Mon-Tues, 3-4 March -- Overnight on the Crescent to New York

1) The 6 AM alarm surprised me, because I had been sure at 3:51 that I would not get back to sleep. I was on top of my routine: coffee, pages, shower, checkout, breakfast, taxi to the train station.

1a) All my usual anxieties — will there be a line at the front desk? Will they take too long with my omelette? How long will it take to get a cab? -- simply were not problems. It is ever thus.

2) The Union Passenger Terminal of New Orleans is one of those late 1940s no-nonsense post-Art Deco public buildings with an absence of excessive detail, terrazzo floors, and polished granite. The Magnolia Room was the Metropolitan Lounge equivalent for passengers with sleeping car tickets, accessible by numeric code from the ticket agent. Not one magnolia present inside, sad to say. I got the impression of walking into a container of orange sherbet. But it was very nice to have a space off the main floor, and while I didn’t partake of coffee or snacks, it was good to know I could have.

3) There were about five passengers for the Crescent, and the ticket agent came to direct us first before the gate was announced for general boarding, just as in New York. And so I got my bags up the steps of the car, maneuvered down a very narrow corridor, and entered a snug two-seat roomette, my delightful home for the next 36 hours or so.

4) And was even served breakfast! Because I had just had an omelette for first breakfast at the hotel, I chose the bourbon crepes . . . the start of two days of microwaved meals.

Lake Ponchartrain in its winter livery.

5) The train has its own bridge crossing Lake Ponchartrain parallel to the famous causeway. I kept looking out my window thinking the causeway must be very far away — whereas, when I turned and looked across the narrow corridor — it was on the other side of the train all along.

Aha, there’s the causeway!

5a) Certainly I saw a long row of brown pelicans along one outcropping of the bridge.

6) The winter colors of Louisiana -- gray, brown, pine green, with a dash of bleached-gold grass — were much in evidence after we crossed the lake. My problem is that every time I see a vista worth photographing from a moving train, by the time I have my camera ready, the view is obscured by trees or bridge supports or something else.

7) So I turned fairly soon to my book, Patriotic Fire: Andrew Jackson and Jean Laffite at the Battle of New Orleans, and proceeded to the end. Spoiler alert: they all die at some point. Very much a story of British hubris, American good luck, and how people don’t always judge accurately by appearances, this is the kind of American history that should not be neglected in school.

7a) The one part of the book that has stayed with me (almost a week later, as I write this) is from the battle’s aftermath. The British were allowed to bury their own, and there were exclamations of surprise and grief as they recognized the faces and bodies of friends and comrades among the dead.

8) Several times during the day I just paused to feel happy in my little roomette, the perfect kind of tiny bedroom, as though it was under a flight of stairs. There I sat, snug as a bug with two fluffy pillows on my little banquette, stretching my feet out as the countryside went zipping by. Perfect!

9) At 1 PM I stumbled carefully through the other sleeping car to the dining car, called Nashville, for my lunch. Spacious booths, etched glass, fresh red and white roses in the bud vases -- lovely! My beef paprikash, however, was clearly from the microwave. But the chocolate brownie was amazing.

10) A little after 5 PM we stopped at a station where we could stretch our legs for a few minutes. I don’t know why I should have been so surprised that the difference in atmospheres between the train and the outside world — perhaps it’s because everything is so contained and confined inside the train — but I enjoyed that little promenade in the light of the setting sun, and seeing two little boys, brothers, running off some excess energy by racing around a couple benches. Train travel is wonderful for people like me who love to sit and read, but it has challenges for those who need to be active.

Outside my window.

11) After that station stop, I headed to the café car to start the cocktail hour with a drink. The attendant had to go back to the dining car to get some bourbon, which seemed inauspicious. I carried my drink back to my roomette successfully, despite the shaking of the train cars.

12) At 7 I returned to the dining car for butter chicken, which is the Amtrak version of chicken tikka masala. Patriotic Fire and another bourbon kept me going.

13) About 10 PM the attendant made up my roomette for the night. The advantage of the upper berth was that my large suitcase could fit there! But I myself would probably have fit better. The lower berth — the two seats are folded flat and a mattress with sheets goes on top of them — is narrower at one end than the other. And since I am certainly not as narrow as I used to be, I confess I had trouble finding a comfortable position.

14) Comes 1 AM and the Angry Ounce compels me to visit one of the two lavatories at the other end of the sleeping car. Alas for me, both of them were occupied! At 1 AM! I began to become concerned and went back through the other sleeper to the dining car. While brightly lit, its door would not open. The other sleeper only had compartments that contained their own facilities. I was about to become desperate when one of the lavatories opened and another passenger left.

14a) It’s worth noting that the first lavatory remained occupied throughout most of the journey; that little yellow light was always on.

15) Twisting and turning in my berth, I could certainly understand why trains are so often described as “hurtling through space.” Hurtling was definitely the sensation I felt lying there, feeling the speed of the train through the dark woods.

16) Came the dawn, at last, and I brought my notebook and pen to the dining car so I could write my pages and have an early cup of coffee (by prearrangement with Cooper, the attendant). I had ordered breakfast for 9 AM, thinking I would sleep late — ha! — so I ate early and fairly well.

17) When the sleeping car attendant tried to make up my roomette for the day, apparently the upper berth could not be elevated again. “My God!” I said. “I hope I didn’t break it,” thinking of my suitcase. “Did you sleep in it?” she asked? “No.” “Then you didn’t break it!” she laughed, and I joined in. I was moved to an identical roomette across the narrow corridor, which I ornamented with my Queen’s Entourage beads from the ball.

18) By this time I had finished Patriotic Fire, and I spent the rest of the journey snugly content, napping and thinking and daydreaming. I always think I can use a train journey productively and then it just doesn’t always happen that way.

19) Night began falling, New York inevitably becoming closer. And suddenly, there it was, as the sunset was ending!

20) All my luggage was ready to go, I tipped the attendants and thanked them, and then whoosh, upstairs into the Moynihan Train Hall, effortlessly into a taxi — how rare! — and before too long I was being buzzed into my friends’ 21st-floor apartment near First Avenue.

Glamorous Gotham from Anthony and Pedro’s.

21) They popped open a bottle of bubbles to celebrate my arrival, and enjoyed the first glass outside on their balcony in the brisk early night.

22) Then it was off to dinner at a great little place a few blocks away. Bacon mac and cheese — I mean, as long as they’re calling it an appetizer it’s OK, right? — and Cobb salad.

23) But it was an early bedtime for me after a wonderful journey north.

Sunday, 2 March -- New Orleans, Day Four: Mostly Brunch

“These are some high end gays.” — Jennifer Coolidge, The White Lotus

1) The main event of the day was what Lindsay described as “one of my favorite things of the year,” a private Sunday brunch at the Royal Windsor Hotel that I gather has been going on for years and years. Given the limitations of my travel wardrobe, I had to have a fashion consult via text so I wouldn’t embarrass my host. He ended up choosing what I’ll call Beaded Safari Casual, khaki jacket and pants with pink accents and a silk scarf.

2) Lindsay asked me to meet him at the brunch, so off I went like a baby duck into the sunny and pleasantly cool streets of New Orleans, observing the sizeable midday crowd and trying unsuccessfully not to get lost. The Royal Windsor was only two blocks away, and yet . . .

3) And my goodness, it is fancy. Light wood paneling, tapestries, highly polished brass. If you want to elevate the tone of any given situation, just add a live harpist delicately plucking away somewhere in the corner. Now Mardi Gras is an Ostentatiously Excessive Occasion, but I must say, walking into that hotel lobby I felt like the only person wearing beads in the place.

4) Lindsay’s friend came downstairs for me to escort me into the function, sleek and chic in a pinstripe pantsuit and the kind of brooch described as Important in auction catalogs, very much evoking Shelley Hack and Lauren Hutton and the Manhattan Transfer. He brought me into this luscious little suite of function rooms bustling with brightly clad ladies and gentlemen, piano music, prosecco and other drinkables, and a sumptuous brunch. I was introduced to a table full of Lindsay’s friends, most of whom I missed seeing at the ball on Friday — including the marvelous Fatsy Cline in a to-die-for red caftan heavily spangled in gold. Like me, Lindsay knows only the Very Best People.

5) And about ten minutes later Her Majesty arrived with Wontonya Dumpling, and we really got down to the serious business of brunch and partying. What followed was a great deal of prosecco, vivacious chatter, and parade viewing from the two balconies.

6) As mentioned, Mardi Gras was just not part of my childhood at all; I don’t think Lago di Carlo even had a parade until I was in junior high school. But it was integral to Lindsay’s, and I enjoyed hearing how he grew up with it, and how it’s become so vital for him now.

7) We had a marvelous view of the parade below from the second-floor balcony, and I certainly appreciated being “above it all.” I was surprised by the number of beads that had landed on the roofs of vehicles in the parade, one of which actually had a 12-foot long tail of beads running behind it.

8) The only person I knew coming into this event was Lindsay, so imagine my surprise when someone vaguely familiar approached me on the balcony to say “What on earth are you doing here?” This turned out to be a delightful young interior designer I know from Provincetown, who is also a Louisiana boy. “Well, what are YOU doing here?!” followed by happy exclamations. We had a good catchup and compared Cape Cod vs. NoLa social life.

Religious exhibitionists.

9) The time came for us to promenade through the French Quarter, but not before meeting the hostess of the hotel bar (delightful) and hanging out there for about 15 minutes. The joint was jumpin’!

10) Then off we went, beads and caftans flying, through the Quarter, through Jackson Square, talking a mile a minute. Our ultimate destination: a little bar they nicknamed Acquaintances on or near Dauphine Street. If we had been drinking tea in the parlor earlier, this was the transition to sippin’ whiskey on the back porch with your belt undone.

10a) I was reminded of a passage from Edward Swift’s novel Splendora when the main character, Timothy John, finally took the advice of his mentor, a drag queen named Magnolia, about his persona Miss Jessie. Magnolia said “Don’t try to be so made-up all the time. Let your hair down once in awhile and it’ll be a breather for you. Who told you you had to take yourself so seriously anyway?” And the result: “On a warm spring evening not long after Miss Jessie’s birth, Magnolia . . . was sitting on the corner stool, her stool, in a bar downstairs from her apartment, when Timothy John — wearing Miss Jessie’s hairstyle and tight-legged jeans together with a camisole top flaring out around his waist, a string of pearls, and silver lamé heels — came strolling into the bar and took a seat on the next stool just like she owned it. Magnolia took one look. It was all she needed. ‘You don’t seem so much like a cartoon no more, honey,’ she said. ‘You been taking lessons from the right person is all I can say, and there ain’t nothing left for me to do but pronounce you “graduated with honors.”’”

10b) Standing on the bar balcony overlooking the intersection does indeed give one a different perspective of the Quarter — and I rather like it.

11 Eventually the time came for us to part, and I picked my way through the revelers back to my hotel and a bit of shuteye before stepping back out for some dinner. When I did, a perceptible chill had come into the air to remind us all that it really isn’t spring yet.

12 Oysters Rockefeller for dinner, and a small steak.

13 And then packing! I had a train to catch first thing in the morning . . .

Saturday, 1 March -- New Orleans, Day Three: Fatigue and the French Quarter

1) Why must the dawn come? Or rather, why must the dawn come so punctually? I had had six hours of sleep interrupted only once, but I felt I could use six more.

2) The morning passed quietly, writing and catching up on the socials and being aware of how my body felt. Eventually I had a lovely large omelette for breakfast. Food helps.

3) Midafternoon I ended up at the Kingfish for a late lunch at the bar of fried chicken and veggies and hash browns. While I was waiting for the order I had a moment of anxiety: is fried chicken always finger food? Certainly it is at home, but in a restaurant? (Fried chicken is just not often seen on menus in the cold No’th.) The answer, I soon learned, is that when it’s chicken fingers that are fried, they are knife and fork food. Whew!

4) From there I headed to Canal Street in time to see a parade that involved a lot of Dolly Parton lookalikes riding portable toiletmobiles — think what the Shriners might have done with that! — marching bands, and other Mardi Gras madness.

4a) And I will confess that I got a happy shiver up my spine when I heard a recording of Glen Campbell’s “Southern Nights.” Sometimes hearing an almost-forgotten old song is like rediscovering a favorite pair of comfortable shoes.

4b) This was my first real on-the-ground parade experience. Some people had clearly moved in for the day, others moved about in large groups. Everyone swinging and staggering with beads. I could see why people said to throw your shoes away when it’s all done.

4b) I also witnessed the misfortune of what happens when the police reclose the barriers, preventing people from crossing the parade route street again. Oopsie! “One more, officer, one more!” To no avail.

5) I had to pick up a couple things at the CVS, which is the first CVS I’ve been to with its own liquor department. Livin’ la vida Nola!

6) I drifted into a place near Jackson Square, having no real plans or preferences. They didn’t have their A team in the kitchen, but the bartender made me a marvelous smoked old fashioned.

6a) I was sitting at the bar when a group of three — two young women and a man — bubbled in. One of the women — pale purple strapless top and shorts, feather tiara, long black hair — dashed by saying frankly “I’m going to use your restroom! I’ll order a drink when I come back!” And I thought “I’ll bet they’ve heard that one before.” When she returned she did, in fact, order a drink. I wasn’t paying much attention, but somehow it became A Thing — not what she ordered or something — and I thought I heard the bartender say under his breath that it was his second day.

6b) Lindsay texted during dinner having had a lovely long rest. I will see him tomorrow for a brunch that is “one of my favorite things of the year” and which I know involves show tunes.

7) Rounding a corner, I nearly ran smack dab into a white-bearded dude in a white friar’s robes carrying a sign that read “The End Is Near.” I didn’t know if he was in costume or a legitimate proselytizer. I should have said “Gurrrrllllll, nobody needs a sign to know that!” And ain’t it the saddest truth that that’s so?

8) I strolled through streets quiet and crowded, all visibly secured by police or military presence and equipment. I forget who said “Bourbon Street is for amateurs,” but yes.

9) And wouldn’t you know it, unquestionably legit proselytizers were stationed in the middle of an intersection there, just in case anyone was ready to repent.

10) So I made it an early night, and that’s OK.

Friday, 28 February -- New Orleans, Day Two: Krewe Ball

1) Taking the elevator to the lobby for breakfast, I wondered if my jacket with embroidered pansies on one shoulder would call undue attention. When I walked into the breakfast room and saw the woman wearing the Vegas-sized feather headdress, I knew my jacket wouldn’t be a problem.

1a) This was before 9:00 AM.

1b) But really, Mardi Gras isn’t a dress code. It is all dress codes, simultaneously and perpetually, just as I saw in the lobby the day before.

2) I had the morning to myself, so I strolled through the Quarter at random, observing the continuing revelry, the security in place since New Year’s Day’s terrible attack, got lost (as I often do), ended up in Jackson Square (as everyone does), and was very surprised to see two Boston acquaintances. We chatted for ten minutes before moving along; what a pleasant surprise!

3) Whenever I come to New Orleans I like to have my fortune told, so I headed to Rev. Zombie’s behind the cathedral. The nice young man behind the counter saw my phone lock screen, Gustave Moreau’s Oedipus and the Sphinx, and we ended up having an interesting conversation about art. Later I directed him to Paul Mak’s The Idol, which was so influential to me in 1980.

3a) Shelby — slim, about my age, masses of dark hair — read my cards in a tiny room at the back of the shop. Her method of reading is different from mine — I was asked to draw 11 cards “because I’m nosy” — and our discussion was very interesting. What I was asking about, and how she interpreted the cards, is for me to ponder.

3b) Before I left I bought a string of cerulean-colored beads. I do love beach trinket jewelry like that!

3b.i) “Mmmm, inserting a Miranda Priestly meme after seeing the word ‘cerulean.’ Groundbreaking.”

4) Lindsay collected me about 12:30 PM, radiantly smiling and multitasking and sporting a bit of scruff, and we had a great catchup while driving all the way out to Chalmette to meet Jerri and Bill for lunch at the Fresh Catch. They, too, looked wonderful, and we all had a good catchup over good seafood.

At lunch with Jerri. As far as I’m concerned, she’s still 35.

4a) Lindsay ordered what looked like an enormous tray of crawfish. They were not sure I would want any, and in fact, I’m not really a crawfish person. (That’s not to say I don’t enjoy seafood.) But remember, dahlings — Mother was a Yankee and she was not brought up to cook like that.

4a.i) The other reason has to do with something that happened to my family one sunny Sunday when I was four years old. Mother, Daddy, Laura and I had driven somewhere southeast of home to go crawfishing (why on earth I will never understand). We had parked on the side of the road and were crawfishing in a ditch with a little bridge over it. One of the nets fell in the water, and Daddy hurried to bend down and reach for it. He got it . . . but as he did, the car keys fell from his shirt pocket into the muddy water! He tried to scoop them up with the net, but they were gone.

4a.ii) We ended up having to hitchhike back home. A nice couple stopped for us and drove us all the way back. I remember all of us having iced tea in our living room — and then being surprised that we all had to go back for the other car. Because when you’re four, you have priorities, like Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom and The Wonderful World of Disney. That was a long day. Poor Daddy must have felt awful.

5) After lunch, Lindsay pulled up to the civic center where the ball would take place, and I helped him tote in a few things. I got to witness all the hustle-bustle backstage, Lindsay introduced me to some of his friends, and then showed me the house and where I would be sitting at his tables. The excitement was mounting! It made me remember the many events I’d worked on over the last 35 years, and how happy I am just to be a guest now.

6) I took a Lyft back in to the city, feeling the heaviness of the sun and the bright big sky.

7) Back at the hotel I ironed my pleated dress shirt to the best of my ability, tried to rest, gave up, and then arrayed myself in all my black-tie finery, grateful I hadn’t forgotten anything.

En route through the Quarter.

8) I had to find a bar on North Rampart Street where the ball shuttles would depart. En route via Toulouse Street, what a pleasure to run across a tailor I follow on Insta, Natty Adams, sitting in front of his shop looking as dapper as could be in pink linen, with his dog Groucho running about. He, and his shop, and Groucho, are all quite charming, and I was quite tempted by a jacket made from a fabric designed by Duncan Grant . . .

With the impeccable Natty Adams.

9) Finally on board the shuttle, the driver and I had a bubbly little chat before more revelers boarded. And then came a cry from the middle of the bus: “Does anyone know how to tie a bow tie?!” “Why, I do!” I said, and I moved to back to give this nice man a tietorial. And that’s how I found someone to chat with all the way to the ball.

10) Since the dress code for this ball was “ballgowns and tuxedos,” everyone felt free to interpret the rules as they chose — and that is rather the spirit of Carnival, n’est ce pas? Everyone glittered in at least one place, and there were sequined bow ties and vests (and jackets), brocaded waistcoats, mandarin jackets, pink leopard skin, and some really lovely gowns.

11) When the ballroom opened I was in line for a drink, so I was perhaps in the last quarter of guests who made it in. But I was able to get a corner seat at the table in the second row, which meant I would not (I hoped) be a target for any of the performers. Instead, not one but two drag queens with mountainous wigs sat in front of me, so I had to choose my photo ops carefully.

In the ballroom!

11a) The table was laden with a gorgeous centerpiece of white flowers, fifths of vodka and whiskey, Red Bulls, cocktail plates and napkins, and trays of little sandwiches, so all our needs were met. I know a lot about place settings, and this is the first time I’d been anywhere where the table had been set with full liquor bottles. 😉

Fatsy Cline atop her sundae.

12) The theme of this year’s ball was Camp Armeinius, and all the musical numbers had something to do with camp: fat camp, band camp, hippocampus, shrimp scampi, boot camp, naval recruitment camp, conversion camp, etc. The ball captain appeared as Mrs. Peacock for a rendition of “Murder on the Dance Floor.” The interpretive dance of how ’smores got made beggars description. In the words of the late Noel Coward, “I couldn’t have liked it more!” And, as Sir Arthur Balfour famously said to Elsa Maxwell, “Allow me to thank you for the most delightful and degrading evening I have ever spent.” In short . . . a triumph for Armeinius!

Fatsy Cline and Varla Jean Merman, the latter in a campfire-colored gown.

12a) The marvelous Varla Jean Merman and Fatsy Cline kept slinging the repartee as co-hosts.

12b) All I ask is never, ever put me in a position where I have to tell drag queens I have never met what to do. That is never in my job description.

Boot camp.

13) Finalmente, the last number introduced the new king and queen of Armeinius, and we were all told to rise. And there was my Lindsay as Linda from Finance, dressed in an enormous gold gown of all the streets in Monopoly! There was a rush forward of ball guests to take photos, which almost compromised my ability to follow an instruction: to toast the queen by offering a bottle of vodka. But I managed to do it! (I had no idea what that man was asking me to do at first; I said “I am not drinking an entire bottle of vodka.” I swear I’m the village idiot sometimes.)

The receiving line forms.

13a) The emcees began announcing royalty from visiting krewes to ascend to the stage and greet the new king and queen . . . and then I heard my own name called as part of the queen’s entourage. So I got to make my obeisance to my gloriously crowned cousin — an enchanting end to an evening of delight and debauchery.

With the newly crowned queen.

14) It really was past my bedtime, so I headed directly for the shuttle bus, which left about five minutes later, not half full. Some of the revelers on board wanted the bus driver to bring us to Waffle House, which would have been fun.

15) Walking through the Quarter back to my hotel, it was clear the city would not sleep tonight! Revelry in all places, mostly people half my age or younger.

15a) Nothing looks quite so unsanitary as a forgotten feather boa on the pavements of the Quarter.

16) What an incredible experience! I know I will be feeling it tomorrow.

Thursday, 27 February -- New Orleans, Day One: Travel

1) When the alarm went off at 6:00 AM, I was surprised to discover that I had broken a sweat in the last two hours. What on earth?

2) Shower, morning pages, coffee, breakfast, cleanup, final packing — out the door a whisper before 9:00 AM. A little boy was traveling on the T with his mother, and it was balm to my soul to see him smiling in wonder at everything.

3) Just over 45 minutes later I boarded the shuttle at Airport Station — and tripped and almost fell over my suitcase, bruising one shin and nearly cramping the other. Oh well!

4) Check-in went surprisingly easy for me, with almost no lines — how rare! Not knowing what (if anything) I’d be served on the plane, I had a very early lunch of rigatoni bolognese.

5) After boarding my flight, I managed to have a little nap, and was very disappointed to wake up and discover we hadn’t left the gate. In fact we departed almost an hour late.

6) But the result was a flight smooth as silk, which I passed by reading Patriotic Fire: Andrew Jackson and Jean Lafitte at the Battle of New Orleans by Winston Groom, napping, or (at the end) watching the flight’s progress on the map. The book is most interesting.

7) You watch bags go around a baggage carousel enough times and they have personalities all their own. I saw many of those bags go around many times, including two that bore more than a passing resemblance to mine. Thank goodness for distinctive luggage tags!

7a) One of the suitcases had burst open in flight . . .

8) They don’t mess around if you’re taking a cab into the city here. The rate is a flat rate, and they make sure everyone knows it. I got in line at the cab stand, was directed to a loading spot, and Mademoiselle gave me a slip of paper with the cab number on it after my bags were loaded. Brisk, businesslike, laissez les bon temps rouler!

9) My cabby was a Nigerian gentleman who has been in New Orleans seven years. While pleasant, we both fell silent after about five minutes.

10) The hotel had sent a cute email to me a couple days before, basically saying “We can’t wait to serve you, but there is only so much we can do during Mardi Gras, and if your taxi can’t get you to the front door and you have to walk a few blocks, it’s not our fault.” And it turns out that’s exactly what happened, except for the addition of a fire truck blaring its siren right behind us. But it wasn’t far to walk.

11) The hubbub in the large hotel lobby made me think of everyone arriving at the Hotel Montoya in The Sun Also Rises — everyone eager for the bullfights, and the hotel prepared for combat. I was in line at the registration desk quite a while, which allowed me to see the full range of revelers, from T-shirts and beads to glitter and fringe to prom gowns to full-on white tie. A woman behind me chatted with me awhile and told me they’d been coming every year for years.

My 19th-floor view of Canal Street.

12) Finalmente, I was motioned to the front desk by a previously unseen young man with an elaborate skincare regimen, and of course expected to be handed my key; Daddy was starting to feel a bit impatient. But before that most essential act he had to a) thank me for my loyalty, b) get a credit card for incidentals, c) provide me two complimentary tickets for a tourist attraction across the street, d) explain the “destination fee” (an expensive way to be sure their restaurants stay in business), and e) a few other lengthy inconsequentials. At last I received my key.

12a) What he didn’t provide that I could have used is a tutorial on how to use the elevator. You can’t just press a button here . . .

13) It was meaningful to me to stay at this hotel because we had stayed here in 1977 for an amazing family trip. Daddy had to entertain customers for a supplier or something, and the dates worked out that we could all go to see the King Tut exhibition at the New Orleans Museum of Art on my 14th birthday. And Gramma went with us, too. The Tut exhibition, of course, was wonderful (and crowded) and that night Gramma and I sat together at one end of a horseshoe table at the hotel’s rooftop restaurant overlooking the bend in the Mississippi, and I had my first prime rib, and my first profiteroles. And I thought it would be fun to head up there for another good dinner.

13a) The restaurant isn’t there any more. I guess rooftop dining just isn’t a thing now.

14) Instead I pushed through the Quarter to a nearby restaurant I’d enjoyed before. They could squeeze me in on what was clearly a busy night, and I settled down to a Sazerac cocktail (in honor of Joan Crawford and David Brian in This Woman Is Dangerous), fried oysters, pasta jambalaya, and of course profiteroles.

Well, actually closed.

15) Afterward I strolled through the Quarter to Jackson Square and that most distinctive of American churches, St. Louis Cathedral. Groups of revelers or tourists were ambling about, some with guides. Already the pavement was scattered with a few broken strings of beads. But it had been a long day, and I was not afraid to turn my steps homeward for bed.

Meanwhile, back at the hotel . . .

16) But as a sign of what I was getting into, a parade was passing the hotel when I got back, and I could hear and see it all from my room on the 19th floor. It looked like I was in for quite a weekend!

Thursday Morning, 20 February -- Shredding

1) For a long time I have needed to “lighten my footprint” at Maison Robaire — how on earth have I lived here 21 years? — and with the arrival this month of a new shredder, it was time to get started. Long ago I got six plastic tubs to store papers, and last week I brought one up from the basement to get started.

2) In her wonderful memoir Wait for Me!, the Duchess of Devonshire described opening a drawer at Chatsworth and finding: “a miniature of Georgiana Duchess, a Women’s Institute program of 1932, a bracelet given by Pauline Borghese to the Bachelor Duke . . . and a crystal wireless set. It was like finding Christmas presents wherever we went.” I had no such deluxe discoveries!

3) In fact, the very first thing I saw was the memorial service program for my friend Hollis, who died almost 20 years ago — a poignant beginning. Hollis was so young, under 40, and one of the sweetest, kindest, campiest friends I’ve been lucky to have.

3a) I remember that service (in the chapel at ye Instytytte). I had been asked to speak about Hollis’s life outside work, as we’d known each other long before he came to ye Instytytte. Hollis had been a part of the local gay volleyball league, and there had been a dust-up with someone about who was “the one, true Monica Seles of Boston gay volleyball” that made it onto the letters page of Bay Windows. They published my takedown reply, which began “Which team of junior high school girls does [whatever his name was] belong to . . .” to Hollis’s delight. “Advantage, Hollis.” Rest in peace, dear.

4) As I fed the shredder old utility bills and outdated financial documents, it looked like it was roughly a time capsule from 2005-2007, but not entirely. And the large cache of Christmas cards yielded several names I had not heard from in many years: coworkers and volunteers from more than one job, elderly family members, and a couple people who just plain disappeared. I recognized two names of people who had died, and remembered happy times with them.

5) Somehow I didn’t expect all the photos, including from my 40th birthday dinner, vacations of the ’00s, reunion committee dinners, family photos from long before I was born, etc. And artwork, prints and postcards from museum visits as far back as 1980.

6) And did I mention the browning and crumbling copies of In Newsweekly, saved from when I actually got paid by print media for my alter ego’s column?

7) There’s also a slim sheaf of typewritten pagesclipped together with a note in Mother’s handwriting: “Anecdotes written by Mother (Beatrice Anna Houska Thorson) about experiences at the Port of L.C.” (After Grampa Al died in 1955, Gramma went back to work.) The first page includes the sentence “I didn’t dream that in the right hand top drawer of his desk he was still harboring a loaded six shooter with a few notches on the handle.”

8) Having gone through the entire box, I am pleased to say I reduced the contents by two thirds. I’ll take victory where I can get it. But it begs the larger question of what is the record of one’s life, and how is it, and its meaning, preserved? I cannot forget the last morning I spent in my parents’ house after a week of sorting and disposing with my sister, looking at the pile of Mother’s date books going back to 1973. That was a record of our family’s life, and it was so large and overwhelming — and I secretly somehow knew I would never look inside them. I did not want to leave them, but I knew I could not take on that mass. Not least, I realize even more now, because I’ve created a mass of my own.

Monday Morning, 3 February

1) Well, there is just nothing like starting your day with what looks like a phishing email using content from your own website. There are days I am just sick to death of the internet.

2) February is going to be a very busy month — even without the current National Turmoil — so I had better get cracking.

3) At least we have snow on the ground — something normal!

Saturday Afternoon, 1 February -- Today's the Day To . . . Remember Mother

1) Mother died six years ago today. There isn’t a day I don’t think about her, for any of many reasons and memories. I had a late brunch with two friends in Harvard Square today, and ordering smoked salmon avocado toast reminded me of teaching her how to make avocado toast at her last Christmas. One of her superpowers was to spread anything on bread and not miss a spot, so she was an ideal kitchen partner in this case.

2) Mother voted for That Man in 2016 because she genuinely thought we would all be safer with him in charge. She wrote a few people a letter about it, including me. (I’m sure I still have my copy somewhere in this house.) She did not live to experience the pandemic, nor see the violence of the insurrection. Now, having indisputably won the popular vote, he is making us unsafe in ways Mother could never have imagined. I often wonder how she would feel about how things have transpired in the last six years.

3) I go through all the old photos and I see her smile — Mother very much preferred photos when everyone was posed and smiling instead of candids — but I see her smile as she lived, not frozen in a frame. At her deepest core she was a truly good person who cared about other people and doing good in her community.

3a) In her last years she loved sharing her Six Word Story, an exercise the congregation went through at church. Hers was “Lost. Found. Saved by church family.” That, and the simplicity of “Pobody’s Nerfect” may be her best legacy.

Wednesday Midday, 22 January -- Today's Observances

1) Today, January 22, is National Polka Dot Day (I ask you), so of course there must be a viewing of Busby Berkeley’s deranged tribute, “The Polka Dot Polka.” This comes at the end of that aggressively Technicolor wartime extravaganza The Gang’s All Here, led by Alice Faye and Carmen Miranda with Edward Everett Horton, foghorn-voiced Eugene Pallette, and my beloved Charlotte Greenwood along for the ride.

1a) The entire movie is here. It’s more well known for Carmen Miranda’s show-stopping “The Lady in the Tutti-Frutti Hat.”

2) As if that wasn’t enough Old Movie excitement for one day, January 22 also happens to be the birthday of Hollywood’s Favorite **z*, Conrad Veidt. Rather than bring out Casablanca again (“Perhaps you have already observed that in Casablanca human life is cheap”), why not view Dark Journey instead? This World War I espionage thriller, costumed in 1937 chic, pits Swiss couturiere Vivien Leigh against German baron Veidt — but is everyone really who they seem to be? This was the movie Vivien made just before going to Hollywood and making GWTW, which changed everything. There’s also a passel of British character actors I recognize from The Scarlet Pimpernel and The Private Live of Henry VIII, but I won’t bore you with that.

Conrad Veidt and Vivien Leigh in Dark Journey. Set in 1918, costumed for 1937.

3) If you prefer a Hollywood film, tune in instead of Joan Crawford’s A Woman’s Face, in which Veidt plays her evil lover to perfection. That said, A Woman’s Face is no one’s best work (especially poor Marjorie Main and Donald Meek), but I’m fond of this movie for Albert Bassermann, Melvyn Douglas, and especially Osa Massen.

Conrad Veidt and Joan Crawford in A Woman’s Face.

Saturday Evening, 18 January -- 2024 Holidays, Etc.

The 2024 holidays were pretty much cancelled for me, so if you didn’t get a Christmas card — and it’s 99.99% likely you didn’t — I promise it’s nothing personal.

1) Christmas is going to change regardless. The beautiful, boisterous, cousin-crowded Christmases of my childhood are never coming back, and I really should have adapted myself to that a long time ago. That said, since Mother died in 2019, I love my snug little holidays for one in my own little house.

2) My karma got back at me for all that previous resistance to change last month, because you just haven’t lived until you’ve spent Christmas Day in the emergency room. That is definitely a change! Allow me to explain . . .

2a) I spent a lovely candlelit Christmas Eve at home, and was very much looking forward to two Christmas Day events: lunch at the home of an acquaintance (for which I had made a pear salsa) and Christmas dinner starting in the late afternoon at Dahling’s. But I noticed my eyes were feeling a bit puffy and sensitive . . .

2b) . . . and when I got up on Christmas morning my right eye was nearly sealed shut, never a good sign. Rheumy was the word, unattractive the appearance. Could I possibly go out looking and feeling like this? I made my excuses for lunch (challenging as the only way we had to communicate was IG), and texted Dahling with my uncertainty.

2c) And his response was “My husband is going to call you.” H is both knowledgeable and no nonsense, and he more or less ordered me to the emergency room at Mass. Eye and Ear. So I washed and dressed, grabbed my bag of Christmas gifts (for I still clung to the hope I could go to dinner), and into town I went.

2d) Mass. General I know reasonably, but I’d not yet been around the corner on Charles Street to Mass. Eye and Ear. I checked in, sat underneath a TV screen (so I didn’t have to watch it), and felt both my eyes get steadily harder and rheumier while I waited (and waited and waited).

2e) When I was finally called, the first thing I heard entering the emergency room was a screaming infant. I was escorted to a small dark exam room in the back, where I was seated in an exam chair that sort of really didn’t recline. With little to see, I concentrated on what I could hear, which was more than that screaming infant. (Because it was Christmas, I inevitably thought of “Little Lord Jesus, no crying He made” and “Suffer the children to come unto me.”)

2f) The resident had me position my head so he could examine my eyes by resting my chin at the base of a contraption to stablilize the head. He proceeded to look at my eyeballs with tiny bright flashlights, and rolled my eyelids down to collect some membranes. I realized that I was occasionally rearing my head back and had to keep reminding myself to stay steady.

2f.i) While this was going on I could also hear another patient, an adult woman, in another exam room. “Is she laughing or screaming?” I asked the resident — sometimes you just can’t tell. Before long she said something desperate (I can no longer remember what) along the lines of “You have to stop this,” and I said “OK, she was screaming.”

2g) You have probably already figured out the diagnosis: conjunctivitis, highly contagious. The only possible solution was to go right home with the antibiotic eyedrops they gave me. There went Christmas.

2h) I felt I had been exceedingly patient through this entire process, most of which had just been sitting and waiting. So I was both amused and annoyed on my way out to hear a man in the waiting room complaining to a nurse about how long he’d been there, “and I’m a veteran . . . ” “Well, I’m sorry, Sir . . . ” And I thought, Gurrrrllll, it’s Christmas Day! Obviously they are short handed. I get that you don’t feel well, but cut ’em some slack!

3) The week between Christmas and New Year’s is usually very special; it sparkles like snow in sunlight, full of promise and gladness. When I was still traveling for the holidays I would say “Christmas for family, New Year’s for friends.” And last month I had intended to fill that week with planning for 2025 and holiday cards. Instead I mostly remember quarantining at home, warm compresses, a rasping sore throat, refilling the humidifier, Kleenex, and not really having the brain power for anything.

4) New Year’s is my favorite holiday, period. This time New Year’s Eve was the date of my followup appointment. I couldn’t be sure how contagious I might still be, and I felt exhausted anyway, so I had to postpone my annual New Year’s Day tea and tarot to later in January, which made me sad. At the appointment the doctor gave me different drops to use for the next seven days. And that was that.

4a) So, this was my first New Year’s Eve alone in decades. I made the best of it by making myself a beautiful little dinner: cream of tomato soup, broiled herbed shrimp, roast beef with mushrooms (I forgot the potatoes), green salad, and Aunt M.F.’s pear cake for dessert. I had the last of the Madeira I brought back from Portugal with the soup, and a birthday-gift bottle of Champagne with everything else.

4b) Craig asked me “Are you going to stay up until midnight?” Later he described my FB response to this question as “indignant,” and I really don’t blame him. The entire point of New Year’s Eve is to stay up until midnight to See In the New Year. Not wanting to do this is close to heresy in my book, and yet that makes heretics out of many of the people I love most. I have always, always wanted to stay up until midnight on New Year’s Eve, and I hope I never change.

4c) While I was cooking I put on Sunset Boulevard, which includes one of the very best New Year’s Eve sequences ever. And a little post-prandial research revealed to me the loveliest gift: the musicians at Norma Desmond’s party playing “Auld Lang Syne” without any of the dialogue. [Insert Vigorous Tears of Appreciation Here.]

4d) This led me to dig out the Fireside Book of Folk Songs from the piano bench. “Auld Lang Syne” (pages 76-77) includes all four verses in what, because of this book, I will always consider its proper key, E flat major. (F major is the incorrect standard arrangement, but it’s hard to fight Guy Lombardo, the Musical Establishment, etc. . . . ) It is to be sung “Staunchly,” as God and Robert Burns intended.

4e) Now you must understand that I am unique among those I love (terminally unique, some might say*) in that I do not care about what goes on in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. And this year I didn’t have to notice Dick Clark (oh wait, he’s dead now) or Anderson Cooper or that other guy. When my laptop indicated the New Year, I played Norma Desmond’s “Auld Lang Syne,” croaking along quietly (my throat was in an awful state), and then texting several friends. I was in bed by 12:45 — which is perfectly fine.

5) New Year’s Day I’m afraid I had a ferocious hangover, which only reinforced that Champagne is a pleasure, not an obligation. Next year I’ll quit when I’m ahead! Thank goodness, I thought, that tea and tarot had been postponed until later, because I simply could not have faced hosting a party with a head that aching.

*Margo: “You’re terribly tolerant, aren’t you?” Bill: “I’m trying terribly hard!”

Monday, 7 October: Portugal, Day 22 -- Return Home

1) As has become my unhappy custom, I didn’t sleep particularly well the night before travel. But I was very prepared, and was in fact the third guest in the breakfast room for breakfast.

2) I went down to the lobby early with my bags, and happily my last Nice Man with a Car was already there, so we could hit the road early. I suppose I should have been more focused on the road, the scenery, or chatting with the driver, but instead I was drawn to Whatsapping with my hosts from Thursday night and that nice gentleman I met just before leaving Lisbon.

2a) Rush hour is the same the world over, and my driver found a couple shortcuts so I could still make my time. A deft strategy executed with insider knowledge.

3) Entering the airport terminal, I actually had to ascend one more staircase, toting all my luggage, because an escalator and ramps were roped off for maintenance or something. And I witnessed several people having a lot more trouble than I (but it appeared they were getting assistance). This is why I want to get the “big” travel out of the way before I’m 70.

4) Check-in and security went like a breeze — how lovely, how rare! I gather a flight to JFK had just been cancelled, so that was going to make life interesting at the ticket counters.

5) In Lisbon, as at other European airports, one must access the terminal through the duty free shop. The memory of toting those two liter bottles of gin through the Barcelona airport with the rest of my bags for 36 hours in 2022 rather put me off duty free this time.

5a) Eventually I found a sandwich and a stand-up spot to plug in my laptop and write. My space was quickly invaded by two young people, the male of which could not stop loudly sniffling. And then . . . and then I remembered the little packet of Kleenex in my laptop bag. Mother probably gave it to me once, so you can imagine how long I’ve been toting it around. I gave it to him and he was very grateful.

5b) The really neat thing about the Lisbon airport is their restroom signs. In America the female ped is distinguished by her triangular dress. In Lisbon (and perhaps elsewhere in Europe), she has two legs just like the man, but her head is shaped like an apostrophe for her longer hair. A genius design solution.

6) My passport must have been checked three times at three different places, but finalmente, it was time to board. There was quite a gap between “those who may need extra time” and the first boarding group were called.

6a) Adeus, Portugal! What a beautiful, comprehensive whirlwind it’s been! You’re utterly charming, but you’re a stern mistress.

7) The flight was long, the meal was good, the air was chill. Somewhere along the line — it might have been in Coimbra — I left behind my navy blue blazer. And since I was just wearing a linen shirt, I kept myself muffled in the blanket provided.

7a) I alternately read, napped, and watched Clueless for the first time in ages.

7b) We did have some turbulence here and there, but at least the captain warned us about it in plenty of time.

8) After landing, I had to laugh. The captain announced that because some flights were delayed because of the weather, we couldn’t get to a jetway and would have to disembark . . . down a flight of stairs.

9) And then . . . home! I had such a wonderful time away, but it was beautiful to walk back inside Maison Robaire, feel my own space — and later to sleep in my own bed. The cupboard was bare, so I ordered in a pizza.

10) Thus ends the journey. Thanks for following along!

Sunday, 6 October: Portugal, Day 21; Cascais, Day One

1) I was up on the late side, comparatively, and after I wrote my pages and showered, I went to the nearby breakfast room, already bustling with hotel guests. I found a table on the balcony facing the mainland and tucked into the extensive buffet.

2) Behind me two American couples of roughly my age were going on and on about an AirBnB in Honolulu that they had so much trouble getting to because a marathon that day blocked much of their route. “And then the owners had actually moved into the garage, to make that their home, and we had to walk by them every time we left, because they had to have the door open all the time for the light! Shouldn’t they have told us about that?” “Well, it’s generally in most of those contracts that the owner has to be on site . . .” Honestly, dear, wouldn’t you have been happier at the Hilton?

That’s Coco Chanel in the white beach pajamas next to my beloved Misia Sert.

3) The local cultural center, conveniently across the street, had an exhibition about Coco Chanel called “Beyond Fashion.” Less to do with Chanel than with the artistic influences and creative currents swirling around her — overall it actually felt really random and tangential — the real gold nugget of this show for me was a beach photo of Coco with my beloved Misia Sert, her best friend for decades. There they are with three other women on the beach at Venice (I think), Misia looking very elegant in dark striped clothes, Chanel looking unusually uncertain and casual.

4) Then I popped in and out of the little galleries and ateliers and bookstores around the hotel. At one of the latter I found my next book, a history of the Carnation Revolution, which I started immediately.

4a) While I was book browsing near the door, a man came in to ask the cashier questions about the royal palace across the courtyard: what was the tour like, how much was it, what was included, etc. etc. etc. I almost butted in to quote Dorothy Malone in The Big Sleep: “Wouldn’t it be easy enough to go across and [ask them]?” But that would Not Have Been My Place, and the cashier handled it all with patience.

I would gladly have this in my home.

5) As it happend, I didn’t see him when I joined a 2 PM palace tour, once royal, now the official residence in Cascais of the Portuguese president. It was first constructed within the Cidadella in the 1870s, and the Portuguese government maintains it lovingly — mostly as it was, but with incursions of modern art and modern technology. It was delightful to see the first presidential telephone (1931) in the billiard room.

The first telephone of the Portuguese president (1931).

5a) Really, it was all quite beautiful, including a great deal of the old royal china services (which are still used), and luscious antique furniture.

5b) I also learned an interesting tidbit about azulejos, the famous Portuguese tile. The president’s dressing room (once the queen’s, I think) is set with beautiful Spanish tiles. The guide told us that for good luck one of the tiles must be inlaid upside-down. And several of us found it before he pointed it out!

5c) The guide was quite good, a petite and precise man who spoke heavily accented English. I recall with pleasure one of his turns of phrase, the way he would describe a decade as “the fifties of the nineteen hundreds” or “the seventies of the eighteen hundreds.” I found that charming.

The dining room.

5d) My fellow tourists were mostly British or American. One man Possibly Older Than I had to be asked not to lean against the furniture. Later in the tour, I was standing next to him and his wife at the back while the guide was interpreting a smaller room in the front. This man leaned against an old carved table, and I had to whisper to him “I think they don’t want us touching the furniture.” I forget what he murmured to me. Believe me, I totally the get the need to sit down or otherwise take the weight off the feet! But not at the price of the exhibits, please.

5e) There were also two young parents with a little girl in a stroller. How they negotiated getting that stroller up and down the stairs I do not know. But the little girl became noisily restless just over halfway through, which was a challenge in the echoing dining hall and conservatory. Later I was pleased to see that a staff member — an elderly lady who played the role of the Boot, the end of the line — had taken mother and daughter under her wing, found a place for them to stash the stroller, and helped monitor the little one as she learned to walk through these rooms. How beautiful and professional of that staffer to take it all in stride!

6) It’s worth noting that both the museum things I did were free of charge because it was the first Sunday on the month. How nice!

7) Before leaving I took in a beautiful little show of landscape paintings, and took my photo by my last symbolic staircase of Portugal.

8) In the evening I had dinner in the hotel restaurant across the courtyard, reading about the Carnation Revolution and enjoying my last dinner in Portugal. The dinner was most notable for the volume of the TikTok videos two young women were showing each other two booths away. Take it away, girls!

9) Packing in the evening, I was glad I’d slipped in my backpack as a second carryon if needed. I didn’t do much shopping on this trip, but three bottles of wine do take up room.

Saturday, 5 October: Portugal, Day 20 -- Lisbon to Cascais

1) Packed up, I went to the front desk to see if I could convert a pile of change into one euro coin and fell into conversation with another guest who was looking for a box to wrap up a copy of Spare, Prince Harry’s memoir, for friends arriving that day — who would be checking into my room. He is taking a long time to circumnavigate the globe, and I referred him to My Vagabond Journey Around the World by Denis Franck. In 18 months Franck worked his way around the world in the years before World War I and had many adventures. I still have my copy from Boston Book Annex that I bought back in college.

2) I was ready early for the Nice Man with the Car, and off we went to Cascais. Adeus, Lisbon! You dazzled me with your charms and gave me quite a workout, and introduced me to a couple wonderful new friends. It’s just too bad you’re built on pleated ground.

3) En route to Cascais, we talked about New York, his honeymoon destination next year. “Tell me, sir,” he asked “do none of the hotels come with breakfast?” I said that wasn’t typically the American way, but encouraged him to consider the Algonquin, since the Red Flame diner was right next door.

The etiquette course I took never offered a specific guideline for this sort of soup service.

4) We arrived at the hotel, the Pestana Cidadella, a whisper after noon. To pass the time until my room was ready, I headed across the courtyard for a bit of lunch. I chose something on the menu that they didn’t have, which led me to order whatever was next after it. That turned out to be a Portuguese stew of beef cheeks (?) and potatoes, served in an iron pot with a cork through the potlid to make it easier to lift. Maybe not the best choice on what was turning into a hot and sunny afternoon, but it was still tasty.

5) The hotel is built inside the Cidadella (pronounced SEE da DEH la, not CHEE tah DEh la like the Italians), an old fortress. This means that the hotel is basically shaped like a C. My room was quite close to the spa and the breakfast room at one end of the C, but the lobby was at the other end.

5a) The hotel is also in an arts district, so the buildings around the courtyard house art galleries and bookstores, and they have good public art in and around the hotel.

Before I had completely scattered everything over the place.

5b) My room was the exact opposite of the Old World charm of my Lisbon hotel. Instead of 19th-century mouldings and French windows overlooking a park, here everything was sleek and modern and spare, and I had a small sitting area screened by a tall but porous hedge.

6) After I unpacked, I lay down for a bit and felt as sleepy as I ever did during the entire trip. It’s almost as if I was in a neutral transitory space between Portugal and home.

7) But I couldn’t let that keep me from the pool, and off I trekked, barefoot in trunks and a long-sleeved shirt, to find it down a long path of uneven paving stones occasionally scattered with surprise gravel. I had to pass a very small café just by the pool, where I noticed what used to be called a “hen party” enjoying themselves over a class of wine. Walking up a small flight of stone steps to the pool, it would appear they had left their towels and bags on ALL the loungers by the pool. Not one left —that’s what I call a jerk move.

7a) As it happened, the water was chillier than expected, but the sun warmer in the grassy spot not far away where I found an unoccupied lounger.

8) Later I did get out to see a bit of Cascais and have dinner. It felt like a good evening to be outside, and I found an unpretentious rooftop place where I had a steak and a good glass of red wine.

The Cidadella.

8a) And observed a real character. I first saw her as I was ushered to a table on this casual rooftop terrace, a woman with white-blonde hair, large sunglasses, and a brown leather jacket, at a table with her feet up on one chair listening to a very audible podcast. It’s bad enough to endure that behavior on the subway, but in a resort town like Cascais? Later she moved on to a phone conversation with someone, clearly aggravated about arrangements for the next day in Lisbon. “I couldn’t get tickets to that museum Michael liked.”

8b) Later she got up to find someone to pay her bill, and her posture surprised me. Tall, lean in an angular way, wearing black sneakers with white heels. Her walk communicated how unsure she was, and how urgent.

9) After dinner I wandered back to Santini’s for ice cream -- the chocolate and the hazelnut, please! Then I retreated to my neutral space, ready to record it all in my dreams.

Friday, 4 October: Portugal, Day 19; Lisbon, Day Four

1) All of a sudden, it was my last full day in Lisbon! And I still hadn’t seen one of the Big Sites, the Monastery of the Jeronimos. So that was going to have to be the plan regardless. After breakfast I found my way downhill to some muscular statuary and the metro to begin my journey.

Observe the muscularity.

2) Again, the miracle of Gyygle Maps + Exact Location got me mostly where I needed to go; I’ll spare you my typical confusion. But the train for the monastery was quite crowded.

2a) At the station at Belém, they didn’t mention that you had to walk on an overpass over a four-lane highway to leave the platform.

3) I got in the long-but-shorter line to see the interior of the church, and was pleased to recognize my guide from Wednesday, Fernando, walking by with his clients for the day. The church is very impressive, but the back was shrouded in scaffolding and construction noises. So I did not really get to be Up Close and Personal with Vasco da Gama.

4) Ye Ryck Styves in his guide had said that tickets could be bought at the next-door archeology museum . . . but it was closed indefinitely. IF YOU GO: There is now a temporary kiosk across the street, across a promenade from another ticket booth that has a small sign on it that said in Portuguese and English “We do not sell tickets to the monastery.”

4a) While I was waiting in the (short) line, I was approached by a bearded man with a woman in tow. “Do you speak English?” he asked. “Yes.” He then said they had two tickets but were in a rush to leave for the airport, and would I buy them. “I’m going to buy my ticket here,” I replied, looking down. In the words of the late Margo Channing, “What do you take me for? Little Nell from the country?!” One hears so much about pickpockets and other scams to fleece tourists . . . I’m not gonna fall for it.

5) Standing in line for 35 minutes (I timed it) between a German family in front of me and a gaggle of American women speaking in the “Like, y’know, omigod!” dialect. I was amused when one of them pulled out her Ryck Styves guide, identical to mine, to read aloud about the monastery. Just like Ruth Draper’s American tourist in her monologue “In a Church in Italy” (starts at 08:52.)

6) Finalmente, I made it past the staff checking tickets, and then through the entrance, up a very grand staircase, and the . . .

Another day, another staircase.

6a) . . . the main attraction, the cloisters of the Monastery of the Jeronimos. This space is a Portuguese National Treasure, make no mistake, as well as an Instagram Moment. Including me, about 90% of the visitors were engaged in taking selfies. But don’t be fooled — there was much to fascinate in the cloisters besides ourselves! Not only the carvings, but the proportions of the space - everything lent to the beauty of this enclosure.

Is this not majestic?!

7) The refectory is also open to the public, with its wainscoting of azulejos narrating Biblical stories.

8) I was out in approximately 25 minutes. But it was worth it.

9) Rain had begun, but I still sought out the Monument to the Discoverers, even if I contented myself with a selfie from a distance.

The church entrance via the bus parking.

10) Back in Lisbon proper, I did a little shopping and trudged back to the hotel through streets new to me, Old Residential Lisbon.

11) I just could not indulge in a NAP on my Last Night in Lisbon! So by 5 PM I was out the door, enjoying the evening light and two chocolate chip cookies and discovering busts marred by graffiti.

12) Passing the Church of Saint Roque, I decided to go in again, and had the good fortune to tour their museum of church treasures (which was closed when I visited the first time). It reminded me of The Name of the Rose: “The question is not ‘Was Christ poor?’ The question is ‘Should the Church be poor?’”

Oh my goodness. Not marred by graffiti, thank goodness.

13) My good fortune continued with an outside table at the famous Café Brasiliera, central to the tourist hubbub on a Friday night. A glass of wine and a smoked salmon sandwich with slices of orange (!) suited my mood.

The castle was illuminated -- probably more to hide the recent vandalism than for my last night, LOL.

14) But I was back in my room about 8:30 to be sure I was completely packed. The next morning I would leaving Lisbon for good.

Thursday, 3 October: Portugal, Day 18; Lisbon, Day Three -- Two Museums, One Dinner

Preface: Wednesday evening a friend who’s been following my trip pretty closely wrote to me “I don’t think you’ve enjoyed Portugal particularly. I’m not even sure you enjoy being abroad.” I responded to him “No, and I’m sorry to have made that impression. Portugal has yielded its riches to me — but this trip is also teaching me a lot about myself that is not happy.” This adventure has run on multiple tracks: Portugal Itself, vibrant, fascinating, crowded, and steep; Me in Portugal, by myself, eager to absorb everything around me while not knowing the language and anxious to do things correctly while not standing in someone’s way; and Me with Myself, confronting depression, aging, and parts of me that are Not Very Nice. I promise it has been a wonderful trip. All that’s what’s going on when I have to wait for the check too long or can’t figure out how to use a machine.

1) Thursday was always going to be a big day, for two reasons: the Gulbenkian, and a dinner invitation from an Instagram friend in North Lisbon. But how the day got structured didn’t crystallize until breakfast in the hotel’s little breakfast room, and I saw on the map that there was a Banksy museum not far from the Gulbenkian. I resolved to walk to the Gulbenkian and have lunch in their cafeteria after touring the galleries, then walk to the Banksy and see that, return to the hotel, and then take the metro to my dinner engagement. Finalmente, a plan!

With Pombal.

2) This meant turning right as I left the hotel instead of left — taking my trip in a new direction, the direction of a spacious and less steep section of Lisbon. Before long, I came to the roundabout centered by the enormous monument to the Marques do Pombal, who rebuilt Lisbon after the 1755 earthquake, among many other achievements.

3) This was at the foot of Edward VII Park, a wide green incline beautifully kept. Walking up in the sunshine, I saw groups of students clad in their black capes chanting (as part of a team-building or school spirit exercise, I guess), locals going about their business, and very few tourists.

4) A block away from the other side of the park I knew I would find El Corte Ingles, the Macy’s of southern Europe. I stopped in to see what they had in socks and underwear (one always needs to resupply while traveling). I generally prefer to look for underwear on my own, but this young saleslady stuck to me like a Portuguese chestnut. (Fernando had shown me chestnuts on the ground in Sintra the day before, their thorny husks looking like hedgehogs.)

5) This trip has taught me to become more comfortable with ye Gyygle Myps, and it got me to the Gulbenkian with minimal trouble. It amused me to arrive while one of the groundskeepers was immersed in the pond by the entrance, wearing his fishing waders to clean it out.

6) Calouste Gulbenkian’s taste and discernment were apparent from the very first gallery. If a museum could be called both subtle and sumptuous, this is it. Coins, textiles, tiles, paintings, what one friend would lump into the term “housewares,” everything was exquisite. I kept wishing my gramma was with me because it was the sort of collection she would have loved. This could have been Manderley, with Rebecca de Winter going from room to room saying “This I shall have, and this, and this,” just as the second Mrs. de Winter imagined.

From the Housewares Department. I would gladly have this in my home, except that it's about the size of an entire room.

6a) The galleries were not crowded, but of special note were two groups of very young school children, each in their own uniforms (navy blue and white gingham for one, some sort of polo shirts for the other), with the children very eager to answer questions. That always gives me hope for the future.

Can you imagine the effect of this orchid on a lady's costume?

6b) The best was planned for last, as the small and self-contained Lalique gallery was near the exit. I’d seen photographs of Lalique jewels before, but never like this! Revolutionary. I was especially taken with a very large white orchid that was part of a hair comb. The rest could be from a sensuous dream — or nightmare in equal parts, considering some of the insects Lalique modeled in jewels.

7) My English friends are fans of the Gulbenkian cafeteria, so downstairs I headed for lunch. I have to hand it to the cafeteria staff: it isn’t easy dealing with a population of guests who could speak any of a dozen ore more languages and maybe don’t understand Portuguese food. A French couple in front of me in line, maybe ten years older than I, were clearly anxious about how to order a sandwich; the lady kept walking back and forth in front of the counter to the sandwiches at the end, and the cafeteria lady had to keep repeating in English “Two slices is one baguette.”

Or this?!

7a) Even I had my troubles, as the daily special was not salmon (as it was on the chalkboard at the entrance), but perch. Oopsie! At the Gulbenkian, you pay first — they make that very clear — order, and then take your order number to a table. All the outdoor tables were taken, so I sat inside contentedly and pretended to read Fernando Pessoa.

7b) I had ordered sparkling water, the daily special (perch, potatoes, and something else beige), and a coffee. First the water came out, then about ten minutes later my perch, beautifully done. And then . . . Life passed by without my coffee. I had been ploughing furrows in my brain over an old problem, finding my eyes a little wet at times, observing the increasing crowd in the room, and in the line at the entrance. They would need my table for this influx, and I was just about to give up when I caught the eye of a waiter — and shortly I had my little espresso and could leave. It was very good.

7c) Museum shops can go either way. The exhibitions I’d just seen were so encouraging, but the gift shop didn’t offer as stimulating an array. Still, my ears perked up when I heard the cashier tell other customers (in English) that she had lived in Boston! So she and I had a nice exchange about New England (though she really lived in New Bedford).

7d) I almost missed the gardens, which were quite spare and beautiful and modern.

8) Residential Portugal is composed of a lot of tall apartments buildings on streets wider than where I’m staying.

9) All I really knew about Banksy was a) graffiti, b) cult following, and c) anonymous. The museum collection shown here impressed me more than I expected. Delicious, delicious irreverence.

Delicious, delicious irreverence.

9a) Their shop was better than the Gulbenkian shop, lots of tote bags with Banksy designs. But I still didn’t get anything.

10) I actually walked all the way back to my hotel and was I glad to get out of my shoes and put my feet up. The construction noise from next door was pretty bad, but I solved the problem with my earbuds and a Youtube loop of meditation music. I lay back in bed, and I think I actually slept a bit.

11) And when I woke up I started writing — and nearly missed my departure time for dinner. This was also going to be my first trip on the Lisbon Metro. The stations are so clean! I didn’t have many stops to take. One advantage over Spain’s system: the doors open automatically.

12) When traveling abroad, it’s an honor to be invited into the home of a local resident for a meal. Bruno and I had been Instagram friends for some time, but I had no idea he lived in Lisbon. He was really pleased to find out I would be in the city and almost immediately invited me to dinner with him and his husband at their home. Of course I accepted. And stepping out of the elevator to see the open door of their apartment and an unusual illuminated work of art began one of the most special evenings I’ve had in a long time.

12a) Bruno received me with a big smile and a big hug and introduced me to Carlos. The conversation started on exactly the right note. I was offered a glass of white wine and we enjoyed some hors d’oeuvres before Bruno retired to the kitchen to dish up.

12b) Our evening of conversation covered everything: American politics, recent Portuguese history (both of them were born just before the Carnation Revolution), my trip, their recent travel, our parents, Ava Gardner, art, stories so delightful and ephemeral I hope I get to hear them again. Entertaining at home was decidedly a theme — they love to welcome guests, and so do I.

12c) Bruno has mastered many traditional Portuguese recipes, and tonight he served a creamy shellfish soup and bacalhau a braz, the famous codfish dish. And I noted that they had actual fish knives with pointed blades for that course, so rare in the US. For dessert, pastel de nata and another Portuguese pastry called “cushions.” And I had brought a small box of chocolates from a chocolatier next door to my hotel.

12d) This was the first real conversation I’d had in a private room (as opposed to a car or a restaurant or a shop) in nearly three weeks. We kept it going in their sitting room after dinner. My enduring image of Bruno is of him sitting cross-legged on a beanbag chair, smoking a cigarette and talking and smiling.

13) They kindly and hospitably sent me home in an Uber. Driving by that large statue of Pombal, we saw a lot of cops, a busted motorcyle, and then a car with a caved-in windshield. Wow! The ambulance must have come and gone before we drove by. After I expressed my astonishment, the driver told me that three people had been killed the day before — but he meant with guns. It makes me relieved and anxious both that I haven’t followed the news much.

14) When I walked into the hotel foyer somewhere between midnight and 1 AM, I was very surprised to see the nice man at the desk. “Aren’t you supposed to be off at 8 PM?” I whispered. “Nine,” he whispered back. “But some guests had their flights cancelled, and they are arriving at 1 AM.” I felt bad for him. I’ve been in that place before.

15) This was a really special day, right up there with my excursion to the Douro Valley 300 years ago. I fell into bed, very happy.

A fountain in Edward VII Park.

Wednesday, 2 October: Portugal, Day 17; Lisbon, Day Two -- Sintra and Cascais

1) Into each vacation some rain must fall, as we know . . . but why on the day I was going to Sintra? This is when I needed to laugh a little louder, and I did.

2) I was downstairs a tick before 9 AM to meet my guide, Fernando, and we had the bonus of a driver, Rui, who really knew his stuff. We were off through Lisbon and over the bridge in record time.

3) When this excursion had first been presented to me I was told I would be seeing one of five particular sites in Sintra — which I expected they would tell me, and they were expecting me to tell them. Oopsie! So after I suggested Pena Palace and was told “No — lines,” I quickly said “Moorish Castle.” The tickets were arranged en route.

4) Fernando gave me a lot of the local history, but the topic turned to local life and involved all three of us, especially when we came to standstill traffic. I don’t know what was going on, but it was not everyday traffic. Somehow Rui found a way out for us — you’ve got to hand it to skilled drivers — and we wound our way into foggy Sintra.

The fog did clear enough for this marvelous view of Sintra from the Moorish Castle. I half expected the Von Trapps to appear.

5) I heard “Moorish Castle” and thought “Ooh! The Alhambra!” Whereas the Moorish Castle of Sintra is more ruined medieval fort featuring Portugal’s most distinctive topography: endless flights of stairs. You might say the fog impacted the view, too, LOL. But their were a few stunning moments, and I have to say, after the crowded urban bustle and absence of greenery in Lisbon, this nature hike provided a sense of calm and grounding.

5a) Also the fear that John Cleese would pop up and give us a good sound taunting.

We turned left after this bit and did not ascend. The Trojan Rabbit could have been hurled at us any moment.

5b) My acrophobia kicked in crossing a battlement with Certain Death on one side and mossy crenellations on the other, so I chose to forego seeing the upper part of the castle. Fernando and I hiked through the forest to the parking lot, and Rui wound us downhill into Sintra proper.

6) Sintra is made charming through its architecture. We found a superb bonus for me in a bench topped by a medieval lion that could be a brother of Reggie, the lion at Scrivelsby. (The nickname comes from the family motto, Pro rege dimico, which means “I fight for the king.”)

7) Then the rain came down in earnest, and Fernando and I ducked in to the little local church, Saint Somebody or Other. Here, Our Lady of Sorrows in one of the side chapels nearest the altar commanded my attention. The (empty) marble font at the back had its basin divided in two with a slim marble slab. “Is that so they could have still or sparkling?” I asked. (Fernando may have countered with “Water or wine,” but I am writing this on Saturday . . . )

The bisected font.

8) We then had lunch on the large veranda of a nearby hotel. Excellent chicken and white wine for me, while Fernando had the octopus. No, not calimari, actual octopus with tentacles. I was impressed.

Made it!

9) Next stop: Cabo da Roca, the westernmost point of continental Europe. The fog probably kept a lot of people away, but there was still a clot of people eager for their photos by the marker at the point. And why were they so eager? Because a young woman was being indulged with an Instagram photo shoot with her dog. I swear we waited five minutes for her to get what she needed with the dog. I may have jumped ahead of others because a) there was no clear line, b) I knew I was not going to take more than five seconds (and we didn’t), and c) . . .

9a) . . . I also needed to use the westernmost restroom of continental Europe. Which I did, finally, after tangling with the ticket machine and the turnstile and the small group arguing with the old woman who was in some sort of authority. It reminded me of getting the handle of my tote bag stuck in the turnstile of the Madrid station restroom, and having to pay again to get it out.

In Cascais, a mural made of recycled plastic by a famous street artist, Bordalo II.

10) After a brief walkaround in Cascais — where I would be moving in a couple days, and including the Mouth of Hell (on the coast), street art, and ice cream from Santini’s — we made it back into the city. En route I asked Fernando about housing in Lisbon, and basically the market sounds just as bad as it is in Boston.

11) Realizing that my time in Lisbon would be over before I knew it — and also being surprised I didn’t feel sleepy — I headed out to act on some of Leonor’s suggestions from Monday afternoon. That included buying a couple azulejos at XVIII, enjoying a boulevardier in the upstairs bar at Palacio Chiado, and finally getting to have a proper dinner at Faz Frio. Somehow they were able to squeeze me into a table near the door, and it was great to pick up on the vibe there. I had some marvelous steak and garlic dish with a fried egg on top (but no Spam), and then the Portuguese Licor Beirão, light and complex, a good choice.

12) So . . . it was quite a day!

At the Palacio Chiado. Check out those murals!

Tuesday, 1 October: Portugal, Day 16: Lisbon, Day One

1) This was going to be a day guided by Rycke Styves, the Baedaker of the 21st century, using two of his neighborhood walks to see some of the important sites. Inevitably I got lost, found my way again, covered ground from Monday, retraced my steps — and saw pieces of a vigorous and colorful and crowded and steep city.

José Marti. Note the graffiti in the background. All Portugal has been tagged.

2) It didn’t take long for me to make a wrong turn, but the advantage was I ended up in a pretty little park featuring a bust of Cuban national hero José Marti. And why not?

3) Shortly I was back on track and facing the Monumento aos Restauradores, the usual 19th-century obelisk — no home complete without!

At the base of the obelisk. We need more of this.

3a) This square is a popular spot for large tourist buses to load and unload.

4) The coffee at my bed and breakfast — it’s strong but it’s thin — and when I saw a Styrbyck’s at the Rossio Station, I went in to order a flat white, which was very satisfying.

5) I ended up exploring the station levels, but then realized I needed to go back into the square. This led me to follow the tracks of one of the yellow funicular trolleys. At the top, I looked about and had to laugh; I had popped out at the scenic overlook a couple blocks from my hotel. I’d made a roundabout without knowing it.

The exquisite side chapel of St. John the Baptist at the church of St. Roque.

6) My next stop was the beautiful Jesuit Church of St. Roque with its elaborate side chapels and flat ceiling with rather theatrical trompe l’oeil murals. Dark, quiet when the tourists allowed it. I did sit in the center of the church for a period of contemplation.

6a) And the church’s collection of relics is quite impressive.

7) The ruins of the Carmelite monastery — destroyed in the famous 1755 earthquake — became an archaeology museum in the 19th century. When I entered there were an awful lot of uniformed military types standing around. It appears some sort of commissioning or graduation ceremony had taken place (or had been rehearsed). There was also a cat.

The cat, for the cat lovers.

7a) They have managed to collect some interesting bits of historic stone here. Also, an impressive film projection of the history of the site.

8) The shoe store I passed did not have size 46.

Lunch at Trindade.

9) By happy chance I had passed a restaurant called Trindade — and I remembered that New York friends had recommended it. So I went for lunch and had a small steak the shape of Ohio in a wonderful sauce followed by a toucinho do céu for dessert and an espresso.

9a) The décor is really something — but the men’s room plumbing could use a few partitions.

It's all about accessorizing.

10) Then I got lost for a bit, as I do, but after some plodding and misdirection I ended up at the Lisbon location, the Praça de Comércio. The enormous statue of King José I takes up all the focus, including from the birds. Thank goodness he’s already wearing a helmet with feathers, so when extra plumage takes a perch it adds a bit of Josephine Baker to his look.

10a) Also, fabulous sculptural groups of people being trampled by a horse and an elephant. Drama!

11) The next stop on the tour was the church of Saint Nicholas, which I found easily. Again, a church where the focus was on prayer and the community and not on sightseers. It was useful for me to spend some time in contemplation here.

The ceiling of St. Nicholas.

12) Before I knew it, I was doing a double take. Hadn’t I seen that Starbucks before? Wouldn’t you know it, I’d made it back to the Rossio Station, where I’d had my flat white in the morning! And I was feeling flattened by all the walking.

13) But when I finally got back to my room, the drilling from next door made such a ruckus . . . oh, I hadn’t mentioned that, had I. There’s a major renovation of an old building next door, right next to my room. Had I known about this in advance, I wouldn’t be staying here. But I was texting with a friend who said “Why stay in? Go out for a bevvie!” And thankfully there was a barstool I could squeeze on to at Faz Frio (which always seems so full), and I tossed back a bit of rosé to start the evening.

14) Certain people I know have come out of the woodwork as devotées of fado, and would not be happy if I missed it in Lisbon (despite my having been in Coimbra). So I booked a ticket at one of the fado places recommended by ye Cyndé Nyst for 8:30. Finding it was easy enough. But . . . there was exactly no one and nothing to confirm that I was in the right place. A fairly large low-ceilinged dining room full of people and servers rushing about, but no hostess or maitre d’ or even a sign. Finally another couple arrived, and their guide just charged in to find someone to take care of us.

14a) Long story short (too late!), the fado was incredible. Three singers, the first being a man, and three or four guitarists. The food was exquisite, an extensive tasting menu. But being a lone diner in a room full mostly of large groups meant that I was a bit of an afterthought. This was confirmed when I was served my soup just as the lights were going down for the next set . . . with no spoon to eat it. I thought “Well, the lights are off, no one is going to see me if I just pick up the bowl,” but that would not have been Perfectly Proper. The waiter rushed over with a spoon and an apology as soon as the lights came back up.

The second singer. What a powerful talent.

14b) In a live performance it’s important to show respect for the artists. At the start of the first set, one of the women singers reminded the audience that silence during fado singing is an important part of the tradition. But some American tourists in one of the large groups, male and female, did not get the message. The singer paused, waiting for the silence to begin the set, but the silence did not come. After about ten seconds of them Not Getting the Message, a flurry of ssshhhhhhhes from all over the room let them know they needed to Show Some Respect.

14b.i) And before you chide me gently for taking a photo during a performance, it was announced at the beginning that photos without flash were permitted, but not video.

14c) And then we were brought into the plaintive world that is fado. I can’t describe it beyond saying that it comes from the depths of the heart. I was so surprised (first in Coimbra, but again here) that the song we know as “Avril en Portugal” is a fado song.

14d) The bonus of the evening came after the third set. The groups in the front of the room left (they had arrived well before I), while I had yet to get my last two courses. But I lingered long enough for an unexpected fourth set with all three singers, a nice bit of lagniappe.

15) It had been an intense day! I walked back to the hotel through a throng of tourists and other partyers in this active city.

At the Carmelite convent. I had to wait quite a while to get this without other people in it.

Monday, 30 September: Portugal, Day 15: Portimao to Lisbon

1) Up on time, completely packed, and another sunny breakfast al fresco complete with gulls eager to crash the party. The staff take it in stride, standing like sentinels at momentarily vacant tables to protect the food.

My last dawn on the Algarve.

2) And . . . we’re off! Adeus, Portimao! My days with you restored my equilibrium.

3) I read and wrote most of the drive up to Lisbon, occasionally appreciating the scenery. I do remember driving by some transmission towers that featured very large bird’s nests. I didn’t see any birds, but those nests were large enough for storks.

4) And then Lisbon appeared over the horizon, complete with Christ the King. The excitement! My final week of this adventure was really beginning.

Isn't she fabulous?

5) My bed and breakfast was giving a combo of Emily and Cornelia’s Parisian pension in Our Hearts Were Young and Gay and my basement studio on Beacon Street back in the early 1990s. Friends had recommended it, it’s well situated, and I had insisted on it. As Phil Harris said in The High and the Mighty, “. . . the nice little hotel that fit our budget.”

5a) The casa is really the first floor (American second) of an old building that also contains a language school and who knows what else. The Parisian vibe comes from the cage elevator inside the old grand staircase and the timed light switch that turns out the light after five minutes — “Gallic efficiency.” My room has 14-foot ceilings with beautiful mouldings, pale green walls with celadon green panels, a crystal chandelier that could use some polishing, and two tall windows overlooking the active street and the botanical garden across the way. After a week at the beach, this is very urban.

6) Successfully unpacked, I stepped outside at a whisper before 1 PM, and there was Leonor, my guide for a food-tasting tour. We proceeded into the neighborhood over the distinctive Portuguese pavement of rough-cut black and white mosaic cubes.

7) It quickly became apparent that this week in Lisbon was going to take me out of my comfort zone over two deep-seated fears: being in the way, and crossing streets into oncoming traffic. Lisbon is an international capital city, but some of these sidewalks are so narrow they could be in Provincetown. As to traffic, Leonor told me right off that more people die getting run over in Lisbon than anywhere else — which was not exactly comforting — but pedestrians have the right of way (as long as they are in the crosswalk). It’s always my instinct to yield to the car since it’s big enough to kill me. But waiting on cars is rather not done, so I have some adjusting to do.

The improbable appearance of Joan Crawford.

8) Well, my goodness. Leonor knows her food, and she knows this area, and she just could not have been more delightful and engaging. First she brought me to a small place reasonably close to my hotel, Faz Frio, where we tried tempura green beans and pica-pau beef. Then it was off to a charming and tiny old-fashioned grocery store for sheep’s cheese and freshly grilled chorizo with bread. This little grocery had two features: a parakeet named Zé in a cage outside by the door, and photo of Joan Crawford (!) hung up behind the counter. Not autographed, just a photo. But how unexpected!

Zé!

8a) We saw a lot of other sights on our journey: scenic overlooks, old-fashioned trolley cars, and of course retail. And of course pastel de nata. Our final destination was restaurant called Corrupio where we enjoyed oysters and vinhos verdes, and I was made to have a delicious codfish fritter and — oh mercy, that ice cream dish was so good I don’t remember what it was called!

8b) Our return trip took a different route (which was good), and I saw and heard very much. By the time I returned to my hotel, I discovered that I had spent 90 minutes over and above our scheduled time together. We ended up sharing a lot, and I hope her guidance will turn out to be a good omen for my week here.

Freshly filled pastel de nata, ready for the oven.

9) Active listening in an active environment took a lot out of me, and I needed some quiet time before I could consider going back out. When I did, night had fallen and the energy of the city had changed to that of People Younger Than I. I covered a lot of the ground Leonor and I did, but from the opposite side of the street. People were spilling out of restaurants we had passed earlier, drinking wine at to-go windows on the sidewalk, at café tables, everywhere.

10) I just kept walking, uncertain about where to go. And then . . . there was a bookstore! A famous one, I guess, Livraria Bertrand. And they had books in English! And I needed a new book having just finished the last one yesterday! So what did I pick up? The Age of Disquiet by Portugal’s greatest poet, Fernando Pessoa. And it is already promising to be devastating.

11) One advantage of my evening ramble was finding where an Fnac was, as I need to replace my Apple smartphone charger. It’s the little things . . .

Outside Livraria Bertrand.

12) Long story short, I finally found a restaurant fairly near my hotel called Lost In — and that felt appropriate on this night. The place has a commanding view of the city, and they gave me the farthest corner table in the place, which was perfect. I ordered a smoky negroni and the duck, which turned out to be very thin slices of duck draped over a mound of rice and other savory things. I was then talked into a chocolate tart with red berries. Again, my equilibrium was restored.

Sunday, 29 September: Portugal, Day 14: Portimao, Day Two

1) I had long considered a trek to Praia de Joao de Arens, which would have involved either walking an hour each way (or downloading Uber; Lyft is not in Portugal), picking my way in sneakers down a cliff path described as “risky” and then back up again, etc. etc. All while being a 60-year-old man traveling in a foreign country alone and not knowing the language. My English friends successfullty dissuaded me.

2) After actually writing a column, I went down to breakfast, where it was warm enough to eat outside. As the late Dowager Countess of Trentham famously said “They always send up a good breakfast here.” The pastry stand and other good things certainly attracted me . . . and the local seagulls. They would stand or perch on the balcony light fixtures glaring for baked goods. A waitress guarded my table while I went to the buffet. But later in the morning, when the couple sitting next to me left, a gull swooped in to snatch a giant croissant and flew off in the blink of an eye. I wish I’d been able to get a photo!

3) In the early afternoon I returned to the beach and rented another lounger, three rows back as the first two were already full. I always bring a pen and a notebook in case I’m inclined to write, but really . . . the sun and glare send my brains dribbling out my ears.

4) Eventually I took a promenade to the far end of the beach, and considered body types and European swimwear. For all the American hoopla about Europe being the land of topless beaches, I only saw five topless women on the beach in three days. One woman of my age was promenading with friends in a pair of shorts and what was very obviously her bra, not a bikini top. What is more usual is the tanga-style bikini, which pretty much completely exposes a woman’s buttocks.

4a) Straight American men are allegedly afraid of European beaches because all the men wear speedos, but they have nothing to be afraid of. The scourge of board shorts made it over here long ago and it afflicts men of all ages and figures. But there were also speedos and squarecuts about, also on men of all ages and figures. And I said to myself “I am a 60-year-old man in a 40-year-old speedo, and I do not give a damn.” But would I feel the same way in Ogunquit?

5) My alter ego recently asked Instagram readers what bothered them about the beach. “Noise” was one of the responses. And after awhile, the Portuguese chatter of a Quartet Younger Than I behind me, and the beach vendor consistently hollering that song “Guantanamera” made me crave another environment. So I packed up, climbed the ~90 (!) stairs from the beach back to the hotel, and camped out for an hour or so at the hotel pool. Now this was a luxurious experience, starting with the quiet. There were only perhaps a dozen people there, not talking at all. The pool got more action from the seagulls than from us! And I couldn’t have ordered an aperol spritz on the beach.

5a) Here I finished A Very Short History of Portugal. Shocker: the importance of tourism to Portugal’s economy was never mentioned.

Enjoying the golden hour.

6) After a lovely long soak in my lovely long bathtub, I had another aperol spritz on the terrace near the pool, enjoying the golden hour, and then drifted back down the beach to the restaurant where I’d had dinner the night before. And there I witnessed another beautiful beach sunset, gentler than yesterday’s, and punctuated a couple times with the wheeling of the seagull flock.

6a) That reminded me of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, which made such an impression 50 years ago. Members of the flock were called to center for either Pride or Shame, and Jonathan Livingston was so very surprised when he was called to center for Shame — not what he was expecting.

7) Dinner — melon and prosciutto followed by shrimps and rice — was also punctuated by the occasional screams of a baby at a nearby table. Part of a large family party, later in the evening I saw the baby in question in his father’s arms, quietly enjoying the boardwalk. Actually seeing the baby makes me more sympathetic than when I just have to hear it.

8) This time I returned to the hotel via the street, and dropped into the nearby gelateria for a scoop of dessert. Another level of consciousness opened to me when I discovered they had Ferrero Rocher chocolate gelato.

9) The late evening I spent packing. This is the end of my second week in Portugal, and tomorrow begins my time in Lisbon. And packing, I realized that as more and more time goes by on this trip, the less and less I care about whether or not anything is wrinkled.

Saturday, 28 September: Portugal, Day 13: Portimao

1) Before breakfast I went down the street to the pharmacy for sunblock. The pharmacist was a very nice lady, a native of Lisbon, and we had a nice conversation about her city and about Portimao. I gather I was wise to avoid August, when it is both hot and crowded.

2) Can a breakfast be both delicate and sumptuous? I went down almost as soon as the breakfast room opened, when it was just brisk enough that an indoor table was preferred. A little stand of pastries, a thin tray of three tiny cakes, a tiny bowl of berries and a tiny cup of yogurt, and an array of condiments were put before me. And then coffee with milk. (I sometimes forget that one must specifically order it with milk, but I still haven’t had a bad cup of coffee here.) Later a single small egg Benedict with a cloudlike hollandaise was served me. Lovely as it all was, I left the table feeling full.

3) But not so full that I would not circumnavigate the beach again. The hotel has two access points, and I chose the western one down a long flight of stairs (of course — Portugal) and through a gate to the boardwalk. The beach was already quite full of people of all shapes and descriptions engaged in all levels of activity, from jogging and games to sleep.

3a) Today I went all the way out to the jetty with its small lighthouse. The view of the beach from there is complete — a wide, broad beach surrounded by a tall ring of hotels, very like Waikiki.

3b) Oval temporary buildings appear here and there along the boardwalk at back, kind of like giant cannelloni. They house beach bars and restaurants and the occasional shop.

4) Feeling low energy (in a good way), I opted to rent a sun bed on the beach for the afternoon. The hotel staff said “Just sit down on one and whoever is in charge will approach you to pay.” I half expected some bullying termagent to come shouting at me for trespassing, but instead it was a polite young man who just asked “One or two [sunbeds]?” I paid my money, and that was that!

4a) I’d brought my towel, sunblock, journal, notebook, pen, two bottles of water, and A Very Short History of Portugal, which I am nearly through. But sometimes it was more interesting to observe the passing scene.

4a.1) In fact directly in front of me was a family group unwittingly forming some sort of religious allegory. Picture if you will a large rectangle of beach towels. In opposing corners, two young women sunbathing, one facing me, the other facing away. In the center, two male/female couples focusing most of their attention on the elevated figure in the center: a baby boy seated high in a navy blue stroller under a white umbrella. It could very easily have been the Holy Family with, for instance, Zacharias and Elizabeth, and flanked by two female saints. Paul Cadmus would have done it superbly.

4a.2) More prosaic was the German man two sunbeds over who sounded as though he was on a business call. Neither the time nor the place, honey. Take it inside.

4a.3) A few vendors promenaded back and forth, too, hawking T-shirts and beach throws, T-shirts and beads and other things. One of them just could not stop chanting the first two lines of a reggae song.

5) I did get in the water, of course. Brisk! Unwilling to leave my phone behind, I’d come prepared with a waterproof plastic sleeve on a lanyard. Yes, a bit awkward — but much more awkward for the phone to get stolen. Happily the sleeve is truly waterproof.

6) After about four hours I went back up to my room, pink but not too pink, for a soak in my very long bathtub.

7) From social media I learned that back at ye Instytytte it was the Big Annual Volunteer Conference, which was such an important part of my professional calendar once. That inspired me to look up one of my, um, more difficult volunteers. Turns out he died at midsummer, and parts of his obituary were a masterpiece of euphemism. (I can only hope people will be so kind at my death.) He was a holy terror, but we came to respect each other over time because we both had aspirations for a more elegant and polished style. Which I think he would be surprised to see that our successors have achieved, just not in quite the way he envisioned it. Rest in peace.

7a) No, this is not the Remarkably Vital Personality some of my may remember me mentioning several years ago.

How it started.

8) The hotel had recommended two restaurants, and the one I chose turned out to be in one of the cannelloni buildings at the far end of the beach. It was a good dinner: a savory fish soup, steak fried in butter and garlic, and then a bit of ice cream with chocolate sauce. The spectacular sunset commanded attention, especially near the end, when the darkening rust-orange tail of her train was fading away at the far end of the beach.

How it ended.