I left an apartment in Brooklyn one year ago today, putting my possessions: cherished heirlooms, journals, artwork, and I suspect far too much clothing and other items in storage. All of which I have comfortably and conveniently lived without. If I get a tug of longing for something I “go Zen,” and remind myself that I am quite capable of doing well enough with what I have.

I have no permanent address as I write this. I do have two addresses however, homes of friends, that I use to keep my credit card company and the IRS content.

Having no address, to say I am “homeless” in our society elicits images of those living on the streets or in shelters-we are not a nomadic society. Every night I sleep in a bed, within four walls, under a roof, sometimes with a splendid view in an idyllic setting, sometimes less so. I settle into “my home” by placing my faithful and small Casio alarm clock, eyeshades and earplugs, the book or books I’m reading, on a bona-fide or makeshift night stand, arrange my toiletries-I rarely opt for a shared bathroom these days, and take everything else out, from my day pack and carry-on size bag, as needed. As far as clothing, I live in perpetual wash-and-wear cycle.

I may stay somewhere one night, one week, or at date the longest, six weeks in one place. However, I generally prefer between four nights and two weeks. There is always that chance that I will arrive somewhere and not wish to leave, but that has not yet occurred. I do not imagine being without a permanent home for the rest of my life and I trust my instincts to decide the when and the where.

I am grateful to live in the technological age where physical addresses can be bypassed and contact with loved ones easily maintained via email, WhatsApp, and Skype-of course nothing compares with an actual hug and face to face conversation. All important correspondence comes to me via email. Most of us rarely receive anything of importance in our mailboxes anyway. My bills are paid automatically.

There are those who live off the grid. I do not. I am living more on the grid than ever before. Traveling through various countries I use my credit card to pay for virtually everything and as countries in Scandinavia are moving to a cashless society this is becoming increasingly easier- there are no minimum amounts and although the Big Brother effect is alive and well: virtually every place I visit, eat at, sleep, every item I purchase is documented. I am not concerned. It provides me with an easily accessible record of my days.

To sustain my energy I spend some evenings-no matter how many things there may be to do and see in a particular place- at home, preparing a meal, reading a book, writing, or watching a film on Netflix (I was surprised to see that Paddington the bear was fluent in Norwegian until I realized that Netflix localizes its programming. I ended up choosing another film. I’ve never liked dubbing–even in animated movies.)

Each day is filled with new experiences and things to grapple with. Staying often in Airbnb apartments, I am continually looking to see where the owners put their silverware, dishware, pots and pans, and towels. And where I put the garbage. I have learned how to use several different models of convection stoves-a more challenging task than one might imagine. I negotiate the layout of villages, towns, and cities: where the nearest park, grocer, and desired sites are. I learn to navigate, when driving, narrow passages, windy roads, and major highways, and when not, the local buses and trains. I need to be particularly cautious in countries that drive on the left hand side.

I rely often, like Blanche Dubois in A Streetcar Named Desire, on the kindness of strangers.

It was initially daunting to not know my next destination–a virtually unlimited choice comes with its challenges–but I have developed the confidence to know that an idea will come to me. I do not fret if it’s the best decision, because inevitably there is no wrong decision. Even places which appear unappealing, with a bit of effort, reveal their charm. There is always some fascinating history to learn, a local to speak with or observe going about their day, a street/lane/path/meadow/coast to stroll on. At the very least I think about the people who call the place home and do my best to understand what living there would be like.

I am learning that travel is like knowledge: the more places I visit the more I realize the many places there are to visit and I have always had a thirst for knowledge.

I think of this journey as my odyssey.

The Eurostar from London to Paris was slowed to half its speed by an inch or so of snowfall. Having just traveled on a train during a blizzard in Norway, where we arrived on time, I was amused by the markedly different experiences. But to be fair, for both London and Paris snow is an infrequent occurrence. The warming sun quickly brought the pace of Paris back to its usual speed.

I spent a few weeks seeing cherished friends, visiting my favorite places, watching a Chinese New Year’s Parade, wandering through galleries and museums, and exploring a city I love.

Inspired by my visit to Modigliani’s studio in Paris I decided to stop off in London to see a major retrospective of his work.

Despite the common language in the UK, I had to remember the subway system was called the “Underground” or more commonly “the tube”. Asking directions for the subway would likely get me to one of the sandwich franchises.

And speaking of sandwich franchises…
When I unexpectedly got hit in the face with a wayward Happy Meal from McDonald’s–I’d managed to walk between a lover’s spat when one of the party’s displeasure was shown with a badly aimed burger and fries–and looked over, stunned, at a young woman while her angry beau stomped off, she looked at me with aplomb and said with a distinctive accent, “Sorry, Love.” I felt I’d just been affronted by Eliza Doolittle pre-Henry Higgins.

Fortunately the rest of the time went without incident, but it wasn’t the only time I was amused by the wide array of British accents.

I stayed in an Airbnb outside the center in a quiet residential area, notwithstanding the construction of a building across the street. The tube, markets, shops, and cafés, I mean pubs were all convenient and in abundance. A meal of fish and chips was obligatory and reminded me of my first, many years before, wrapped and served in newspaper and sold from a small shop.

My reason for coming to London did not disappoint. The retrospective of Modigliani’s portraits was impressive and interesting to see this artist’s work evolve into his signature and essentially unwavering style. A virtual-experience offering viewers to “visit” Modigliani’s atelier, was particularly amusing since the images had come from the very place I’d been in Paris-now renovated into an apartment.

I managed to catch Bryan Cranston in a technologically eye-popping and sometimes ear-splitting National Theatre production of Network, the Paddy Chayefsky, “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.” hit flick of 1976 reimagined by director Ivo Van Hove. A few too many bells and whistles for my taste, but the message regarding our relationship to media is as relevant as ever. And buying a ticket for a sold-out hit (returned tickets are reimbursed and available for sale) an hour before showtime-I was first in line-would never have happened in NYC.

Images from the series The Crown on Netflix, the films: The Darkest Hour and Dunkirk, and the unforgettable Masterpiece Theatre’s The Six Wives of Henry the VIII and Elizabeth R, seen when I was a child, came to me while exploring the city with its extraordinarily rich history.

I was reminded of the ongoing affection for the queen and pomp.

 

A week wasn’t nearly enough time to see all the major sites despite filling my days and evenings with strolls and visits.

I’d forgotten how huge London is.

I’ll just have to come back another time.

After traveling for eight months throughout new corners of Ecuador and Spain, I decided to visit my beloved city, Paris. Ten days there gave me a chance to catch up with dear friends and return to a tongue that requires little effort-unlike my ongoing pursuit to learn Spanish.

But the comfortable and familiar also left some time for new experiences. I booked a sidecar ride on motorcycle to see Paris at night and  agreed to share the snug, but warm and cozy space with a man from Chicago in Paris for the first time. The driver was more adept at maneuvering through narrow streets than offering insightful anecdotes and history, but seeing the sights from the sidecar was great fun. I booked this tour at the last-minute on Airbnb and was equally intrigued by a gastronomic dinner at a private home so booked that too.

When the apartment for the dinner was revealed to be Modigliani’s atelier I got goosebumps (Gauguin’s studio was downstairs). It was an extraordinary evening of mystical tales, conversation, and dining.

My days catching up with friends, taking walks, seeing exhibitions, and Eddie Izzard doing stand-up in French passed all too quickly.

I had always dreamed of going dog sledding and found a trip with a tour company in Finland. I flew to Helsinki from Paris on the 14th of December and spent two nights there.

Virtually everyone I encountered spoke perfect English. And those with limited knowledge made a gallant effort. “Harbor?, There.” One woman said while pointing her finger in the proper direction.

In the harbor I came to an outdoor swimming pool where locals and intrepid tourists were bathing. The outside temperature hovered around freezing. I was not tempted despite the rave reviews.

While dining in a cafe I saw some people setting up microphones and arranging their instruments. I asked the waiter what kind of music they would be playing. He said Hanukkah songs. I laughed thinking he was kidding, but Hanukkah songs were sung, a menorah was lit, and jelly donuts were passed around for all to enjoy. I had stumbled upon the Helsinki Jewish community’s annual Hanukkah celebration. It seemed that most of the community had emigrated from Russia, and the others from Israel and elsewhere.

What was also unexpected was the price for a glass of wine at a restaurant offering a tasting menu.  I thought there was an error when the bill came, assuming I had been charged for two glasses–there was a 2 next to the price. No. It was 2 euros per cl. The 12cl (4 ounce) glass cost twenty-four euros (nearly thirty dollars). I’m glad I hadn’t asked for another round. Apparently alcohol is very heavily taxed. I had thought it interesting that a few couples were drinking only water.  I’ve been sticking to water too ever since.

I would be meeting my group for the “Finland Wilderness” trip at Kuusamo Airport, about an hour flight north from Helsinki, on the morning of December 17th. The company tried to dissuade me from spending the night in Kuusamo where “there is nothing” but the alternative was a very late arrival the following night. Researching on the internet provided me with a well reviewed motel.  I booked it and the earlier flight.

The taxi driver at the Kuusamo airport spoke no English, but I arrived at my destination and the owner of the motel knew more English than expected. I learned “Kiitos(Thank you).” After quickly settling in I went back to the reception to get the lay of the land. The cheery host pulled out a map and suggested I take a walk around the nearby lake. I looked outside. It was very dark. I then looked at my watch. It was 2pm. The sun had risen at 10:30 a.m.. With some trepidation, and fighting the urge to get into bed, I ventured out. The street lights were on. What I thought might be gloomy turned out to be beautiful and peaceful. The town appeared empty. The park, just a five-minute walk away, was snow-covered. A grove of trees were tastefully decorated with red and blue lights. Soft white lights lit the path. My almost two-hour stroll was remarkably pleasing. The dry cold air was pleasant with my layers of clothing. A boy rode by on his bike. a woman walked her dog, and a father and son cross-country skied, but other than those few, I had the park to myself.
Later I ate at a restaurant across from the motel (delicious salmon with roasted root vegetables and salad) and bought some dried fruit and nuts at the supermarket. Each encounter with the locals was particularly pleasant. All had smiles and happily assisted me with translations when needed.

I slept well and enjoyed my ample breakfast the following morning. I took a taxi back to the airport and met with a tour leader. We waited together for the delayed flight of my group to arrive. Our time passed amicably and she enthusiastically answered my many questions about Finland: the sauna is the soul of the culture. Traditionally naked men and women went in together for quiet contemplation (“Like a church.”), then rolled outside in the snow before going back in. But conversation is more prevalent now. Rolling in the snow has not lost its appeal. She also let me know it was important to leave a log for the sauna elf before leaving and to ask permission to the trees before entering the forest. “I’ve never been refused.” she said with a smile.

The group arrived from London and I was surprised to see mostly parents with their young children. Was this the group that I was to spend the next eight days with?!  We traveled to the remote lodge by bus while I listened to a lot of “Mummy, look at all the snow!!!” I sat stoically in my seat wondering if there had been some kind of mistake. It wasn’t until an hour or so later that I learned my group would be arriving later that evening on another flight- the flight I had opted to avoid.

One couple who arrived with the families would be part of my group. We quickly developed a rapport and I suggested we go for a walk in the woods.  (The path was well-marked with reflective markers.) We ventured out in the dark wearing headlamps. It was around 3pm. The initial urge to sleep became easier to ignore. Once again I was struck by the beauty. We came upon an old mill and raging river that we could hear but barely see.  The water appeared black. We turned off our headlights. The snow reflected the faint moonlight and our eyes quickly adjusted to the picturesque surroundings.

The week continued to be magical.

The rest of our group arrived at 2am–I was pleased to have booked the earlier flight. All were from the UK, except a guy from Australia. They were fun to be with and the activities exceeded all our expectations. (The families with young children kept to themselves.)

Dogsledding was a thrill. Lauri “the alpha-male” owned and raised sixty-five dogs who were well-loved and responded to his commands like the well-trained drill team they were. The sleds provided little steering. At best one could shift one’s weight–to little effect. Fortunately, our dogs followed Lauri’s , but going downhill and stopping required braking, and uphill an occasional push. (The second day when we were sharing the sled, my passenger was a solid gent of considerable height. He asked me at one point, rather gently, ” Are you braking with your left foot or right foot?” “Neither.” I replied. “I’m pushing.”) The driver stands on two narrow runners in the back of the sled and a claw brake lies between them. Braking requires one or both feet and decent balance. There were a few occasions when some drivers fell off their sleds at turns–there were no injuries. I have no regrets being denied that experience. But passing through the exquisite landscape from day into early night with the dogs howling in excitement and snow flakes swirling around is a memory I cherish.

 

The week also included trekking in snowshoes on well-trodden paths or forging our own way in deep fresh snow, building a quenzee, getting a glimpse of the northern lights, sitting around a campfire, and enjoying the glorious surroundings.

The pristine black and white landscape offered me a new perspective on winter.

The drive from Monasterio de Piedra to Albarracín was over two hours along back roads that evolved from the narrow and serpentine to long straightaways. I passed acres of vineyards golden in the autumn sun and fields of ochre hues punctuated with swaths of red earth. Sheep grazed on the plains and never far, keeping watch, would be a solitary man and his dogs.

I arrived in Albarracín about 3pm and not having much for breakfast I was looking forward to a full lunch. Hours for lunch are strict and usually 1:00 to 3:30 or 4:00. Not knowing this town’s particular rhythm, it was best to eat before finding a place to stay. When small towns in Spain close their restaurants there can be few if any options.

Thursday in November is iffy in areas that depend on tourism during the high season. Many hotels and restaurants reduce their hours considerably once the days turn chilly. But I stumbled upon a restaurant (Tiempo de Ensueño) offering a four-course tasting menu. I decided to treat myself. The chef clearly loved froth-nearly everything had some-but it was all delicious. I left sated, content, and ready to seek my temporary home in Albarracin.

The attentive and kind waitress pointed me in the direction of a nearby B&B. No one was there, but a number was posted for contact. I called and expressed my desire to stay for three nights. A few minutes later a woman of a certain age, with jetblack hair, wearing a bright yellow sweater and jeans came driving up. (The extremely narrow and steep ancient streets are largely restricted to cars except those of the residents, who take advantage of the privilege. ) Isabel, the owner, took considerable time showing me my choice of rooms with wonderful views, cozy furniture, and tasteful decor, where breakfast would be served, in a lovely dining room, and the fruit, coffee, and tea that was always available. I was pleased by my good fortune, until she stopped abruptly and said, “Hoy es jueves (Today is Thursday).” Continuing in Spanish she explained that she forgot what day it was and was completely booked for the weekend.

Isabel apologized then kindly suggested a few places in town. Walking to each one I found them either shut with no contact number or no response. I continued walking the labyrinthine streets and headed toward the bigger hotels in the lower section of town.

A young woman in one such hotel offered me two options: a room with a view and a room without. There was a difference in price and I asked to see both. As best as I could tell the view was the same. I didn’t question it. However both rooms were dark and unwelcoming. I thought to look on. The young woman’s associate made the decision that much easier when he pointed out that they too were all booked for the weekend.

By this time it was after 6pm, the warmth from the sun was rapidly dissipating. Days were in the 60’s (15 degrees C). Nights plummeted to the high 20’s ( minus 2 degrees C).

I walked to the nearest hotel, housed in a mammoth ancient convent of stone.  (Like the above mentioned  monastery, many convents have been converted into hotels.)  A soft-spoken, slightly rotund man at the reception offered me a room for two nights, but couldn’t guarantee the third. The hotel was completely booked on Saturday. Although there was little to adorn the austere edifice and the long confusing corridors surrounding an open patio offered no warmth both figuratively and literally, the two rooms he showed me were spacious with views of the town’s surrounding hills. I was ready to agree to take one of them when he recalled that those rooms were booked for the entire weekend. He apologized and showed me another. It was considerably smaller and lacked decor, but still had a view. I took it for the two nights.

The decision was a good one. The staff was friendly, the cafe downstairs had long hours, and I slept well. My days were spent exploring Albarracin: noted to be one of the prettiest villages in Spain, and hiked along the GR-10 (part of an extraordinary network of hiking trails) to caves with “pinturas rupestres” ancient rock drawings, barely visible but nonetheless haunting.

After the two nights I asked to stay a third. The same man at reception said there had been a cancellation, but the available room would be an additional 15 euros. I asked if I could see this other room. There was a pause. He looked at me, but said nothing. It took me a minute to realise that he was offering me my own room at an increased weekend rate. I agreed to stay another night.

Sure enough, the empty shops and streets of Thursday became populated and busy by Saturday and teeming by Sunday afternoon.

Thinking about my question “May I see this other room?” makes me laugh.

My month in Catalonia was filled with splendid moments and beauty. Traveling does not come without its challenges, but the winds here blew favorably.
Posting these images however was a challenge, thus the order is a bit “creative.” Let us say it’s Dalí inspired.

My time in Madrid, although worthwhile, has not been socially satisfying. And I’ve missed the succor of nature. So when the owners, J&A, of my temporary home here, invited me to Extremadura for “vendimia (grape harvest)” I readily accepted. I didn’t know what to expect and only thought to ask “What clothes might be best?” “Clothes for the country.” was the response.

I briefly met J&A when I arrived at their apartment in Madrid and liked them immediately. I hadn’t seen them since.

I did ask my Spanish teacher, who came from Extremadura (the heart of old Spain as my guide book suggests), what one actually does at a vendimia. He said it was a great excuse for people to eat, drink, and party. (He’s twenty-eight years old.) I asked if there was work to do. His answer was an emphatic “No.”

I left Madrid by bus on Friday at 3:30pm and arrived in Trujillo nearly 7pm with the sun still high in the sky. J&A warmly greeted me at the station. We then drove twenty minutes to a quiet, small town which we quickly passed through, although we were not traveling fast, and soon came to a narrow, steep, dirt road which led up to their renovated stone “ruin.”

Their home had been constructed two-hundred years ago for workers to store harvested grapes and produce wine. Huge earthen vase-like containers still stood as proof. One room had a slanted cement floor and hole for drainage either for water or wine I do not recall. Another had a massive cement tub which drained off into a small pool. Yet the structure with high ceilings, exposed wooden beams, and fireplaces, now painstakingly converted into a home with eclectic furniture, art, and an endless array of books, exuded comfort and warmth. The home offered J&A, their many cats, and fortunate guests a place of tranquility and beauty. Their land extended for acres with olive trees, fig trees, almond trees, and an abundance of plants.

J&A had also invited for the weekend a Spanish/Argentinian couple who arrived late that evening with their children: a charming seven year-old girl and a two and one-half year old bruiser who made his desires clear with loud monosyllabic commands.

J&A said the vendimia would begin at 7:30am the following morning. At 1:30am I wished everyone goodnight. I slept soundly and at 7am I went to the kitchen. It was empty and I heard no one stirring. J. came in a short time later, alone, to prepare coffee and breakfast for us. Everyone else, having gone to bed at 3:30am remained sleeping.

J and I walked a short distance to the British neighbors John and C.’s vineyard/orchard where the vendimia would take place. They had invited their four British friends too.(My hope of practicing Spanish all weekend was quickly dashed.). The eight of us were soon equipped with gloves, small shears, and wide-rimmed straw hats. It was now apparent that the celebrating would have to wait. We were there to harvest grapes. J had lent me a pair of canvas shoes and cotton pants. I had brought only sandals and summer dresses for “the country festivities.”

John explained that two hail storms had done extensive damage to the vineyard, but grapes were still abundant. The bushes grew helter-skelter up a hillside and stretched over a fair distance. Our task -the harvesters- was to first remove the protective green nets around each grape-bush (they were grounded with stones), cut off bunches of grapes, remove any bright green, bitter or overly damaged grapes then place the dark red ones into a large plastic bucket we had each been allotted. We worked alone. Wrestling the net from the bush was time-consuming and gleaning the desired from the undesired grapes was slow going for my untrained eyes and hands. But it was pleasant to be in the fresh air amongst nature engaging in an ancient task. Buckets were eventually filled and John driving a tractor, collected, emptied, and returned them (I thought of Huck Finn and his scheme to paint a fence by enticing others with the notion of fun.). Hours went by. As the sun rose and with it the temperature, my sun hat could only do so much to keep me shaded and cool. The task became arduous.

I eventually took a rest inside John and C’s cool stone home. I thirstily drank a glass of water and chatted with C. while she prepared snacks and drink. Most of us took breaks while some toiled on outside non-stop. I thought of slaves and migrant workers who have toiled in fields for centuries without the option to rest when they were weary or slack their thirst.

Afterwards I returned outdoors, this time with a different task. I was to pick figs for a tart. Despite the eighty fig trees on their land the pickings were slim. Passerbys and birds had gotten there first. I managed to cover the bottom of a handbasket.

By two pm the vendimia was done for the day. We were then gathered to press the grapes. Our jobs were divided into several tasks. Mine, along with two other women, was to take the buckets of grapes after pressing and based on John’s orders dump the contents again into the pressing machine “arriba (up)” or walk a few strides to a shed and, pour the sufficiently pressed grapes into large metal vats “dentro (inside)”. The team work of all involved went smoothly and a camaraderie was ever-present. The seven year old girl-the only one of her family to participate in the chores-had her feet washed, then happily and enthusiastically stomped on a basketful of grapes keeping the tradition alive.

When the grape-filled sacks of our labor were all pressed, we hosed off the tools, machines and ourselves. We then all sat at a large outdoor table toasting, with last year’s vintage, to our accomplishments and dining on lamb, shrimp, salads, fresh vegetables, cheese, quiche, and fig tart.

The evening cooled, conversation and wine flowed.

I volunteered to join them in the same tasks the following day.

The harvest despite the hail had been successful. Now John would be tending to the production of wine on his own for the next several months.

My invitation to stay at J&A’s kept on extending, but by Tuesday evening I reluctantly took the bus back to Madrid.

I left Extremadura with memories of the vendimia, and my time to relax and read, enjoy the company of others, blanch almonds and peel grapes for a traditional cold soup, pick raspberries, beets and herbs-all from the local land, watch a full moon rise, and gaze at the constellations of a country sky.

Madrid may not have the same allure as Paris, perhaps it’s the lack of an iconic tower, or a river that flows through its center, or perhaps if Hemingway’s A Movable Feast took place here, however Madrid does have Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights, Picasso’s Guernica and Velásquez’s Las Meninas, vibrant cultural venues, lovely parks, fine cuisine, Cervantes’ home, and its share of tourists who are spotted easily (They are the ones dining before 10pm.).

Bellies can be filled day and night with classic tapas of tortilla or jamón (I doubt there are many nations that consume as much ham.) and thirsts quenched with cañas (draft beer poured into small glasses).

It is unusual to see a man or woman at a cafe or restaurant having a drink or dining alone, but I enjoy the tapas bars, outdoor cafes, and restaurants for sustenance and a glimpse of daily life.

I’ve attended several intercambios to meet people. Locals and tourists alike gather in bars to practice Spanish and English. A few are there to speak German and French.  Certain faces become familiar and sometimes conversations pick up where they left off.

I avoid the throngs of humanity on the boulevards and walk along the ancient backstreets whenever possible. There the balconied buildings are picturesque, quiet, and offer a reprieve from the scorching sun’s rays. Various odors fill the air, some are pleasant, most are ignored, yet the occasional potent waft of urine immediately alerts my senses.

Temperatures are frequently above 100 degrees. Fortunately shade, parks, and cooler nights offer a reprieve, as do the paper and filagreed plastic handheld fans. I was initially surprised to see men and boys flapping them too. It seemed incongruent with all the paintings I’d seen depicting only women’s hands.

Although nature has been tamed, wild green parrots are flourishing.

Gentrified, hip neighborhoods abound. Young, tattooed, pierced men and women populate these areas and are indistinguishable from the Brooklyn hipsters. Shops of stylish clothing, exotic flavored ice-cream pops, records, and organic produce nestle side by side with standard supermarkets pharmacies, laundromats, and Chinese grocerys that stock just about everything and never close. (I stood behind an Asian man in a supermarket buying six watermelons. The checkout woman asked without malice, “Are you going to sell those or eat them?” I had been wondering the same thing.)

Neighborhoods offer various means of employment. I’ve noticed women, mostly of a certain age, sit on chairs, cardboard boxes, and low windowsills, or stand along the narrow streets in sensible footwear chatting or alone, smoking languidly, wearing attire that belies their profession. Their negotiations are handled discretely while neighbors and shopowners go about their business. After a quick conversation a woman rings a buzzer, a door of the apartment building opens, a man follows her inside, and the door quickly closes behind them. Young women with very short shorts and very high heels, likely procuring different fees, linger in small groups along the main, wide, highly trafficked pedestrian malls. Police do not disrupt their technically illegal, but tolerated activities. The police do however keep the African men who hawk their wares from sheets with cords alert and ready for quick getaways.

I walk in neighborhoods with finely dressed men and women sipping cool cocktails in crisp shirts and dresses, despite the swelter. I sit alongside middle class families, couples young and old of same and different genders. I pass people begging or sleeping in the streets on makeshift beds accompanied by their dogs. Madrid too has a wide range of haves and have-nots-and its share of lost souls.

My Spanish (Castilian)  improves in small increments and attending classes has reminded me how little I know and how much more there is to learn. Sometimes my confidence falters, but this has not stopped me from speaking Spanish whenever I can, which is not as often as I would like.

Madrid has given me a chance to catch my breath, enjoy the plethora of cultural offerings, study Spanish, and get to know her.

The name Galicia has an allure, conjuring ancient tales and images of the sea.  Many villages and cities still rely on their waters as their primary economy. Harbors are busy with fisherman unloading fish, crustaceans and algae. Kids dive off the piers showing their prowess and stamina jumping and climbing back up over and over again.
I spent four days in the idyllic coastal town of O Barquiero where I watched the sea rise and recede.

The breathtaking coastal roads follow rocky terrain, wide empty beaches, harbors, lighthouses, and picturesque towns with delicious meals from the sea inhabited by proud and warm people.

The dry plains of the Castilla y León region of Spain offers splendid countryside, castles, medieval towns and some interesting driving experiences (Some roads seemed designed for two narrow horse carts to pass each other rather than two cars, but fortunately these roads have very sparse traffic.). Medinaceli, Santillana del Mar, and other ancient towns were stunning and ranged dramatically in their onslaught of tourists. Some, like Segovia, had remnants of their ancient Roman inhabitants on display.

The great civilization of Rome is recent however, when compared to those who drew in the caves of Altamira. I waited in line to see the remarkable replica of this prehistoric art. Computer analysis and painstaking efforts recreated the cave with its every facet and smudge. The original cave, just a moments walk away, is now open only one day each week for a few lucky lottery winners.  Looking at the reproductions of the drawings gave me much to ponder about humankind’s past and development. The technology used to create a copy is an extraordinary statement in itself. I found walking through the facsimile remarkable, yet soulless.

My intention to get to less touristy destinations on the northern coast was interrupted by a stop in the Picos of Europa- a region I had never heard of. And although I did not escape the tourists, I was distracted by its extraordinary beauty. Turquoise rivers flow into vibrant waterfalls. Jagged mountains rise high against blue skies and contrast with verdant pastures below. Incredibly picturesque villages set against startling peaks offer visual feasts of color and form. And hiking trails abound.

I drove along a windy scenic road to the Teleférico de Fuentes Dé not knowing what to expect, but it was listed among the “must dos”. I joined a line of people waiting to be jettisoned up in a cable car suspended by, what looked like a few flimsy cables, nearly 2500 feet to a sheer wall of mountain. There were some nervous tourists as we inched along, but no one backed off the line. When we arrived at the top the air seemed thinner and long horned goats lazed about. A dirt road led to open land and high rocky peaks where sheep, goats, and horses roamed freely. The quiet surroundings was punctuated with the clang of bells worn around the goats’ necks (One horse wore one too. I wondered what (s)he had done to warrant it.).

The trails, depending on one’s desire and ability, offer hours or days of mountain trekking, fresh air, and views. I was rewarded with a few hours of a steep but gorgeous hike. The path offered no concern, but a pack of massive herd dogs suddenly ran toward me, rightly protecting their flock of sheep, and had me scrounging quickly for a few hearty rocks just in case my aggressive don’t-mess-with-me-alpha-female shout and stance wasn’t enough to intimidate them- fortunately they were all bark, but quite the bark! They soon ambled back to blend in with their surroundings. As I continued along, despite clear skies offering views for miles- a fog quickly consumed me and my visibility was reduced to a few meters. I walked slowly not wishing to lose track of my direction. Within moments the fog lifted. Later I saw a park poster advising anyone caught in a fog to find the nearest shelter and wait there. If the fog persisted finding the shoes on my feet may have been a challenge.

Back on the road red tile-roofed stone houses from centuries past dotted the landscape. Some gathered in clusters forming communities at the end of winding narrow roads on hill tops. And then there is Bulnes. For centuries this village was only accessible by footpaths. Goods were carried or brought up by mules 5kms-until a funicular was built in 2000. Apparently the funicular which travels inside the mountain 2km (I took a ride expecting splendid views…but the engineering achievement is a marvel.) was built for the residents before the population, which at its height may have been a hundred or so, dwindled down to five. Now it is used primarily by tourists and locals from towns below who go up for a meal or drink and enjoy the calm and admire the view.

I had lunch by a river in one of the few charming outdoor cafes, then walked to the farthest end of town to the Mirador de Lallende cafe before the path drops into the valley. The owner of the cafe, who is one of the last original residents, was there with his wife and son. A photograph of the owner as a boy outside the cafe-then his home-photos of his parents, and a brief discussion on those who passed on or moved away conjured a way of life lost in time.

The hard cider flows freely in this region and there is a warmth to the people contrasting with its rigid peaks. Potes is a small, touristy, but delightful town in the Picos where I spent a few nights. Regional dishes and local delicacies of sausage and cheeses are sold in the shops and cafés and accompanied with the cider. When served in bars the cider is dramatically poured from arms length overhead or through a contraption to provide that added air. Only large bottles were sold and I was obliged to buy one.

Another “must do” in the Picos is the 12 km hike, Ruta del Cares. The man-made trail cut through rock follows a water way for hydraulic energy. And connects the tiny strip of a town, Poncebos, with the charming Caín. The path from Poncebos is mostly flat, except for the initial 3km climb. It offers extraordinary vistas and precipitous drops, but is wide enough for two or three ample bodies to pass each other. The landscape and engineering feats are extraordinary. Many hike or take a bus back from Caín the same day. I decided to find a room in one of the three small hotels and watched the crowds empty out as evening set in. There was just a handful of tourists left in this picturesque hamlet . A few older local men sat at the outdoor cafes, with their dogs, chatting and smoking cigarettes. Women were elsewhere. I walked the few cobbled streets savoring the beautiful sky, peaks, rivers and stone homes while noting the many cats in residence.

The hike back to Poncebos the following morning was cooler and overcast offering a different range of hues. It was no less impressive to see the sights again.

Before leaving I hiked up to Camarmeña to speak with a beekeeper I had met a few days prior, before setting off for the coast.