Monday, August 15: Seville to Málaga

1) The sound of the cathedral bells was inescapable in the hotel, even with my window closed. I could hear them in the corridor even! Which I actually loved, because of the novelty. But I wonder how the locals manage.

2) In the breakfast room, tucking into a big hotel breakfast, I saw a father and some children come take over a table. And a minute or so later, a voice: “We seem to see you everywhere.” That was the mother, passing my table with her plate, and it turns out this was the family I saw on segways the day before!

This fan, in a window near the perfumer’s, is decorated similarly to a vase from my gramma’s house.

3) I lingered for half an hour near that perfumer’s shop hoping they would open, but no dice. She must have decided to remain closed for the Feast of the Assumption.

4) The nice man at the front desk called me a cab that appeared instantly at the hotel entrance (from the correct direction, I guess). The cabby, a very slim young man in a tight pinkish T-shirt, was definitely giving off a vibe, and we had a pleasant multilingual conversation en route to the station.

The severe geometry of Seville train station.

5) Adios, Seville! I will truly miss you and I hope to return.

6)Then after a quick train trip, Hola Málaga! A brisk cabby, the first woman I’ve had drive a cab on this trip, took charge of me and delivered me only five minutes away to my next hotel, the Málaga Palacio Nacional. This is definitely the largest and most active place I’ve stayed, and it was also the first time I’ve seen traditional Spanish culture . . . hmm, is burlesqued too strong a word? The ladies staffing the front desk were wearing traditional flamenco blouses and blue plastic combs and flowers in their hair. I think this isn’t an everyday uniform for them but part of the very active celebrations of the Feast of the Assumption, but it was still a surprise.

6a) My fourth floor room included a balcony (my first) with a beautiful view of other hotels across the street. Only later when I went out on it did I realize that if I turned left I could see the port, and right and see a corner of the cathedral.

7) To make the best use of my time, I took almost right away to the local Picasso Museum. Picasso was actually born in Málaga — who knew? I passed a lot of hoopla and hijinks in the street to get there, and of course got a bit lost, but it was still quite close to the hotel. The vibe in Málaga was effervescent; it felt like there was dancing and music in every square, and lots of ladies in full on flamenco gear.

8) The Picasso Museum has an amazing collection of his work, from every period of his work. Some of his earlier work shows such tenderness, particularly portraits of his first wife and his first son. And then . . . Cubism!

9) As interesting was a special exhibition of the Spanish artist Paula Rego, who of course I had never heard of.

10) The exit to the museum is in an entirely different part of the building from the entrance, and I found myself facing a Roman amphitheatre at the foot of the Alcazaba (I think). But at that point Daddy needed some food, and I twisted and turned through the streets looking for someplace likely. The restaurant I found produced a delicious meal — Iberian ham and quail eggs on toast, and some sort of cutlet with fries mushrooms — but the waiter was kind of not interested in my table.

10a) But it was here that I was introduced to the delightful tinto de verano recommended by my friend Eric. “The red wine of summer” is basically red wine and lemonade (or lemon-lime soda) served over ice. And it’s summertime perfection, let me tell you!

11) Later in the evening, but before sunset, I decided to go up to the hotel rooftop pool for a drink. In Seville I had the expansive roof almost to myself. In Málaga, I was lucky to find a chair. An active happening scene, complete with DJ, glamorous young crowd from all over, and waiters filling drink orders. I felt underdressed and frumpy, but at least I had on my red espadrilles.

11a) Speaking of underdressed, there was a woman there — once we used the phrase “a lady of a certain age” — in Daisy Dukes, low-cut white top, wicker cowboy hat, deep tan, and Cleopatra eyeliner. She was getting a visible amount of deference from the management, and so did the younger woman and little girl who joined her later. A young couple with a table at the railing were asked to move to accommodate them. I kept wondering who she was that she was getting all this attention.

11b) It was also extremely windy up there on the 15th floor. Paper lanterns strung over the pool had taken quite a beating; one was already broken at the bottom of the pool, like a discarded and very large bikini top. I was content, relieved really, to finish my drink and return to the comforts of my room closer to the ground. There’s no sin in an early night.

Sunday, August 14: Seville, Day Two

1) My visit to Seville was ill-timed in that a) my one full day there was a Sunday, and b) Monday, my departure day, was the Feast of the Assumption, which is a big deal in Seville. So not everything I might have wanted to do was available to me.

2) After a big hotel breakfast, I sallied forth to the Playa d'Espanya, which a few people told me I needed to see since it had been used as a set in Star Wars. OK then! It appears to be a semi-circular building of the 19th century containing at its lowest level a series of niches, one for each principal town in Spain it seems, paved with ornamental tile sharing a significant event from the town's history. It's free, and attractive to tourists of all languages and the vendors who serve them with refreshments, souvenirs, and entertainment. And also those women with sprigs of rosemary. There's quite a lot to observe and assimilate here, including a moat or a canal or something where you could rent a boat to row.

3) The day was getting hot, and I continued through the spacious garden park that Google Maps said stretched to the river, from which I was going to turn right and go to the Torre del Oro. This park, too, was filled with shade trees and palms, rose beds, ornamental water pieces and fountains. This time, the bird life was more varied, encompassing swans, a flock of white pigeons, mallard ducks, and even Muscovy ducks, just like the kind that used to swim by our camp on the Toledo Bend reservoir in Texas.

Muscovy ducks!

3a) Sitting on a bench under a pergola, I was made aware without anyone actually saying anything that I was sitting in a photo op. How fortunate for me, as moments after I moved from that spot, a family of five with a guide passed through on their segways, and one of the young girls fell down nearly at my feet. So much for that photo op, Spanish tourists! I moved a little further away as the guide instructed them further about segway use.

4) My garden wanderings brought me to a slightly different spot on the river than expected, but I could still find my way up the Guadalquivir River. My next destination was the Torre del Oro, which has been around since God was a boy and is now used as a naval museum. This is not one of those super-high and narrow towers like Sagrada Familia, so I felt I could manage it . . . but when I came to the top, I didn't approach the parapet, nor continue to the very highest level.

Not getting any closer to the edge!

4a) It was also delightfully air-conditioned.

5) You can't love Carmen as I do and visit Seville and not go to a bullring. I, having planned nothing in advance for Seville, forgot this until the Plaza del Toros was just right there in front of me. So I bought a ticket and enjoyed a series of exhibits on the history of bullfighting, amusing ornamental tile, and a sun-blasted moment in the arena before departure. Not once was I tempted to say "Olé!" thank goodness.

6) Tile had been on my mind to seek out in Seville, and I had targeted a couple places on the other side of the river. Alas, being Sunday, the shops were closed, but the little tile museum was open, and they had a very interesting collection. But they didn't have a shop.

One of the mens room tiles at the bullring.

7) Besides Carmen and bullfighting, the other thing Seville is known for is oranges. Back on my side of the river, I sought out a little perfumer to try to take with me the scent of Seville. After a lot of wandering around, I found the shop, closed for Sunday.

7a) But I did discover that a lot of these narrow streets are roofed by canvas awnings to deflect the sun -- ingenious and elegant.

8) After a drink on the hotel terrace, my path to a recommended restaurant took me by the cathedral -- and its door was open! I'd already missed my chance for a guided tour the day before, and because of the Feast of the Assumption, there would be no tours on Monday until after my train left. So I joined the people entering and got my only look at this incredible house of worship.

I can take a hint . . . rumors to the contrary.

8a) But I did notice the sign on one monitor, in four languages, that read "The Holy Mass is being celebrated at this moment. PLEASE DO NOT ENTER if you do not intend to participate in the service. Thank you for your understanding." While I was clearly far from the only tourist who'd seized the opportunity, I took the hint.

Really, everyone wanted a look inside this incredible church.

9) A gin and tonic and tapas at a sun-blasted place near the river passed the time until the restaurant I had been recommended to for dinner, Taberna del Arenal, set out all its tables. It was OK -- I don't even remember what I had now -- but what I remember most was a family party of seven (one nonna, two young couples, and two toddlers in two very large strollers -- clustering around a table for four next to me, and the happiness exchanged between the nonna and her grandchild in the stroller nearest me.

I mean really, so many smartphones. But who am I to judge, as I was using my phone to take this photo?

10) Walking back to my hotel after dinner, I noticed people lingering in the street as though a parade might be coming up, and I did maybe sorta kinda hear some music or at least rhythm coming from some distant place, so I decided to hang around with a cup of raspberry sorbet. And I'm glad I did, 'cause it was the procession for the Feast of the Assumption next day. This went at a very Spanish pace (read: very, very slow) involving drums, dozens of brass players, and after a great deal of time, the lozenge-shaped banner of the Assumption, surrounded by a galaxy of smartphones on tripods recording every moment. Solemn, lovely, active.

No, oh neaux, I will not be danse-ing la seguidille, but I will be boirons-ing du manzanilla . . .

11) One cannot love Carmen as i do and come to Seville and not have a glass of manzanilla sherry. ("J'irais danser la seguidille, boirons du manzanilla chez mon ami Lillas Pastia.") So I headed up to the hotel roofdeck, almost entirely empty, stretched out on a chaise to contemplate the night sky, the continuing music and hubbub of the procession audible from the street, sipping on that excellent glass of sherry -- grateful for every moment of this amazing trip.

Crossing the Guadalquivir River near midday.

Saturday, August 13: Seville, Day One

1) There's nothing that gets you going like looking at your train ticket in your hotel room, discovering that your train leaves an hour earlier than expected, and that that's in one hour and 15 minutes. Whoosh! At least I was fully dressed and 95% packed. I made my seat on the train with 15 minutes to spare . . . but not without a couple meltdowns when Madrid metro technology didn't work as expected (read: at all). But a couple very nice and understanding metro employees got me where I needed to be.

2) The day was gray, and I had almost my first taste of rain in Spain*.

3) The cabby didn't quite know how to get to my hotel, and I was both enchanted and a little unnerved by the narrow streets, and even more unnerved when he stopped the cab, pointed, and said "Your hotel at the end of this street." We were at the wrong end of a one-way street. Hmm.

Best hotel room view yet.

3a) So I trundled on down, and into the most beautiful hotel of my journey so far, the Querencia D Seville, where the staff is remarkably engaged, fluent in English, welcoming, and helpful. And entering my fifth floor room, I was agog when I looked out my window and saw . . . a gigantic church! Yes indeed, I had been upgraded into a room with a view of the cathedral of Seville, an expansive architectural masterpiece with a prominent (and active) bell tower.

4) More excitement was to come. I had unsuccessfully tried to book a ticket online to the Real Alcazar, one of the most significant and beautiful landmarks of Seville, and had resigned myself to missing it. But the front desk managed to secure me a ticket for that afternoon. My stay in Seville was looking up.

The cathedral at street level.

5) Stepping out, the energy of Seville caught me, different from both Barcelona and Madrid. I attribute this to the location of the hotel, truly in the heart of everything with the cathedral a block away, and the Real Alcazar just a skip after that.

One of the poor horsies in the plaza between the cathedral and the Alcazar.

5a) Part of the Seville energy is horse-drawn carriages for the tourists. They, and their aroma, made themselves felt. I just felt awful for those horses, even with blinders on, surrounded by all that traffic. And it was so hot.

5b) Another is the gypsy women offering sprigs of rosemary, but really only interested in your money. I had my first encounter with one right outside the cathedral when I stopped to take a picture, but I just waved my hand NO and went my way.

The entrance to the Alcazar. Of course the lion makes me think of Reggie, the lion on the Dymoke coat of arms at Scrivelsby.

6) The Alcazar is a royal palace that, even though it is still the official royal residence whenever the King and Queen come to Seville, looks every year as old as the centuries it's been here. I took a chance that they might admit me earlier than my ticket time, and I was right. I didn't feel like being tied to an audioguide, and just wandered the palace gardens and courtyards, taking in all the low marble fountains, channels of water, and rooms of decayed Moorish splendor.

I think this was in the Hall of Justice. I am redecorating my entire house to have shallow marble fountains in the center of every room.

6a) The palace is known for its beautiful and characteristic tile, and they even had a special exhibition of historic tile in a set of upstairs chambers.

They did not have replicas of those pots in the gift shop. More’s the pity.

7) But even more, the gardens of the Alcazar captivated me with the spirit of the Romance of Old Spain. Cypresses, poplars, a beautiful rose garden, even a maze, and one of the only surviving water organs (which was not operating while I was there). I found myself snapping all sorts of photos of these things, as well as tile insets, statuary, and gorgeous ceramic vases for plants.

Within the maze.

7a) Coming out of the maze (I didn't penetrate it very far), I noticed a scraggly peahen darting into one of the bushes. Later a peacock startled me by flying down from a tree; it had molted recently, as most of its splendid tail feathers weren't with him. I saw a couple other peacocks in the gardens, one of which was being gently provoked by a young teen boy with a pair of earbuds. I knew better, and gave them both a wide berth.

Taunted Peacock with Legs of Taunter.

8) We had some rain, too! Not unwelcome. I sheltered in an archway near a large rectangular fountain with many others.

9) To start the evening, I retreated to the hotel's spacious and almost empty roofdeck for a drink. This deck is retained only for hotel guests. We had some more rain sweep in there, too! Most refreshing.

Rain’s comin’ in!

9a) I then took the recommendation of a Boston friend to find the rooftop bar of a fashionable boutique hotel practically on the cathedral. It took some doing -- the entrance was not apparent to me -- but my goodness, what an active scene! And every seat and stool briskly managed, although the service made me wonder if I was being forgotten. I was seated at a bar directly looking over to the cathedral and the bell tower, and I laughed when I saw the word engraved at its top: FORTISSIMA. 'Cause that's how I like it, baby! I've said more than once that when the time comes for my funeral, I want the music so loud that there's nothing left of the church but a heap of smoking rubble smudged with the moisture of bitter tears. At least the bell tower in Seville gets that.

9a.1) Eventually I got a bracing and delightful gin and tonic in an enormous goblet, and fell into conversation with a Nice Young Couple from London sitting next to me — probably my first English conversation since I arrived in Spain. They, too, had just arrived in Seville, and were actually staying in that little hotel.

FORTISSIMA!

10) The day wrapped with dinner on the second floor terrace of my own hotel, and a sound sleep. After such a hectic start, Seville was turning out perfectly.

The exuberance of Alcazar tile!

*singing "The rain in Spain kept following the train."

Friday, August 12: Madrid, Day Five/Prado Day Two

I'm recollecting this a few days later, on the train from Seville to Málaga. I've been so busy experiencing Spain I haven't been able to record it!

1) My last full day in Madrid, already half booked with my afternoon entry to the Prado's permanent collection. I decided to spend a couple hours beforehand rambling through nearby Buen Retiro Park, a significant and beautiful feature of Madrid life.

2) In Barcelona I had my unexpected Day of the Whippet, with something like five sightings of whippets here and there. In Madrid I had the unexpected Day of Parent/Child interactions. Walking down Gran' Via from my hotel to the park, I witnessed a sullen 11-year-old Japanese boy break away from his parents, and his mother's stern rebuke when she caught his arm. (As mentioned before, one hears all languages throughout Spain.) About halfway through the park I observed a family group relaxing under a tree, but the littlest boy standing facing the tree trunk while his father was expressing some sort of disapproval in a cascade of Spanish. Finally, on my way out of the park, I saw a young tween girl, rail thin with arms stiff at her sides, her extreme thinness accentuated by her long straight black hair parted down the middle almost to her waist, beginning to cry as she was saying something to her father, probably why she was crying over whatever had happened. He approached her slowly to hug her as I passed on; one doesn't spectate over such things.

3) The park, where I entered, included two long rows of statues of rulers of Spain -- what the Germans would call a Puppenallee. Very few women, but some of the kings carried shields emblazoned with female profiles. They were certainly not put up in chronological order, most confusing.

4) I walked on and heard music in the air. Unsure what it was — a recorder? — I only knew it was perfect for that time and place. Approaching an ornamental lake, I could at last see the musician: a Man Older Than I playing a harp, producing sounds like spindles of antique light. He was not playing "My Heart Will Go On," so I tipped him — and lingered under a tree no little time his playing charmed me so much.

4a) Change in Spain is something you have none of when you need or sackfuls that weigh you down and make you jingle temptingly to scam artists and street people. Contributing smaller-size change in reasonable quantities to street musicians helps to ease the pressure.

Lucifer!

5) Buen Retiro is so beautifully maintained, all its formal gardens, water features, dog park, fountains, and its many shady paths. I was surprised to realize that one of the fountains depicted the fall of Lucifer! Gurrrrllll . . . he didn't fall in the water. On the other hand, it's far to hot in Madrid to have a Lucifer bonfire park feature.

The rose garden was like being in a Beatrix Potter book somehow.

6) There was also an enchanting and lavish rose garden from which the heat of the day had not yet robbed its delicate scent. I loved getting to walk there, but my goodness, it was like the Anvil of the Sun at that hour, not long after noon.

7) Leaving the park and retracing my steps brought me to my next planned destination: the espadrille store, conveniently across the avenue from the Prado. The nice young saleswoman started showing me rather severe numbers in navy blue and natural cotton, but when I asked if they had rainbow in size 46 (my big boats take a 46 on the European scale), things improved. "Colores!" I left the shop with a pair of rainbow and a pair of bright red espadrilles -- perfect for shipboard.

7a) "Buy them tight because they stretch out," she told me, so I did. But oof, my tiniest toes have taken a beating on this trip, even though I bandage them daily.

Could you do this?

8) Et finalmente, the Prado! The first artwork I saw, in the entry foyer -- and the only one I could photograph, because of their no photography rule -- was a statue of Charles V stark naked dominating an allegory of Fury. (More info here.) Or something like that. And I thought, "How many world leaders today would have the chutzpah to do that?" Meaning appear stark naked in public art, not dominate fury.

9) The restroom was in the basement, so I decided to begin there. "I'm going to see it all," I said to myself, "so it doesn't matter where I start." How wrong I was! Four or five hours later I was plodding and almost babbling senselessly through the Prado saying things like "Oh, I almost missed the Titians," before shambling into yet another set of galleries. And I certainly didn't get to appreciate some of the Goyas as much as I should have. I could easily have been suffering from the Stendhal Syndrome!

9a) So the moral of the story is, start with the art you want to see most, because you have no idea — no idea — what sort of toll a museum will take on you. Especially at the Prado.

10) But . . . the galleries where I started included many of the paintings I had just been reading about the night before in The Guide to the Prado! That definitely started me off on the right track.

11) In one of the first rooms I visited there was a particularly lavish and finely-detailed series on the Martyrdom of St. Stephen by Juan de Juanes. He used the same models in the progression of the story, and I noticed especially the rage of his tormentors in the last pair of paintings. They made me think of the current political moment.

12) At this remove, the rest of the Prado passed before me in a blur — a beautiful blur created by masters and I am so grateful — but some little moments stand out. Familiar faces popped out at me from some paintings. I swear Glenn Close and Dame Edith Evans were represented on the Prado's walls, as well as a friend, now in another city, who could have posed as a farmer in a large painting by Goya.

13) And I saw Las Meninas, the greatest work of the greatest artist (Velázquez) in arguably the greatest museum. It's exhibited at one end of a very large oval room that is full of large Velázquez paintings -- mostly equestrian portraits of homely Hapsburgs. Like the Mona Lisa at the Louvre, it’s hung in a large room so that as many people as possible can see it. Unlike the Mona Lisa, the room was not jam-packed with viewers, but there were at least a couple dozen.

13a) Velázquez isn’t an artist I’ve paid much attention to, but now I have seen his greatest works. His Christ Crucified moved me much more than Las Meninas, but it’s very easy to see why the latter has fascinated so very many people over the centuries. So many items to connect, so many possible interpretations, so many hidden meanings!

14) As for Goya, my goodness, he got around much more than I thought! Obviously the Spanish Bourbons kept him busy — not always a very attractive family — but the breadth of his other work has such delicacy, vigor, and understanding of human emotions.

A victim of Stan Doll!

15) At 5:47 PM I shambled out of the Prado, grateful, but hurting from the coccyx down. Walking back to my hotel, I noticed again how many al fresco establishments had installed misting systems to keep their customers from drying out. One place even had fans just blowing mist over their tables.

16) The rest of the evening I spent on the rooftop of the hotel, by now my favorite spot in Madrid, understanding more and more why Spaniards keep the day going so long. The day is so ferociously hot, and the evening is so pleasant! It is no difficulty at all, after a bit of a siesta, to press on to midnight.

17) Tomorrow, en route to Seville!

Thursday, August 11: Madrid, Day Four/Prado Day One

1) Having finished The Invention of Murder (summary: everyone dies eventually, but the way crime is detected and covered in British popular media cleared the path for Sherlock Holmes), I had to bring my guide to the royal palace down to the lobby for breakfast reading. Thank you, Oldest Nephew Who Must Not Be Tagged, for such an excellent Christmas gift!

2) Part of the route to the Prado from my hotel is through streets blazing with noonday sun, but near the Prado itself are some beautiful avenues of trees punctuated with fountains. It’s easy to see how the Madrileños would be drawn to them, to cluster in the shade!

3) The Prado has two entrances: on the side for the permanent collection, and in back, in the new building, for special exhibitions. That’s where I headed, for a look at the Prado’s first major retrospective of Luis Paret, an artist whose career was overshadowed by a) Goya, b) being attached to a prince banished from court for adultery (oops!), and c) a comparatively early death. The show was fabulous, and called to my mind the work of Longhi in Venice, Watteau (Paret was called “The Spanish Watteau” in his lifetime, and I can see why), and even Audubon. I wish photos had been allowed.

3a) In the first gallery, viewing the paintings, I became very aware of the squeaking of the guard’s shoes as she strode about on the wood floors. Remember Hudson chastising Frederick on Upstairs, Downstairs the night the French ambassador came to dinner? Something like “Nothing can ruin a dinner party more than . . . squeaky shoes!” And as I continued through the gallery, I could hear it more and more, including my shoes squeaking on the floor. I almost had an Edgar Allen Poe "“Telltale Heart” moment!

3b) Mother would have loved the painting of the Virgin Mary coming to visit Elizabeth, but I was drawn to its unique companion piece, The Annunciation to Zacharias, which is not often depicted.

4) Then upstairs to the cloisters (claustro in Spanish), all that remains of I’ve already forgotten which religious order, now carefully reassembled and housing a small but magnificent set of sculptures of Charles V, Philip II, and various family members including Mary of Hungary. She did not look particularly happy to be there, but the space soars and is flooded with light.

5) The shop — I always have high hopes for museum shops, and they sometimes disappoint with a lack of postcards of images I want but can’t photograph, or here, English language books. But I got their Guide to the Prado, which must weigh five pounds, and began it over lunch in their swish restaurant.

6) This ends up ranking as my fancy meal in Madrid: some sort of quail business, beef cheeks bourguignon with whipped potatoes, and a luscious salted chocolate mousse, and espresso. I was impressed by the flawlessly pressed handkerchief linen placemat and napkin. Austere elegance.

7) By this time it was almost 4 PM, and I deliberately took a somewhat different route to see more of the city. Passing through a plaza with a few al fresco restaurants, walking slowly to keep from generating much body heat, I suddenly heard one clap. Looking up, to my left I saw a restaurant manager walking briskly and gesticulating toward the center of the plaza. Looking right, I saw his object: a panhandler (identifiable by his paper cup) who must have been working the tables. I didn’t linger to see who won.

8) I continued through the Puerto del Sol, which is mostly a construction zone right now. But I got to see a couple workmen installing a pavement of granite cubes, and I was very impressed not only with their workmanship, but the big pile of blocks behind them, and then the enormous canvas bags full of more blocks still to be unpacked!

9) A couple friends recommended the department store El Corte Inglés for clothes shopping, and at last I found the one with menswear and picked up some needful things.

10) In the evening I lingered on the hotel rooftop with a gin and tonic and The Guide to the Prado, preparing for tomorrow afternoon’s delights. All of a sudden, tomorrow is my last full day in Madrid! It has flown by, and even having seen the Palacio di Liria, the royal palace, El Escorial (my favorite), and the Museo Sorolla, I feel like I haven’t done enough. After all, I may never pass this way again . . .

11) Tomorrow, I want to explore the enormous park here (near the Prado), buy some espadrilles, and of course gorge on the Prado’s permanent collection. And I must do laundry (at the hotel, fabulous!) before Saturday’s train to Seville. Daddy likes to travel with clean clothes.

The view from my second gin and tonic.

Wednesday, August 10: Madrid, Day Three

1) I checked into my new hotel about 11 AM, and when I walked into my fifth floor room, I laughed. White, light, just enough color, and a sunny view of neighbor terraces across the street. And it is really right in the thick of everything. I couldn’t be more delighted.

The yellow chair could not be more perfect.

2) The afternoon brought me to the Museo Sorolla, suggested by my friend Jonathan. The home and studio of the great Joaquín Sorolla, some of whose works I’d been familiar with. The house and garden have been beautifully maintained, and many of Sorolla’s masterpieces have remained in the collection.

The courtyard of the Museo Sorolla.

2a) Back in 2008 I found the Musée Gustave Moreau all on my own, and in 2019 my friend Scott directed me to Leighton House in London. The Museo Sorolla ranks right alongside them.

Sorolla’s studio is maintained as it was during his lifetime. He chose wonderful containers for his brushes!

2b) Sorolla was known for his use of white, and of summer beach scenes, so how wonderful that a special exhibition had been mounted to look at the other end of the spectrum, Sorolla en Negro. Smart thinking on someone’s part, and quite lush.

One of several portraits. I wish I’d taken more photographs!

3) After a nap, I went up to the hotel’s rooftop bar for a drink, and laughed again when I saw how wonderful the view was six floors above my room. Add a few domes, cupolas, and towers, and you’re bound to have a wonderful view! And the Royal Palace off to the right! I couldn’t be more delighted.

3a) The energy of this place is Younger Than I, but not everyone here is Younger Than I.

3a) There’s a small swimming pool half a level down, accessed through the bar. Sitting overlooking that amazing view in the heat, I could hear some flip flops slapping behind me. I looked to my right and saw the receding view of a slim young man of appropriate musculature wearing only a high-waisted pair of black briefs, those flip flops, and a mane of dark wavy hair halfway down his back. A regular Myrmidon he was, the first one I’ve seen outside the Classical Annex of any museum. All he needed was a snake bracelet.

4) Strolling about in the evening I committed an Act of Retail, and now I’m back in my room, very comfortable and very happy. I may venture out later for a bite, or not.

5) Tomorrow afternoon, the Prado!

Goals.

Tuesday, August 9: Madrid, Day Two -- El Escorial

1) This might oughta be called Death by Escorial — but what a way to go, at the hands of the Eighth Wonder of the World! My goodness, they grow the staircases big and tall over here.

2) The little neighborhood café next door to this hotel makes a good cup of coffee, and they serve it in a cup with a handle, and with delicious croissants. I was sitting near the curb, and some maintenance workers asked me (in English) to move my seat because they were just going to paint a lightpole right behind me. So I happily moved, and enjoyed watching their progress, and banter with the waiter.

3) My journey to El Escorial, which is about 45 minutes by bus from Madrid, involved problems and solutions. When my expected metro line was found to have suspended service, I found an alternate (longer) route to the bus station. When I got off at the wrong bus station and found out I was half an hour away by foot with my entrance time in 15 minutes, I just started power walking (through a beautiful park I would not have seen otherwise, planted with enormous avenues of trees) and got there 14 minutes late.

3a) And they let me in. I take those “We reserve the right” clauses so seriously . . .

Title card from Fire Over England.

4) I had wanted to visit El Escorial not because I knew much about it, or about Philip II for that matter, but because some of the action of Fire Over England (1937) is set there. Raymond Massey plays a reptilian King Philip, thwarting the plans of undercover English spy Laurence Olivier. My beloved Robert Newton (Fix in Around the World in Eighty Days, and he shows up in many favorite films) is the governor of the palace. Back in England, of course Flora Robson is Elizabeth, and Vivien Leigh one of her ladies in waiting. So you see of course I had to go.

You see what I mean about austerity.

5) It’s rare to use the words austere and sumptuous about the same place, but they both apply to El Escorial. The stonework, severe in its grey simplicity, contrasts with the exuberant frescos and other works of art.

My one photo in the basilica before being chastised by a guard.

6) My first stop was the basilica, in which someone was playing the organ intermittently. (It didn’t sound like a rehearsal either. What a treat!) Every detail of this was grand, overpowering, but also a study in contrasts. I wish I could show you the frescos on the ceilings, just amazing.

6a) Glad I got the (very good) audioguide as well, because I’d’ve totally passed up the Crucifixion carved by Benvenuto Cellini Himself of white Carrara marble on a black marble cross. It was off in a side chapel, and truly a masterpiece. Apparently it was too heavy for Napoleon’s army to loot.

6b) Again, I wandered into this like a baby duck not knowing much about Philip II beyond Mary Tudor, the Armada, and Raymond Massey. So it was a big surprise that he was such a big deal with the Counter Reformation, particularly about emphasizing and legitimizing the intercession of saints. Two enormous reliquaries flank the altar, one for relics of women dedicated to the Annunciation, the other for relics of men dedicated to St. Jerome. At one time they held thousands of relics of saints (I forget the number), but it’s down to around 300 now due to Napoleonic looting.

6c) The altar is flanked by cenotaphs of Charles V and Philip II and their families, taking the form of statues kneeling in prayer. Philip is shown with all his wives (he had four, but one at a time) except Mary Tudor, which I found interesting and a bit amusing.

8) Next stop, the library, which was across the Courtyard of the Kings and up 40 stone stairs. At the entrance a sign read “Steep steps, no lift.” Again, no photos, so I had a sad, since it’s National Book Lovers Day. But what’s unusual here is that the books are shelved with the spines facing in, so the gold-embossed pages reflect outward — just like what the mad Marchesa Casati used to do with her books after she lost all her money! Such an easy way to create a luxe backdrop!

Outside the library entrance.

9) Exuberant frescos on the ceiling illustrated allegories of Academic Subjects Everyone Was Studying Then But I Can’t Remember Them All Now. Grammar (with a laurel wreath for good students and a whip for those who need more practice, I am not kidding), Mathematics, Astronomy . . . oh mercy, y’all look it up, I can’t remember. But they were beautifully realized, and quite a lot of pulchritude in the borders.

10) Back downstairs and across the courtyard to a waiting room for monastery guests waiting to see the monks, hung with amazing works of art. And then more corridors with more gorgeous frescos.

11) And then the Oh My Gawd Hapsburg Staircase. Would you just look at that?! Sumptuous! It’s a pity I only have eight-foot ceilings at home.

12) And afterward a lot of “Upstairs, downstairs, in my lady’s chamber” on three levels of the palace. The Old Church featured Tintoretto’s masterpiece of the martyrdom of St. Laurence. El Greco’s masterpiece of the martyrdom of St. Maurice stood between the two chapter rooms, themselves hung with priceless paintings. (How I itched to take photos!)

13) Down more stairs into the Pantheon of the Infantes, possibly the most elaborate royal burial suite I’ve ever seen, and a marked contrast to the ossuary at St. Denis in Paris containing what was left of the remains of the Kings of France after the French Revolution. “Built in the 19th century for members of the royal family who were not kings or queens,” its most novel feature was a circular mausoleum for family members who died as children. To me it suggested a birthday cake and, more irreverently, Busby Berkeley’s “By a Waterfall I’m Calling You” with Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler.

14) More sincerely moving to me was Philip II’s private apartments, spare almost in the extreme, beautiful old blue and white Spanish tile, his cabinet of devotional objects, and of course a few paintings, but priceless masterpieces. Curiously his bed could overlook the basilica so he could witness mass when his gout kept him in bed.

15) Finally I came to what is called the Bourbon Palace, an enfilade of rooms decorated with faaaaaaabulous tapestries and Empire furniture. Hmm . . . I was about to say “much more to my own taste,” but I must admit to admiring the bare and spare atmosphere of King Philip’s rooms.

16) And that was it! Three hours (including my power walk to arrive) of activity and stimulation left me absolutely ready for the glue factory. A nice old-fashioned hotel a couple blocks away restored me with a great deal of water, a superb salmon salad, and a ham and egg sandwich “toad in the hole” style, which I somehow thought would be ham and cheese.

The frosted glass windows of the hotel where I lunched all depicted views of El Escorial.

17) My trip back to Madrid was markedly short on drama, and I ended up back at Mérimée for dinner: burrata pugliese and duck confit, delightful.

18) And promenading after dinner, I discovered the “Museum of Tarot,” which led to some interesting browsing.

19) All tuckered out! I expect to sleep soundly.

Sun-Mon, August 7-8: Travel to Madrid/Madrid, Day One

1) Adios, Barcelona! Thanks for an interesting week getting my bearings in Spain, and for proving that the greatest crop your beautiful country produces isn’t wine, olive oil, or flamenco — it’s bottled water.

1a) See you again in two weeks!

2) There’s really nothing like holding up the line because you don’t know how to work the Eurail app, but a sweet young American couple immediately behind me showed me what to do, and I’ll have to find something else to embarrass me in a public transportation hub for next time.

The yellow you see in this photo is not as yellow as the yellow I saw taking this photo.

3) The first class car was full, which sort of surprised me. But we whooshed outta BCN and made exact time to Madrid. Leaving the city the usual urban clutter of graffitti and industry was relieved, at one point, by a chain link fence overgrown with blue morning glories. Mid journey I was enchanted by the vivid yellow of the fields; my photos don’t capture it. Otherwise I read bits of The Invention of Murder and stared into space.

4) Because I now knew fully how to use the Eurail app, settling to remainder of my train tickets took much less time. It also gave me a chance to appreciate the enormous palm garden in the train station.

5) Patience with the staff during check-in at my first hotel (I am switching Wednesday, prearranged) — who sent me not once but twice to rooms that were not completely cleaned — yielded an unsolicited upgrade to a larger room. This is probably not why Mother always said that patience is a virtue, but I’ll take it.

6) I took the metro into more happening parts of the city to search for a specific restaurant that just wasn’t there. Instead, I found a fast-moving shopping district, where I identified a few places I want to return to for Acts of Retail later . . . but only one restaurant, Merimée. But they had wonderful Albariño.

I started with a smoked salmon salad that included pignole.

7) Monday morning I rose about 8 and wrote my pages and dawdled, and was completely defeated by the in-room coffee machine. And then suddenly I had a plan: palaces! I reserved tickets at both the Palacio di Liria (home of the Dukes of Alba) and the Palacio Real (home of the royal family). That meant, unfortunately, succumbing to hotel breakfast, which was not . . . not . . . which just was not.

Everyone has to mind their manners at the Palacia di Liria, including the doggies.

8) I cannot speak highly enough about the tour and organization of the Palacio di Liria. I ended up seventh in a group of three Spanish couples of my generation or older. The self-possessed and well-spoken guide escorted us into the visitor center, distributed audioguides cued to the correct language (I was the only English speaker), and then escorted us into the palace proper.

Me outside the palace. What a wonderful experience!

9) The recorded instructions made the rules very clear. As Lazar Wolf’s housekeeper uncompromisingly put it in Fiddler, “Don’t touch anything!” Also do not speak until the end of the tour — no questions until then. This made enormous sense once things got going because the audioguide is timed precisely to the movements of other groups. The whole thing functioned like a Swiss watch — in no small part because everyone on the tour obeyed all the rules.

10) Alas, this also meant no photos, and the rooms of this palace, so meticulously and lovingly restored after the fire gutted it in the 1930s, presented many thing I’d’ve loved to snap — and perhaps snap up.

11) The use of color throughout the palace, the amazing collection of portraits, including my beloved Mary Queen of Scots, the chandeliers from the 1940s (all but three had been lost in the fire) . . . dazzling. But the work of art that most astonished me was a statuette of Charles V (?) attacking a hydra with three heads — one of which was Elizabeth I! I found a photo of it on the internet here. It was amazing to see that in person.

12) Again, this entire experience was just lovely, especially how efficiently and thoughtfully everything was run for the tourist’s experience.

13) With an hour plus until my tour time at the royal palace, I spent some time wandering the gardens, draining a large bottle of water, and sitting in the shade. In two rows of statues of ancient Spanish kings, I spotted only one with a missing nose. I had to wonder if it happened during the Civil War.

14) The tourist entrance to the royal palace is opposite a large gray church, which at that hour cast some useful shade. As I approached I saw many people sitting on the church steps and could hear a harpist gently playing a tune. Then I realized he was playing “My Heart Will Go On” from Titanic . . .

The harpist was playing near the base of that many-branched lamp to the right.

15) It is so very hot in Spain! So I took a chance that the palace guards would let me in a bit earlier than my ticket time, and I was right. Alas, I couldn’t make the app work; every time I entered my confirmation number (which ended with a lowercase letter) as instructed, it would come back as invalid because (I think) the lowercase letter would appear as a capital letter no matter what I did*. And there was no one obvious to ask, and a line of people having problems with the audioguide, so I had to tour the palace without a guide of any kind but the signs in each room.

As Erich von Stroheim told Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard, “This is the staircase of the palace!”

16) That turned out to be just fine. What a sumptuous series of rooms! And my God, the silk draperies and upholstery everywhere. Just an enfilade of history and luxury.

Fabric!

16a) The Gasparini Room must be seen to be believed. These people stole my life.

17) And portraiture, my favorite thing. Again, photography wasn’t allowed almost everywhere, so I was unable to capture an image of an 18th-century lady, dressed in a sumptuous (that word again! But no other will do) red velvet dress trimmed in dark fur, with a knowing expression in her eye and her right hand gesturing in a way that said “I should be holding a martini right now, but since they haven’t been invented yet, you need to go get me something good stat.”

We were allowed to photograph this amazing family portrait of the family of Juan Carlos I, which took 20 years to complete. Seeing this again after the tour, what is so remarkable about it is that white is the principal color. All the other portraits are in richer and deeper hues, and with more elaborate settings.

18) Their lovely gift shop supplied me with a guide in English, and postcards of the interiors, and even a fan. But alas, they had no postcards of any of the portraits, and I’d’ve cleaned ‘em out.

19) The next hours passed in trudging aimlessly through the streets of Madrid, casually looking for someplace for tapas, realizing I just needed to be in bed, returning to my hotel, sleeping, venturing out to a series of recommended restaurants that were all closed (not only is it Monday, it’s August), and then settling into a glass of rioja and a light dinner at a touristy place near Gran’ Via. If I was traveling with my foodie friends, this would not have been permitted to happen. But restaurants are my Achilles heel when I’m overseas — not sure why.

19a) A block from my hotel, I passed an older lady walking her dog. As I passed I heard her say “Dispacio, dispacio,” which made me think of the Italian “Mi dispiace,” or “This displeases me.” And I thought “Hmm.” Later, thanks to the miracle of Google Translate, I know she was saying “Despacio,” or “Slow down,” to her dog.

20) Now it’s after 11 PM — how did that happen?! — and I have an early today tomorrow, to visit El Escorial about an hour outside the city.

I’ve only been in Spain a week, but I already know I prefer abierto.

*I love you, very much. But please do not suggest I had on caps lock without knowing it. I definitely did not.

Saturday, August 6: Barcelona, Day Six

1) Protip: when washing clothes in a European laundromat, be sure to check the pockets first to remove anything that might, um, have a negative impact on your laundry. Like that tiny chocolate bar from the Museum of Chocolate. Oopsie. ‘Cause it totally melted in the dryer and got on almost everything.

1a) So I spent twice as long as expected on laundry this morning, but it looks like all the chocolate came out of my clothes.

2) In the afternoon I headed into the city to see more of Barcelona and to enjoy tapas at Tapas 24, which had been recommended by friends. Aperol spritzes, chicken croquetas, a light and wonderful avocado salad drenched with pesto and dotted with feta cubes, and some sort of marvelous omelette.

The pinenuts, pignole in Italian, made all the difference.

3) Afterward I strolled about allegedly looking for clothing stores, but not really motivated to do or see anything but my current surroundings. And that’s OK. But my goodness, there are some wonderful old buildings in this part of town. We need more beautiful buildings.

Just look at the graded colors of those roof tiles, like honeybees massed in pleasure.

4) I must say, women and men use Spanish fans here in Barcelona, and I just love it. I am going to have to find a couple myself.

4a) The most strikingly beautiful person I’ve seen so far on this trip walked by me this afternoon, a young Spanish woman wielding a fan of solid black, wearing an off-the-shoulder black blouse, sleek fully cut high-waisted black silk trousers dotted with white, and carrying a black-and-white striped bag from ye Syphora. Her black hair, parted in the middle just like the old illustrations, was slicked back into a large round bun. All she needed was a rose.

5) An early evening featuring a big ol’ NAP — truly, Barcelona has worn me out — and then packing for Madrid.

They just don’t make ‘em like they used to.

Friday, August 5: Barcelona, Day Five

1) When there is no plan, the alarm doesn’t always get set, and then I end up “wasting” half the day. On the other hand, I felt bloody exhausted last night, not to mention sore from all those staircases (Fred Astaire in Funny Face I am not), and I was content to take my ease all morning, reading the news and writing.

2) And then about 10:30 I said to myself “Why not go to the Picasso Museum today?” So I went online and booked myself a ticket for midafternoon, and I had a plan!

A street near the Picasso Museum.

3) Ascending from the metro, I looked around and said to myself again “Now this is the Barcelona I signed up for.” Pre-revolution architecture, narrow streets filled with pastries and artisan’s shops, and movement everywhere. I was about an hour before my entry time because I wanted to walk about and see, and since I hadn’t had lunch, I ended up buying a big square of sausage pizza and a chocolate cookie and searching out a park bench.

This marvelous fountain depicting one of Aesop’s fables was near my bench.

4) Ye Gyygle (I’d be lost without it on this trip, truly) had indicated a large park in a particular direction, and there it was. Not at all like that Miró park I was at Wednesday. This park had expanses of green grass, trees, benches, beautiful flowering shrubs that are not rhododendrons, a small lake, and much else. But it took a bit of trudging to find a bench in the shade that wasn’t surrounded by mud or completely occupied by a reclining backpacker or a family group.

The bell tower of this building played the most eccentric and delightful carillon.

5) But I found one, and I enjoyed my pizza while taking in the scene. Particularly I remember a group of five women of my age or a little younger, all in flowing sleeveless sundresses of memorable color: bold yellow, pale ochre, black and white, sky blue scattered with yellow flowers. Most of them had on large hats, and they all wore sensible shoes. There wasn’t anything exceptional about them — they were just living their lives for themselves (rather than social media) and their was a certain charm in their being there together, just walking and talking languidly down that path.

6) I walked about the park after my lunch, and saw everywhere (as I have already this trip) that wherever there is shade, people will just flop down under it. Park benches in the sun get no business. But it doesn’t have to be a bench; I saw men and women stretched or curled up under bushes, palm trees, you name it. And in the sun, men with collections of hippie bedspreads spread on the grass, hoping to make a sale for a picnic party.

7) You never know what you’ll find when traveling, and I didn’t expect to see a memorial to a transsexual martyr. But there it was, the Glorieta de la Transsexual Sonia, the bandstand where Sonia Rescalvo Zafra was murdered by neo-Nazis in 1991. The city of Barcelona named it in her memory as part of its condemnation of the crime.

The English translation at the bottom of the sign.

8) The Picasso Museum of Barcelona (I believe there’s one in every hamlet in Spain) is housed in a building of very pre-Picasso vintage that somehow emphasizes his identity as a Spanish artist. But Picasso had so many facets, I wasn’t sure what I’d be getting. Turns out there were some real surprises, including an exhibition of photographs taken of him by his friend Lucien Clergue over the 20 years of their friendship, analyses of the work of the scholars who took responsibility for cataloguing his work (exhibited with some very fine drawings I wouldn’t have seen otherwise), 40-odd (in every sense of the word) pieces of his pottery donated by his widow, technical discoveries of earlier paintings underneath newer ones, and three galleries full of Picasso’s themes and variations on Las Meninas, which I’d never even known about.

Quite possibly my favorite Picasso drawing on view.

8a) But the thing that delighted me the most was a film of the Ballets Russes ballet Parade of 1917, featuring recreations of Picasso’s set and costume designs. I knew all about this ballet from my Ballets Russes phase almost 40 years ago, and I loved getting to see it performed. It’s a triumph of stage Cubism, but I can also see why it doesn’t get revived much.

Picasso painted Léonide Massine, the choreographer of Parade, as a harlequin.

8b) What started me down that Ballets Russes path was Misia Sert’s biography, and near the end of her life Picasso invited her to his studio to see all of the pottery he was creating. Misia thought it was awful; she just didn’t understand it.

8c) The ground floor of the Picasso Museum is all functional: reception, coat/locker room, the gift shop, and restrooms. The shop, to my surprise, really didn’t engage my attention. And the men’s room was closed for cleaning, so I had to use one of the family restrooms, and wait patiently to wash my hands while four or five teenage boys were drinking from the bathroom sinks. It’s tough to complain about people hydrating in such hot weather, but come on boys, you’re not camels.

Picasso’s very unusual version of Las Meninas.

9) I continued my stroll through this charming quarter and saw on ye Gyygle that there was a Museum of Chocolate. Chocolate! And I had promised my dear friend Michael that I would try to have a cup of hot chocolate in Barcelona, because he said it was so good. And it was! A luscious little cup of thick rich hot chocolate luxuriously piled with whipped cream, and a chocolate croissant, were enough to reenergize me.

9a) The museum itself was quite interesting, but what charmed me most is that each ticket is a tiny bar of chocolate with a QR code on the label that you use to open the turnstile. Isn’t that delightful?

10) I had sort of an informal plan to head toward a restaurant in the gayborhood, Eixemple, but somehow I turned a corner and discovered I was on La Rambla. “Oh!” I said to myself, “So this is La Raaaammmmbla!” So I ramblaed right down La Rambla, hearing many languages, observing much tourist tumult, feeling the heat, observing without personal interest all the goods in all the shop windows, including the many cannabis shops. It concluded at a large ornate column, a monument to something or other of course, and from there I turned left.

La Rambla!

11) That turned out to be not the correct direction, but I didn’t realize that yet. I was walking into the Port Vell (I think), and also into a sky full of dark clouds. The breeze was picking up, deliciously but ominously. And before long, boom, rain! And we needed it, it’s been so hot.

12) I ducked into a likely looking tapas place, lots of exposed mellow old stonework and shiny brass. From a small table in the corner I ordered a gin and tonic, which came in a round goblet garnished with orange peel and a cinnamon stick — fabulous. And then ham croquetas and some sort of omeletty thing.

13) And then, from the corner of my eye, I could see something moving near the top of the room. And it was . . . a cockroach! And I don’t mean one of those tiny New England/New York cockroaches. I am talkin’ a big ol’ honkin’ palmetto bug like I grew up with Louisiana — ‘cause I could see it from eight to ten feet away. And it was coming toward my section of the room, along the top of the wall! I watched it, crawling closer and closer, almost touching the ceiling, thinking of Kafka and how he should have written something else, moving my tapas closer to me. That cockroach kept crawling past my table and down the back of the wall to get intimate with the fire extinguisher, and then I turned back to my food.

13a) But the four women who had been sitting in the window (a trio and one single young woman) had also seen it. A few minutes later I looked up and the cockroach was on the floor near their tables; it must have sneaked by me. And then the party of three were looking for it, and I saw it on the front window at eye level. I pointed and said “It’s on the window!” That got the ladies to point it out to the barmaid, who told one of the waiters.

13b) I had a great time, but I don’t think I’ll be back.

Me by Picasso, protecting my cocktail from a cockroach.

14) Then I moved out into the rain, feeling sticky, and a bit lost. Eventually I found a metro station I could understand, and returned safely to my hotel, soaking wet and very tired, but not unhappy. In for the night by 8 PM; I’m old.

15) But I’ve gotten my second wind somehow, so I’ll be up writing for a bit. And that’s OK.

August 4, 2022: Barcelona, Day Four: Gaudí Day

1) An early alarm roused me from slumber and down to the hotel breakfast room. I had an early ticket to Sagrada Familia, that great monument to Spanish architecture, vision, and ingenuity, and they emphasized how difficult it would be to be late, or bring anything with you. Knowing this was a religious site at which a dress code was likely to be enforced (how wrong I was!), I wore white linen trousers and one of my Greek cotton shirts over a blue T-shirt.

2) My first metro station involved taking an elevator to Twilight Zone depths into the earth. At this hour I was surprised to see only one other person on the platform.

3) The next train was busier, and let me out immediately at the corner of Sagrada Familia. So my first vision of this remarkable church was its Western, or Passion, façade. There’s a small park across the street, and I was able to stand there and take everything in — try to take everything in — before continuing to the Eastern, or Nativity, façade where the tourists enter.

A detail of the Nativity façade.

4) Here I remembered what Mary McCarthy famously said about Venice: “Everything about Venice, including this sentence, has already been written.” Or something like that. The Nativity façade, by far my favorite, has a certain Disney whimsy to it (but with the knowledge that Gaudí predates Disney), and I’ll confess I felt a touch irreverent when I started remembering “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody” from The Great Ziegfeld. Because there’s a little bit of everything in this façade.

5) They don’t mess around at security, but everyone was courteous. “No hat, no sunglasses” was the immediate directive before going through the metal detector. I was glad I hadn’t brought anything but change and my phone.

6) Then up to the entrance with the growing crowd, in the morning sun already hot at 9:30. And then inside to absorb Gaudí’s genius vision of symbolism, “a forest of stone,” using materials and designs as no one had before. The treatment of light, from darkness over the altar to pure white at the back, with all the rainbow colors on each side, and how he sculpted the light with stone — it’s amazing.

7) My English-language tour began about 9:45 AM just inside the Nativity entrance. The guide, an engaging woman with a heavy accent, used the “tell you three times” strategy in her talk: tell ‘em what you’re gonna tell ‘em, tell ‘em, and then tell ‘em what you told ‘em. From this much useful information emerged about Gaudí’s vision, methods, symbolism, and more than I was able to retain. The tour took us back outside (hot) so she could interpret the Nativity façade, back inside to explain interior features and tell a few stories, and then outside the Passion façade in the west to point out the stark contrasts with the Nativity. All in all very helpful, but for myself, next time I’ll get the audio guide and do it at my own pace.

7a) The Passion façade was completed in a style familiar to me from postwar midcentury sculpture that is very angular, powerful, and brutal to my eyes.

The Western façade includes herb plantings.

8) After that, I had a break to find the restroom and buy a bottle of water from a vending machine. It is very helpful to have change on these occasions! If you’re coming to Barcelona, by all means, prepare to hydrate every chance you get.

9) I got into line a bit earlier than my time for my extra tour of the Passion Tower. And when the elevator operator called for a party of one, I was able to jump the line! They really do squash everyone they can into that tiny elevator for every trip up, and I don’t blame them.

After my tower tour.

10) But as soon as I stepped off that elevator however many hundreds of feet up in the air we were, I knew it was a bad idea for me to have come. Just the sound of the wind, so firm and strong, put me on edge, and then the discovery that I would have to walk outside briefly on an elevated bridge/buttress between two towers nearly did me in. I didn’t stop to take one photo but began my descent at once. This occasionally involved waiting patiently while people paused to take photos. And there were occasional alcoves to stop in, not that I spent much time stopping. Toward the end the railing of this hollow corkscrew staircase moved from the inside to the outside, and I became sufficiently anxious that I used both hands on it. Irrational, but there you are. I was never so glad to reach the ground floor, which appeared just when I thought it never would, and I sat in a stone seat against the wall of the church, feeling a little shaky and letting myself be surrounded by the color and light and people inside the church.

11) Because my goodness, the number of people had picked up. They say there’s no time you can visit Sagrada Familia and avoid the crowd, because it is always crowded, but I say morning is better because the light is better.

This lean dog on the metro appeared like one of those mythic beasts that get embroidered on tapestries. This also turned out to be the Day of the Whippet, as I saw five whippets in different parts of the city.

12) After that, more water, a quick tour of the museum (I was not in a space to take in more information), the shop (nothing appealed to me), and the decision to return to my room for a NAP. It’s not a bad thing to listen to your body.

13) It’s a given in Barcelona that no matter what, you will feel damp. After this I confess I felt saturated, and it was beautiful to stretch out in my room in the dark for an hour of deep sleep before resuming my Gaudí journey. The afternoon’s destination: Parc Guell in the northwest of Barcelona, a space designed by Gaudí, which I reached on three metro lines quite easily.

The view of Sagrada Familia from Parc Guell. Definitely worth it! But be prepared for a lot of stairs.

14) My lack of research on this trip showed, however, by my surprise at basically having to climb a mountain just to get to Parc Guell. I turned a corner and boom . . . a vertical street before me, with a line of intermittently working escalators in its center! The park itself is beautiful and has many interesting features, including one curious tunnel-like passage with diagonal spiral columns that was a magnet for slim young women having their photos taken by female friends or relations while I was trying to walk through it. No kidding, there were at least three photo sessions I interrupted just by existing.

During the few seconds I was not interrupting a future supermodel photo shoot.

15) But the view of Barcelona spread out to the Mediterranean, with Sagrada Familia dominating like a mountain — absolutely worth it.

16) At this point I needed to find the part of Barcelona that had wine, tapas, and elegance. I stumbled into a place called Vivo in a swish part of town near the Diagonal metro stop and had a delicious experience involving three or four plates of delicious little somethings (ham croquettes are my new favorite) and a white wine several people recommended to me, Albariño, in a room of glass and brass and marble of dark temperature. And I just got to sit there and read my book (The Invention of Murder by Judith Flanders, a Christmas gift from Oldest Nephew Who Must Not Be Tagged), chat with the hostess in a mix of languages, and feel like, yes, I’m an Americano tourist, but this is what I need right now.

17) But I actually needed one glass less of that Albariño than I had, and by the time I returned to my room I had the start of a bad headache. Remember in Gigi when Aunt Alycia was teaching Gigi to drink wine? “Did you feel the perfume?” Eventually Gigi answers “Mahhhhhhhhvelousssss . . . .” I had been loving that Albariño . . . but I knew the moon would be bright next day.

Atop Parc Guell.

August 3, 2022: Barcelona, Day Three

1) Unsurprisingly, my sleep came and went in wide stripes due to jet lag. That didn’t stop me from being surprised when I got up and noticed that it was 10:15 AM. I could only hear Maggie Smith as Poor Poor Charlotte in A Room With a View saying “Get a move on or the better part of the day will be lost!”

1a) But really dahlings, if you can’t sleep in on vacation, when can you sleep in?

2) This was a day on which I needed to conduct some business, specifically reserving seats on specific trains and buying an American electrical adapter. Also figuring out the (excellent) public transportation system here. But I was reluctant to deal with these things, and dawdled over my coffee in my room.

3) Thanks to ye Gyygle, I decided to walk to the train station, allegedly only 34 minutes from the hotel. It is certainly the best way to get to see the city! And Barcelona is large, vigorous, and full of stolid apartment blocks. Glimpses of the picturesque met me on the route suggested, and also on a couple wrong turns. Before I knew it, Barcelona Sants station was before me.

4) Inside was an air-conditioned babel of travelers of all ages, nationalities, agilities, hairstyles, and ideas of hygiene, many with enormous backpacks. I ended up with plenty of time to observe the passing throng, once I finally figured out that I had to take a number from a kiosk. (Nothing is intuitive here, and yet . . . I had to use my intuition when I spotted that kiosk.)

5) The gate agent was very patient when I finally got to the window and I couldn’t figure out why the Eurail app suddenly wasn’t working. And she let me return without taking another number once I figured it out — #grateful. At the station in Madrid I’ll know what to expect . . . but now I have my ticket to Madrid!

6) After all that anxiety — by this time it’s about 3 PM — I needed to see some of the city and I noticed that there was a park nearby dedicated to Míro, so I sauntered in that direction. I was thinking of something green with large trees, but it’s really a sun-blasted collection of athletic fields interspersed with what looked like scrub pines, some shadowy vine-covered paths, and a tall Míro pillar covered with bold fragmented tile.

7) Continuing, I descended an escalator below street level thinking there was a metro station there. Instead it was a mall/food court, which happily led me to FNAC, where I was about to find an adapter with the help of a saleslady who spoke a little English. The nice man at the hotel had suggested trying an interior design store in the neighborhood, which seemed somehow not the right lead to pursue. But now I’ll be able to keep my computer from dying, and I rejoiced.

8) Popping back to the earth’s surface, I spotted a deliciously elaborate column clustered about with figures and lamps, and beyond that, at last, something I recognized: the National Palace of Catalonia. Paraphrasing the mother-in-law in The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, I said to myself “We need architecture we can understand.” I proceeded across the Plaça d’Espanya and up an infinite number of stairs.

9) But not only a large and beautiful fountain detained me, but a Man Older Than I creating enormous soap bubbles with a rope between two slender wands. I sat for half an hour, exhausted and a whisper dehydrated, watching both the wonderful fountain and delightful large bubbles that attracted much attention, especially from little children; I couldn’t help thinking how happy that would have made Mother.

10) The heat, shall we say, was making itself felt, and as I shambled gracelessly up this enormous, picturesque stone staircase lined and encroached on here and there with leafy vines, the picture of Moira Shearer in The Red Shoes irresistibly came to me, climbing those infinite stairs to Lermontov’s Monte Carlo retreat while wearing a gigantic green evening gown. I couldn’t have managed it.

11) Aside from the view, the National Palace now houses the Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya . . . and you know how I love a museum. It wasn’t necessary to purchase in advance, so I spent at least a couple hours enjoying their robust collection.

One of many paintings that arrested my attention, The Apparition of Our Lady of the Pillar, by Goya.

12) But also becoming more than aware that my feet, and the rest of me, were wearing out, and that I had yet to have a meal. A quick sandwich and a great deal of water were in order.

A bust of Don Quixote. Also, kind of my mood at that moment.

13) My final “test” of the day was to take the metro back to the hotel. I certainly didn’t have any more walking in me! I am happy to say I passed the test, but please note: Barcelona metro sometimes but not always requires you to use your ticket to enter and exit the station.

14) Back in the hotel, I had just about enough energy to order room service. I intend to spend the rest of the night with my feet up contemplating tomorrow’s visit to Sagrada Familia.

I want this beach umbrella so much.

August 1-2, 2022: Barcelona, Days One and Two: Travel and Arrival

1) I don't know if it's aging or just having done so many special events in my career, but excitement doesn't manifest the way it used to. The start of the first day of this long-contemplated journey of six weeks began with, really, "Gosh, I'm tired. Oh, that's today."

2) Already 90% packed, I spent the morning cleaning the house, which led to the unexpected and comic destruction of a mop and my pretending to finish the kitchen floor on my knees withe the mophead sponge.

3) One way excitement does manifest is heightened body surface temperature, resulting in flop sweat. So when Craig -- God bless him and heap upon him many blessings -- showed up a bit early to drive me to the airport, I was half dressed and had just finished unloading the dishwasher. Then all I needed to do was turn off the router and all the lights and adjust the thermostat, and say goodbye to my house.

3a) August 13 is the 19th anniversary of my closing. I love my little home.

4) Driving through unknown parts of Roxbury listening to "Viva Espana," I observed to Craig that part of Britain looks on Spain as part of the USA looks on Mexico: a beach with alcohol and an accent.

5) Despite my anxiety, all my flying fears did not come to pass. I made my connection in PHL with 20 minutes to spare, and both my bags (I checked my larger carryon) arrived in BCN. I was disappointed not to see more masks, but the flight attendant between BOS-PHL summarizied it succintly (I'm paraphrasing at this point): "Masks on flights are optional, but many people continue to wear masks. Please respect the choices made by fellow passengers and crew [emphasis mine] and do not comment on them."

6) Unusually, on each flight I had wonderful conversations with a seatmate; I am so used to keeping to myself. The lady on the first flight suggested exploring the caves of Mallorca, and the lady on the second flight (who lives near me in JP!) a wine called something like Albarines.

7) I slept (or didn't) much of the trip over the Atlantic, reading the latest issue of The Economist or chatting with my seatmate otherwise. On arrival, we disembarked into large shuttle buses to go to the terminal. The rest of the morning was a lot of Hurry Up and Wait. Somehow there were giant shoals of passengers just standing around, and none of the escalators or moving sidewalks working. Hmm. It took well over 45 minutes to get through Immigration, but then at least the COVID line took zero time at all and my bags were waiting for me.

8) After all that, I splurged on a cab -- the jet lag was setting in, and I had two wheeled suitcases and a laptop -- so my first view of Barcelona driving out of the airport made me think immediately of Palm Springs and southern California: the high mountain ranges sloping to who knows what. The cabby eventually pulled up to the wrong hotel, and after a moment of panic, we got settled on the correct on.

9) The neighborhood I'm in, L'Hospital de Llobregat, is an everyday urban neighborhood, but vital. Exploring briefly I found the nearest subway stop, the bank (thank goodness I recognize Santander from Boston), and the little food and sundries markets across from the hotel.

10) For a late lunch I went to an outdoor restaurant a block from the hotel. If I'd spoken Spanish (I am really feeling the lack of it) I'd call it Doyle's Olé. Cold white wine, a green salad that included tuna and a white asparagus stalk, and ham and boiled potatoes intemperately showered with paprika. I must say, the last was wonderful comfort food.

11) After more jet lag, for dinner I went to the place next door, Petit Paris, and that was far more satisfying: croquettes from the tapas menu, a nice bistecca with fries, and a luscious sangria with hints of cinnamon. The joint has more character, but no one there speaks hardly a whisper of English, so for me it was tough going. But the results were admirable.

12) I may not know much Spanish, but I know when Americano is being used as an epithet behind my back.

13) Tomorrow, Wednesday (!), I am really too befogged by jet lag and that one unforgettable glass of sangria to lay concrete plans. But I must go to the train station and find an electrical adapter for my laptop (I'm already freaking out about losing power). I think I will also hike about Montjuic, which is not far from here, perhaps including the cemetery. Thursday is Sagrada Familia!

14) Finally, two delightful observations. First, when out earlier, I heard the shrilling of unseen birds in the palm trees (and other trees). Later I saw two swooping about — green parrots! Could there be anything more charming? And then bump feathers with pigeons here. Second, Spanish ladies really do fan themselves with big fans.

Sunday Night, 31 July -- Fin Juillet, Ahora Agosto

1) A month has passed, half of which was taken up with a delightful and very busy visit from Carl. In the two weeks he was here we visited the MFA, the Nichols House, the Harrison Gray Otis House, Salem and the Peabody Essex Museum, Petit Robert, the Union Oyster House, and much else.

At Faneuil Hall.

1a) Finalmente, he was able to meet my closest friends after all these months, which went off well all around.

1b) The best investment I’ve made in no little time was a café table and a pair of chairs for my back porch. We had breakfast out there every morning those two weeks, and it couldn’t have been more delightful. That said, Carl is all about a breakfast tray (and a tea tray at the appropriate hour), and now my tray game is 100% improved.

Unseen: napkins already on the table. Mother would be so proud at the increase of napkin use in this house.

1c) One Sunday I got to see Carl in action at the post-matinee “audience talk back” at Gloucester Stage. They were doing a play by a playwright Carl had interviewed on his podcast about Edith Wharton’s adulterous (!) midlife affair with a bounder, Mr. Fullerton Between the Sheets. A very interesting play, and a delight to see Carl in his element as an acknowledged Edith Wharton expert.

1d) The quest for a good lobster roll was also important.

2) Tomorrow I launch August in the afternoon by flying to Barcelona (!) to begin a six-week (!) stay in Spain and Malta. At the moment I’m mostly packed and ready to go, but I know I’m missing something! Like, any knowledge of how to speak Spanish beyond Sí sí, no, rioja, manzanilla, non se habla Espanol, and parts of the libretto of Carmen, which doesn’t count ‘cause it’s in French.

2a) The first three weeks include a week in Barcelona, a week in Madrid, and a week in Seville/Málaga/Granada. The last two weeks will be on Malta: first five days on Gozo, and then nine days in the capital, Valletta.

2a.1) Unlike my previous self-planned trips to Europe, I don’t have every day planned to the hour. I do already have tickets to some Very Important Attractions: Sagrada Familia, the Prado (twice, once for collections, once for exhibitions), El Escorial, and the Alhambra), but as for the rest . . . qui sait?! If I can’t figure out what to do with myself, in Barcelona I’ll certainly go to the beach. Elsewhere I can just park down at a café with a book and a spritz.

2b) The fourth week is exceptionally special: a one-week cruise of the Western Mediterranean for which Carl will be joining me. We’ll call at Villefranche in the south of France, Rome, Naples (we are doing the excursion to Pompeii, and Palma on the island of Mallorca.

The new duds!

2c) For the cruise, which includes two gala nights for black tie, I ordered my third and, I hope, Final Tuxedo from a fabulous bespoke tailor in New York, Cad and the Dandy. I have to say, it is divine! My 2000 tuxedo definitely cannot manage my 2022 waistline.

3) It’s worth emphasizing that I have never been any place on this itinerary before and I am amazed this is actually happening tomorrow. Wish me luck!

Friday Morning, 17 June

Well, it’s been a minute! You might say that COVID and romance have taken a toll on my routine. A few quick words on what’s going on.

The Van Cortlandt House.

1) I got to spend a few days earlier this month in New York with Carl, during which we got to enjoy beautiful weather, Good Home Cooking, Winslow Homer at the Met, and a couple house museums. Coincidentally, the trip was right about the time of our five-month anniversary, and we had a nice dinner at his club to celebrate.

At the Morris-Jumel Mansion.

2) Unfortunately, we think the evening of our dinner was the time he got exposed to the coronavirus. We were supposed to be going up to Maine this weekend to celebrate his birthday — he’s a Maine native — but instead he’s at home, and I’m now going out of town for an “antisocial” weekend at a friend’s, where I hope to accomplish some writing.

Anniversary dinner.

2a) Since Carl’s diagnosis, I’ve been mailing a Lovely Note every day — principally to lift his spirits, but also to test how often the mail at the corner mailbox gets picked up.

2b) I ordered a cake in a presentation box to be delivered for his birthday, but it arrived yesterday. He still loved it.

House of the Seven Gables vibes in the derelict garden of the Morris-Jumel Mansion.

3) All this travel and daily communication is wonderful, and I love it. The other side of the coin is that my writing routine of Sundays and Wednesdays has gotten seriously disrupted, and I haven’t quite found an equilibrium yet. I will definitely not make 100 columns this year.

4) June 17 is not only Carl’s birthday, but also the 50th anniversary of the Hotel Vendome fire. The two years I worked there in college (long after the fire) were overall a wonderful experience, and that building, its Boston history, and my time there remain very special.

5) My a/v wallpaper the last few days has been Macao with Robert Mitchum and Jane Russell, with Gloria Grahame in a small but notable supporting role. When her “boss” says “Diamonds would only cheapen you,” her comeback couldn’t be better: “Yeah . . . but what a way to be cheap.” The action-oriented soundtrack kept me from sound sleep last night, rumbling around in my head.

One of the many wonderful Winslow Homer paintings.

Wednesday Afternoon, 1 June -- A Peony

1) Peering through the window, a flash of white in the distance through thick leaves of green convinced me that at least one peony was in bloom. And then I remembered that rain was in the forecast for the morning, and I went out to harvest what there might be at once. Every year it’s disheartening to see beautiful fully-blown white peonies pounded into the mud by heavy rain.

1a) “Get some of those cage things!” you may say. A lovely thought to have well before the need. One year I did tie up the peonies with broken strands of Mardi Gras beads, which was both economical and colorful.

2) Even without the rain, the one blooming peony was already perilously close to the ground. My satisfaction with its size and scent quickly changed to concern when I saw an ant scuttling between the many petticoat layers of petals. And then another, and another . . . I ended up shooing, shaking, or flicking off about two dozen (!) ants from between all those petals! Wily little insects, I’m sure you’re very nice, but you need to stay outside.

3) Now its almost imperceptible scent makes itself felt in my study. I couldn’t be happier about it.

BONUS: In other news, things are going well for me right now. I’ve enjoyed a weekend in Vermont with friends, a visit from the Boyfriend (I will be visiting him soon, too), a presentation for a corporate client, and even returned to Reunions for the first time in three years to present to one of my old classes. But I certainly haven’t been blogging much, or on ye Fycebykke.

Friday Midday, 13 May

1) Unlike Bette Davis in Dark Victory, I am ready for a Large Order of Prognosisivo Negatividad. But today was not the day for it. This morning’s antigen test yielded only a very faint red line . . . but that’s still a positive result. So isolation must continue for at least a few more days; I’ll test again on Monday.

1a) Either way, I’m observing with Lizzo’s “About Damn Time.” I adore her! It continues to amuse me that I was introduced this revolutionary, profane, body-positive singer through one of my Episcopalian cousins. My Aunt Betty, may she rest in peace, the matriarch of that line, would have had no patience for it.

2) Within my own tiny world I’m doing quite well. It’s the wider world that creates so much anxiety.

3) Only Wednesday, day before yesterday, did I really feel like I was starting to turn a corner, and that was after a sea salt and soda bath. I learned this valuable bit of Science back when I was on the Board of Governors of the Ig Nobel Awards (when they were HQed at the MIT Museum in the 1990s). Take half a cup of baking soda and half a cup of sea salt (MUST be sea salt, not table salt!) and dissolve in a bathtub full of warm water. Then dissolve yourself in that tub for 15-20 minutes, not longer. It was explained to me that the reaction between the salt and the soda rebalances the positive and negative ions in your body. All I know is, Tuesday’s salt and soda totally relaxed me, and Wednesday’s energized me. I’m moving in the right direction. And it’s About Damn Time.

Thursday Morning, 5 May -- Little Did I Know

1) On Monday someone posted an image of Gustave Moreau's painting Hercules and the Lernaean Hydra on ye Ynstygrymme, and I added it to my Story with the caption "Looks like an allegory for Perfect Propriety vs. This Week." Little did I know that this would involve not just the leaked decision of the Supreme Court to overturn Roe v. Wade, but also a positive COVID test. 

2) Saturday night I went to my first “real” party in just over two years, and I had a wonderful time. It was mostly outdoors, and it was chilly that night, so when I started to feel cold-like symptoms late the next day I said “Oh, it’s just a cold,” and prudently changed my Monday dinner plans with a friend to Zoom drinks.

2a) The Boyfriend was supposed to arrive Wednesday (yesterday) for several days. My symptoms raised some anxieties for him, understandably; we both took antigen tests Monday, and they both came out negative. He thought perhaps he could change his train from Wednesday to Saturday in case I would be feeling better, but I said “No! The worst thing is not you not getting to visit, but you visiting and me getting you sick, especially if it turns out to be COVID.” Tuesday I said this.

2b) But a dear friend Wagged an Admonitory Digit at me over the phone about the Monday test. “Now Robert, you know COVID has a five-day baking period!” or something like that. So yesterday morning, after the grocery delivery, I took another antigen test. And let me tell you, that second red stripe appeared seconds after I finished dropping in the fluid, hard and bright. And the irrational part of me, remembering that the instructions said results could only be trusted between 20-30 minutes after the test was activated, thought fleetingly “But perhaps the red line will fade before then?” But I knew, irrevocably, that COVID had finally caught up with me.

2c) Strangely, I had no excess emotion about it. No horror, no shame, no anger, no clawing frustration, just “OK, here I am with a positive test result. Protocols must now be followed.” Affected people to be informed, restaurant reservations and other appointments to be canceled, etc.

2d) And gratitude every moment: for being able to isolate safely at home alone (so many do not have the privilege), of being prepared by having ordered a pulse oximeter, additional masks, and my second box of four free COVID tests from the government weeks ago; the love and support I’ve received, and especially for the thousands of People Who Understand Science More Than I who created the tests, vaccines, etc. without which I could be in a much more dire predicament.

3) The national situation, on the other hand — what I have learned for myself, from unhappy previous experience, is that speaking out in anger comes to no good, no matter how justified my anger might be. Instead, since the leak of the Roe v. Wade decision, I have been reading, absorbing, listening, and contributing to candidates who believe Roe v. Wade should remain the law.

4) Everything is just falling to $@&% — “except your hair,” quipped one friend — but the conclusion I’m coming to is that a growing majority of the world wants to live in a quagmire of vengeance. And I don’t have the answer for that. But that isn’t what I want.

Friday Afternoon, 29 April -- The Theme of the Peridot/New York

1) Let’s trace a realization all the way back to its origin. Once upon a time in 2004 at the Margo Channing Memorial “Three Months Ago I Turned 40 Years Old . . . Forty, Four Oh” Party, a former colleague gave me a copy of Victoria Finlay’s wonderful book Color, a tour through the natural elements that made the colors in an artist’s paint box. This led me to her next book, Jewels, inspired by the Moh hardness scale. Peridot was the fifth stone she explored, after amber, jet, pearl, and opal, but before emerald, sapphire, ruby, and diamond. It was the peridot that stayed with me the most somehow.

2) Since leaving ye Instytytte, I’ve become more interested in semiprecious stones for some reason, particularly pendants, and their meanings. (The Pocket Book of Stones by Robert Simmons is most helpful to me.) Most often I wear a small citrine, my Speck of Sunshine, which “opens the inner doors to increased clarity of thought, enhanced creativity and magnified powers of will and manifestation . . . capable of awakening the powers of creative manifestation.” Last year I also got a small malachite oval, “protection from negative energies,” but the sort of rich deep green I’ve loved all my life.

3) Peridots sport a spring green color that, to me, makes them look more alive than other stones. It embodies the idea of viriditas put forward by Hildegarde von Bingen, of budding energy. And The Pocket Book of Stones backs this up: “. . . little green nuggets of positive energy. Their vibration brings an inner sense of warmth and well-being . . . creating an integration of Love and Will . . . and it can aid in attracting and creating our most important inner visions.”

4) As you know, the most unexpected and meaningful event of the year was the appearance of the Boyfriend. And other meanings of the peridot apply to both of us. So . . . so it was a sign, one of the many similarities and coincidences that have marked the last four months, that an IG jeweler I follow would offer not one but two tiny peridot pendants. Since when do pendants come in pairs? The Boyfriend and I picked them up in New York earlier this week, and I’m wearing mine right now. He does not really wear a lot of jewelry, but will keep his displayed in its little box where he can see it. It makes a nice little talisman for us.

5) These last few days in New York — Saturday night to Thursday noon — were actively focused on the Boyfriend’s work: two recording sessions in the recording studio, lunch with his production manager, and, to my delight, getting to see him lecture live on Edith Wharton and meet a few of his very devoted fans. Next week he will visit me for a few days and a lighter schedule: one event, one concert, and (so far) one function. We can use this time to create our most important inner visions.

Easter Sunday 2022 -- Eggs and Other Thoughts

1) Yesterday I was thinking so much about Mother, her creativity and ability, and particularly about the beautiful Easter eggs she made in the 1970s. I don’t remember when it was she made her Easter tree first, but I remember it well: thin twigs with many branches, stripped of leaves and painted white, anchored carefully into a highly decorated coffee can or something, and then hung with these gorgeous eggs that she’d made herself. I remember us poking tiny holes into eggs to get all the white and yolk out, and I remember especially one bright blue egg that Mother coated with glue and rolled in crushed white eggshell for a brilliant two-tone effect. Loops of ribbon or lace to hang them with, dyed eggs with glitter or other designs. I can’t recall what-all, but they were nothing I could have imagined myself.

Mother never through anything away. I photographed her stash of Easter eggshells, saved for any future craft projects, in 2016.

1a) There was also the very large orange papier-mâché Easter egg with the tiny chick inside that Mother bought at the church craft fair. Edged with yellow and clearly formed around a balloon that was then popped to add the chick inside, Mother would hang it on a white-painted lamp stand.

1b) Mother also had a collection of eggs: stone, wood, cloisonné, actual eggs that had been painted. The first one she got in Hawaii in 1977, delicately painted with a pagoda and orange flowers. Mother said that some of the paintbrushes were so fine they had only one hair on them. I remember another in a presentation box from an event she went to. And a beautiful pale purple egg painted with a violet that she bought at the church craft fair.

1c) I think all that stuff must have gone in the sale. The one egg I chose to keep was an orange stone egg balanced on a little gold ring of daisies.

2) My sister has definitely inherited the creative talents of our mother, and her mother and grandmother before her. We texted this morning with Easter wishes, and she shared that her sister-in-law is helping her with a quilt. It’s beautiful, and I could only think how pleased Mother would be with it.

2a) But they’ve all expressed their creativity a little differently. Gramma made her own clothes, appliquéd designs to decorate dish towels, and made bead flowers. Mother went through all sorts of crafts: burlap flowers, découpage, knitting, papier-mâché. There was nothing she couldn’t do. My sister took up needlepoint, some of it quite elaborate, and I cherish the pieces she created specially for me. I just “loaf, in a decorative and highly charming manner.”

3) Easter this year is much quieter than childhood Easters. Instead of church clothes, Sunday school, Easter services, egg hunts, and a family dinner either big or small, I texted my sister and the children individually (I have not actually seen the family in person since Mother’s funeral in 2019) and I will have Easter tea with the Boyfriend via Zoom. I am quite content with this arrangement. But Memory, that fickle trickster, can raise emotions, and I found myself — hmm, how to describe without alarm? — in a heightened state writing this morning’s column in haiku form about dressing for Easter Sunday as a little boy.

3a) Having to have everything just so, Rex Humbard and/or Oral Roberts on television (Mother and Daddy went through a brief phase with those TV preachers), the cool spring air, and always the three of us in the car waiting for Mother to swirl out of the house late to Sunday school. Always looking perfect, fresh, lively, every hair in place. I have no idea how she did it.

4) For that column I had to leaf through my baby book for a photo, another example of Mother’s creativity. She made baby books for both my sister and myself, from birth until about second grade. Mother did so much I honestly don’t know how she had time to do everything. I value that book so much.

The O’Neil Family art in their memorial booth at Doyle’s, as seen at the auction, November, 2019. The O’Neils had 12 children as seen in the painting at right: a son, ten daughters, and then another son.

5) Speaking of dressing your best for Easter Sunday, over on ye Ynstygrymme Etiquetteer had reposted someone’s story about Boston’s famous O’Neil Sisters, all ten (!) of them, dressed alike for the Easter parade every year by their mother Julia. She made all the clothes herself (!) and had to get started in February! Their day had passed by the day I got to Boston, but I learned about them at Doyle’s, where they were memorialized in one of the booths in the front room.