert of Sintra, the fairytale town outside Lisbon. 

Maybe I had just had my fill of pasteis de nata by the time I bit into this delicacy the day before yesterday, but in many ways I enjoyed it more: the flakiness of the crusty sweet, its delicate flavor. As you can see in the photo, I couldn’t wait to sample it. And now… I can’t wait to taste one again.