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Thursday

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23
Mar 23

Turn around, don’t mow down (pedestrians)

Still under the weather, today’s good news is that it feels like any cough could be the big, final cough that signals the end of a cold, and my return to health, which means in June, I’ll finally shake the rattly thing.

It rained a lot today. Here, the soil sits over limestone, which does not play well with water. That means, that if more than three or four people on campus spit at one time in Spanker’s Branch* outside our building, it’s going to flood. And today, it rained a lot.

That flooded the creek, overwhelmed the nearby drainage, which happens a few times a year, and gets into the meadow and the bordering road. I have a view of this from my office. One of these people narrowly avoided being brought up on charges.

I’m slow walking Willie Morris’ North Toward Home, because I never like it when great books end. I am in the third act of this memoir now. He’s moved to New York, to become, at 31, the youngest editor ofHarper’s Magazine. It’s 1967 here, and he’s taking the temperature of the middle of the country.

The more things change … the more we find that things aren’t that much different at all, half a century later.

We just don’t enjoy 1960s branding. (Thank goodness.)

I wonder how much longer I can drag out this book. I know where it’s going, I just want to enjoy the process of the writing and Morris’ storytelling for … quite a lot longer, actually.

*Spanker’s Branch was an early name the little body of water on campus had. Then they named it after a former college president. That deceased man’s views on eugenics have lately led to the things named in his honor being renamed. These days, it is officially known as Campus River. Spanker’s Branch it is, then.

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16
Mar 23

Visiting Santa Maria de Montserrat Abbey

On the drive down from Andorra, through the clear skies of the Pyrenees, the soon-to-be verdant scenery of rural southwest France, and the quietude of Catalonia as an entrance into the Iberian peninsula. We saw a hazy vision of the Catalan Pre-Coastal Range pop up onto the horizon. There’s Sant Jeroni, Montgrós and Miranda de les Agulles, with peaks ranging from 2,962 to 4,055 feet above sea level. From a distance, they’re jagged and ragged and they struck me as the sort of thing I would put to paper if you asked me to draw a mountain.

Imagine going up there, The Yankee said. We were still a good distance away and I said no one drives up there.

This was “Montserrat,” a Catalan word which means means “serrated (like the common handsaw) mountain” — a precise name for a rugged place — and as we got closer, following the general trend of the road, we realized we were going up there. And so we did.

Montserrat is the highest point of the Catalan lowlands, with commanding views of the countryside. The road up is five miles, moderately steep grade and some lovely hairpin switchbacks to give it all a bit of character. And when you get up there, into the peaks, you find yourself on a flat spot, but still looking up.

Just below these peaks, you’ll find Santa Maria de Montserrat Abbey, founded in the 11th century and still an active monastery, where more than 70 monks live today.

Here we are standing in the courtyard of the abbey, which was burned and looted twice during the Napoleon’s invasion of Spain. During the Spanish Civil War in the 1930s 22 monks who lived here were murdered. The Germans visited here quite often a decade later and, since World War II this site has been a prominent symbol of Catalonian nationalism, and has long been an important feature of the local culture. This is a post WW2 facade.

The origin is a bit murky. In the ninth century an important statue was found here, according to legend. More certainly, in the 11th century a monk was sent from one monastery to another and from the subsequent church politics the monastery of Santa Maria was born. That venerated statue is an important part of the place, and I’ve now unsuccessfully reduced a millennia into two sentences.

In 1881 Pope Leo XIII gave this place the status of a minor basilica. The Plateresque Revival facade was built in 1901, by the architect Francisco de Paula del Villar y Carmona, who was completing his father’s work. It’s quite something to take in. Small courtyard, with an imposing, yet not overwhelming style. It came from a time that blends things that feel old and modern to our contemporary eyes. It’s neat and tidy, feels quite collegial, and they built all of this making great concessions to topography.

I used the term collegial on purpose, since so much of this place has a wonderful, peaceful campus feel. I spend too much time on a college campus, of course, but I’m sure, in places like this, that the college campuses that get it right were all moved by kernels of inspiration from places like this.

It is even in the walls.

The basilica’s origins date to the 16th century and was rebuilt for the first time in 1811, after the Peninsular War. The new facade was built between 1942 and 1968, after the destruction brought about during the Spanish Civil War. There are reliefs featuring prominent members of church, and monastery history. On one frieze there’s the phrase “Catalonia will be Christian or it will not be,” which is a quote attributed to an early 20th century bishop, and from there you can see how this place is important to the region on down the mountain.

The church is of a single nave, some 220 feet long and 108 feet high. The roof is supported by central wooden columns representing Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel and Daniel. The main altar features enamel decorations of the Last Supper, the Multiplication of Loaves and Fishes and other biblical stories. The 15th century cross is the work of Lorenzo Ghiberti, an Italian Renaissance sculptor, a key figure in the Early Renaissance.

We visited the room of the Virgin, which is full of beautiful mosaic walls and paintings. This is one of those places where a knowledgable guide could point to everything you see, and make you dizzy with its historical weight, it’s spiritual importance and the craftsmanship of generations past. Most people wander aimlessly, or chit chat their way through the place.

And if not for the chit chatters, one small group placed conveniently behind us, you’d be hard pressed to find a more quiet and solemn indoor space.

Back outside, in the abbey’s courtyard, I took a little panorama. Click to embiggen.

And we stood there just long enough to see the sun slice through the mountain’s peak. I wonder what monks, what guests, what spiritual seekers, have stood there over the centuries and what they must have thought about seeing this same view.

And then we did the thing where I take a photo of The Yankee striking a sculpture’s pose.

The museum was, sadly, closed for some renovation work. Inside, though is one of Spain’s most significant collections. Caravaggio, Dali, Picasso, Monet, Degas, El Greco, Renoir, Sean Scully, Vaccaro and a collection of ancient world archeology would be on display. I hate that we missed that. We’ll have to go back.

More on the legend of Our Lady of Montserrat.

This evening we completed the drive back to Barcelona. We are staying at an airport hotel. The hotel is right on the beach. We had dinner at a snooty place, got a gelato, dropped off the rental car and we’re now reshuffling things in luggage. Tomorrow we’ll fly back. Spain was brief, but fun. We’ll come back to Barcelona one day, I’m sure. Andorra we loved, and I bet we’ll be back there, as well.

How does next week sound?

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16
Mar 23

The Andorran and French Pyrenees

After the FIS Alpine Ski World Cup it was time to work our way back down to Barcelona. We’re flying back tomorrow. Boo to that. Vacations are great. Andorra is beautiful. We should stay here.

Don’t think we didn’t try to figure out a way.

Anyway, leaving the parking lot, we had two options. Left, or right. And the GPS said we had three choices. Two routes with tolls, and one route without a toll.

The Yankee was driving, and she hit the touch screen, aiming at the no tolls route. We turned right out of the parking lot.

That’s opposite from where we came, but we’re inherently trusting of the GPS, aren’t we? Anyway, we continue to climb higher and ever higher into the mountains.

We’re up in this area where there are signs warning snowkiters of high winds here at 6,233 feet. We’re almost 1.2 miles above sea level.

Come to find out — and it is funny how people can make the same realization at the same time — we were headed to … France. Also this was one of the toll routes. But the views were worth the price of admission.

This is how I’ll remember the mountains. Not that the memory is bad, but I like the fuzzy feel, rather like a memory or dream sequence in a bad TV show.

But if that’s not for you, here’s the same mountain. Not sure why the camera took the moment off. Maybe it was a French-Andorran frontier issue in the software.

Anyway, we drifted peacefully down through the mountains. The altitude got lower and the temperatures warmed up. We found ourselves in a delightfully rural little corner of southwestern France. Not a part of the trip, but now a part of the trip.

By here, the car and the road was hooking around back to the south; we’re heading toward Barcelona.

So there are two countries in this post. The first few mountains are from the Andorran Pyrenees, the rest are from the French Pyrenees. Even in France we saw Catalan flags.

Here’s a video version of some of these beautiful mountains, and more.

As we continued on the terrain turned from mountain rugged, to yellow and green farmland, from the rocky entisols and inceptisols and, finally, more of the reds and oranges and ochres of the Mediterranean coastal region.

But, first, we had to make a stop at a monastery.

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16
Mar 23

Televised skiing can’t prepare you for steep mountain faces

On Tuesday we saw posters in Andorra la Vella for the FIS Alpine Ski World Cup, which was taking place near by. How often do you get to see the world’s best (at anything, really?) on a whim? Tickets were 10 euros, and the venue was not too far away from our apartment. These would be the perks of visiting a nation about the quarter of a size of most of the American counties I know.

So this morning we loaded our luggage in the car, had one last breakfast in Arinsal, picked up a little magnet for our refrigerator and then drove up to the skiing. We got some of the last parking available and walked in to a spectators area that wasn’t as big as most high school sports venues I’m used to. The crowd was boisterous. The sky was clear, the sun was bright and the temperatures were warm.

And, you could tell from a distance, the top of the mountain, stretches mid-way through the run, looked sheer and vertical. You’ve no idea until you see it in person. Even this shot at the finish line looks compressed and flat. It isn’t, as you’ll see.

The skiing was fantastic.

Swiss skier Lara Gut-Behrami won her fourth super-G title.

She also has an Olympic gold in this discipline.

This is what I know about skiing: they are trying to go fast. There are three timed segments on this course. And if you’re time is in the green at any of those segments, you’re in the lead. The only problem on the day was that there weren’t a lot of lead changes. Quite a few people, in the men’s and women’s races, came out with great times in that first timed stretch. The crowd would cheer, but they were wise to the course. None of that mattered if you weren’t in the green at the second timer, and if you didn’t have a crazy blend of chaos and sanity on that third leg, your time probably wouldn’t put you at the top of the board at the finish.

Only a few people could do that today, but when they did, the tension in the crowd was something physical and visceral. The tension went up, the cheering and the banging got louder. Maybe the skiers could feel it too. Maybe Marco Odermatt did.

The Swiss skier won the men’s super-G at the World Cup Finals with a huge performance. He’s on pace, apparently, to break the single season points record. I don’t have any idea how that’s tabulated, but the man in the aero suit is set to destroy a 23-year-old mark, and that’s not nothing. He could do it this weekend.

Also, we saw the greatest skier of all time.

American Mikaela Shiffrin was tied with Swedish legend Ingemar Stenmark with 86 career victories when she came down this mountain. She’d recently tied the record not too long after Stenmark, himself, said “She’s much better than I was. You cannot compare. I could never have been so good in all disciplines.”

In her career, Shiffrin, is a five-time Overall World Cup champion and a four-time world champion in slalom, an event where she also holds seven World Cup wins. She is also, of course, a two-time Olympic gold medalist.

Her wins record will continue to grow. Shiffrin is only 28, and she ended the year with 14 wins, her second best year yet, including championships in the slalom, the grand slalom and the overall.

On this day, the greatest to ever hurl herself down the face of a mountain finished 14th.

After the World Cup skiing, we got in the car and pointed it south, toward Barcelona. First we pointed it north, toward France, but that’s for another post.

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9
Mar 23

We made it … somehow … eventually

This is the story of Delta and KLM. Last year we were on American Airlines, who still owe us money, and who will never figure into a story I tell ever again. But between that, and Delta and KLM, we are wondering if we should fly in March ever again.

First, Delta.

When our Delta flight was late departing JFK for Amsterdam, we knew we would be in trouble catching our connection to Barcelona. We were correct. The Yankee spent much of the night talking to Delta on the phone, while we were still in New York, and through their app, while we were in the air.

Delta was happy to send us to Zurich later today, and then to Barcelona late on Friday.

The purpose of our trip to Barcelona was for a conference, and it took place in the City of Counts on Friday and Saturday. Going to Zurich would mean losing the best part of the conference. It’s her favorite conference, so we were getting inventive on ways to get there on time, or close to it. There are four other international airports in Spain. Could we get into one of those? Train over to the city by the sea? Should we rent a car in Amsterdam, after an overnight flight where we had about two hours of sleep, and try driving 14 hours into Spain?

Delta, like arguing with a family member who can’t be proven wrong, couldn’t see the problem of sending us to Zurich. That was just their solution, for some reason. (Delta customer service has taken a hit, it seems.) We went to Zurich last year, thanks, and that’s two countries removed from where we are supposed to be.

Because of this intractability, we were down to figuring this out in Amsterdam, with Delta’s airline partners.

Which brings us to KLM.

After trekking through Amsterdam’s enormous airport, going through the longest, slowest passport control line outside of the United States and being told to go to different wrong places for different wrong desks, you begin to wonder how anyone ever arrives on a plane in the correct place in a timely fashion, let alone how their luggage gets there, too.

At the third desk, we have finally arrived at the right spot, where a laconic KLM agent patiently and emphatically explained that, for us, it was Zurich or bust. Also, we must go to that gate now to make the flight.

Dejected, we headed that way. We were trying to reconcile ourselves to the idea of missing the bulk of the conference when we learned that we missed the flight to Zurich, too.

Back to that last KLM desk. The taciturn woman was helping someone else. Her more bubbly colleague drew the short straw with us. There were no flights, this woman said, into Barcelona through Sunday. There goes the whole conference.

What to do? Go home? Figure out some way to move on to the vacation leg of this trip? It was a mildly grim moment.

Then another KLM agent comes to the desk area. This new man and the bubbly woman chat back and forth in Dutch. And he finds that two people have canceled their trips to Barcelona that evening. While we were just standing there, wondering what to do.

From having absolutely no options to suddenly having seats, we were on our way. Hoof it over to this gate, and we actually have time to do that.

We thank her and her male colleague. To him, it’s just another task, and we’re obviously making him a little uncomfortable. So I turn back to the bubbly one, make the big eye contact and tell her she has been the best part of our day. We left for the gate right then. We’d wait there a few hours, removing all opportunity for stupid errors.

And so we strolled down to gate D85. Which is also, oddly, D55.

At this point we’re 22 hours into our trip, on two hours of sleep, and in a week that hasn’t seen an awful lot of sleep anyway. I sat beneath that monitor, took a photo of that monitor, and studied them both carefully, for a long, long time.

Are we in the right place?

Is this the right time?

Where is the plane?

Or even the gate crew?

Or the other passengers?

Finally, they all showed up. The passengers, the gate agents, the plane. We boarded, not sitting together, but happy to be in two middle seats, and going to the correct country, to say nothing of the correct city. We were finally on a flight to Barcelona.

At the Barcelona airport a guy appointed himself our taxi man. I’d just seen a dog do the squat of shame inside the airport. Then and there I said to myself, we are 27 hours or so into this trip and I will take a cab to anywhere, so long as it meant there was a hotel, and the end of this journey, on the other end.

I’d make Lewis and Clark proud, no doubt.

Or, on the one hand, we traveled a considerable distance, from the middle of the new world to one of the western parts of the old world, in just over a day. On the other hand, it took 27 hours to do so.

The taxi driver, who quickly sussed out that we were American and dutifully turned his radio over to the Barcelona station playing American classics and the hits of mañana, did not have any paper for a receipt in his hand-sized money device. I took a picture of his screen. That’s just going to have to do for reimbursement purposes.

We checked into the hotel at 9:30, dog tired, some eight hours later than scheduled, but ready for a shower, a meal and sleep.

Good news! The hotel restaurant stays open until 10:30. There’s enough time for us to get to our room, freshen up, and get a bite to eat.

The hotel restaurant is good! I had an Iberian pork plate. The Yankee ordered a salad. The salad was fresh. Very fresh. One of the little critters that had made the lettuce it’s home, perhaps as recently as yesterday, was still hanging out there.

Maybe that’s a Spanish thing? Of all the things you look up before traveling abroad, how a nation treats their salads is way down the list. (But it won’t be for the next trip, wherever that is.) The server stopped by to check on us. We show him the critter. He picks up the little saucer and the little critter and speed walked to the kitchen.

We never saw him again.

Another server takes over, apologizing profusely, offering us a dessert on him. We take him up on a scoop of ice cream. He brought us la cuenta, and it’s a blank piece of receipt paper. Flip it over, nothing there either.

Maybe, I said wearily, this is a Spanish thing? The server takes the receipt. Makes a big theatrical gesture of flipping it over and over, holding it to the light.

“Do you see anything on it?” he said, in his quite good English.

No, we did not.

“Then it must be free.”

So they picked up the entire bill. And, because of a translation issue, we’d ordered more than we intended anyway.

This second server said the first guy was so embarrassed he couldn’t bear to come out to face us. So we spent a good amount of time apologizing to one another. Please make sure he understands we aren’t upset, and we know it isn’t his fault. And the second server continually apologizing and humanizing himself and his coworkers. It was charming in a multi-lingual/mostly-English, please-let-me-go-upstairs-and-to-sleep way.

Tomorrow, somehow, we go to the conference that we almost missed.