Friday, 20 January -- Palm Springs, Day One

1) The Lyft driver came for me a whisper before 4 AM, and we ended up having a friendly, active conversation en route to the airport — perhaps a little more conversation than I was ready for at that hour, after very little sleep. When he found out I was an etiquette writer he asked “And are you monitoring my etiquette now?” “No,” I replied smiling. “Do you feel calmer now?” He did.

2) Overheard in the Dunkin’s line in Terminal B: “It’s so much easier traveling without children!” said a young woman to her husband. I refrained from responding that that’s why I always do.

3) There is no graceful way for a man to approach a urinal in an airport restroom with an overcoat and two carry-on bags.

4) The day before I had fortunately been able to change my flights to avoid Winter Storm Iggy. This resulted in a six-hour flight to Phoenix connecting to Palm Springs, and . . . a window seat. Everyone has their preferences, and they are all valid, and mine is the aisle seat so that I don’t inconvenience anyone when I have to get up. My anxieties came to nothing as a) I didn’t have to get up, and b) I was able to time myself to when the couple sitting next to me got up. So — sigh of relief.

4a) The real bonus of the window seat was, no surprise here, the window. Flying over the country, seeing these vast dessicated networks of dried riverbeds made quite an impression.

5) Phoenix airport is about the most crowded airport I’ve ever been in (with the exception of Newark at Christmas, 1985). Teeming with people at every gate and in the few restaurants. I managed to wolf down a sandwich while sitting on a barstool next to a man with a dog.

6) I brought small-sized reading material, and concentrated on The Economist’s special issue The World Ahead 2023, which is rather dense, and a slim yellow book titled Thrust: A Spasmodic Pictorial History of the Codpiece in Art by Michael Glover, which is rather funny.

7) Quite the delegation met me at the airport: Dave, Owings, and also Hochmina, so I felt well and truly welcomed to Palm Springs. We whisked off immediately for lunch at Shermans’s, the deli where everyone in Palm Springs goes, and I had a Cobb salad that reminded me of that book of Kliban cartoons, Never Eat Anything Bigger Than Your Head.

7a) I forgot to take home my doggie bag, darn it.

8) We started the evening early, after unpacking and a NAP, with Fur Friday at a bar called Hunter’s. It made me realize how long it’s been since I’ve been in a crowded barroom. Great energy, fabulous rainbow light bulbs, $2 vodka presses (the local delicacy), and my favorite song: BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM.

8a) Actually, over the bass I heard Abba’s “Gimme Gimme Gimme a Man After Midnight,” and I commented to Dave or Owings “It is not anywhere near midnight yet.”

8b) In other news, I have apparently completely forgotten how to flirt with strangers. #missedsignals

9) After an hour or so we adjourned for dinner at a nearby Mexican place — I remembered going their last winter — and then to Quadz, another bar across from Hunter’s. But this bar was a video bar focused on movie musicals (and movies without music), very much in the style of Luxor 30 years ago when I was young. Mommie Dearest, The Poseidon Adventure, Cyd Charisse, The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, Muriel’s Wedding . . . hilarious. And just as crowded as Hunter’s. I loved it.

10) Technology continues to amaze me. Owings was able to begin heating the hot tub during dinner, and by the time we got home it was quite comfortable enough to bubble away in there and talk about the Big Issues for a good hour. But with all the traveling I’d done (plus two vodka presses and a margarita) I was sacked out by 11:45.

Wednesday, 21 December -- Christmas Prep

1) I still need to get more things out of this house than in. So it was a long-awaited victory today to bring my outgrown formal clothes and a couple pairs of shoes off to Keezer’s and, in the words of the late Fats Waller, get some cash for my trash.

1a) Back in grad school was the last time I’d shopped there, when vintage was more in fashion, at their original Central Square location. I was surprised they’d moved all the way out to Porter Square!

1b) The proprietor and I ended up have a very cordial conversation about menswear, the holidays, and what the boys are wearing now, and a dapper younger affiliate took time to praise my maroon fedora. He shops at the same hatter!

2) Like Amanda Wingfield with her jonquils, I think I have stuffed just about every vase in the house with holly from the bushes in the back. Twenty Decembers have I lived at Maison Robaire, and I think I have gathered holly for my rooms only three or four times. Frankly, those bushes need pruning and shaping.

3) Tonight, at last, I hope to get started on my Christmas cards, and then I have a bit of shopping still to do tomorrow. But I think I will slide in just under the wire before all the bad weather begins!

Friday, 16 December -- Random

1) Earlier this week I opened Mother’s Bible for morning devotional (a habit I need to resume), which opened to Deuteronomy 21. Mother had bracketed verses 18-20 in pencil: “If a man has a stubborn and rebellious son, who will not obey the voice of his father or the voice of his mother, and who, when they have chastised him, will not hearken to them; Then his father and his mother shall lay hold on him, and bring him out to the elders of the city, at the gate of his place; And they shall say to the elders of his city, This our son is stubborn and rebellious, he does not obey our voice; he is a glutton and a drunkard.”

1a) Verse 21 begins “Then all the men of the city shall stone him with stones, that he die.” Thank goodness Mother didn’t bracket that, too!

1b) This led me to unhappy and uncomfortable speculation about which of my many sins were disturbing her when she read those verses. We cannot correct the past, only the future.

2) Since Miss Kymm sent me a copy of Harold Kennedy’s No Pickle, No Performance last month, the late Kitty Carlisle Hart has floated just underneath the top of my mind. She figures prominently in the book as a longtime friend and co-performer with Harold, particularly in her late husband Moss’s play Light Up the Sky. My first encounter with Kitty was, naturally, her many appearances on To Tell the Truth, so it was wonderful to discover this montage of her haute couture entrances on the show. The theme song became my musical obsession for two days.

2a) Little boy + ladies in evening gowns = I think we know.

2b) Once I was within six feet of Kitty Carlisle, at the Park Plaza Hotel the year the Boston Theatre Awards doubled as Elliot Norton’s 90th birthday party. Arthur Friedman brought me (he was one of the judges), and I sat with him at the judges’ table with Joyce Kulhawik. Kitty spoke from the podium — obviously she'd known Elliot intimately for 300 years, and also that Moss had been dead about 250 years — and she said “You know, I never speak for Moss, but I know how much he loved you [Insert a great deal I don't remember here] . . . and the last line of his play, Light Up the Sky, is ‘But what did Elliot Norton say?!’ which couldn't be a greater tribute from Moss.”

3) Yesterday afternoon I finally started harvesting some holly from the bush behind the house. It’s important to inspect every bit of it before bringing it into the house so insects don’t come in with it. Almost immediately I plucked off a tiny slug! And I have seen spiders in the past.

3a) But about halfway through I started to feel quite woozy and lightheaded — yesterday morning I finally got my bivalent booster and my flu shot, little wotting that I’d feel an impact — so I spent the rest of the evening in bed. I may, or may not, complete the job today.

Saturday, 26 November -- The Study

1) Random autumnal entertainment has meant sweeping a lot of refuse and detritus. Taking up most of the space is a snowdrift of white plastic bags from the supermarket that delivers. The fact that I save them (to use instead of garbage bags), and the fact that I can’t use them up as quickly as they arrive, proves beyond any doubt that I have become my mother.

2) In addition, lots of junk mail to toss, all the Christmas cards I received last year, photos a friend took in Hawaii in 1996, a tornado of receipts and other chits from my trip to Spain and Malta, a Mother’s Day card a friend sent to me this year (who knew that I would be missing my own mother), and a slender sheaf of Lovely Notes from my ex-boyfriend.

3) On the useful end, at some point I tossed a few small-to-medium sized cardboard boxes in here, which will help a lot when sending Christmas gifts next month, which proves beyond any doubt that I have become my mother.

Interlochen Memorial Service Remarks

I gave these remarks first at the Interlochen all-alumni reunion in May, 2012, and again at my 40th reunion in October, 2022.

Reflections on Youth, Friendship, and the Arts

We have come here to remember friends who were artists with us at a very special time in our lives, brought together by a very special place. I have often thought of Interlochen as “a chalice for youth,” in the words of E.M. Forster. At my 25th reunion in 2007, my classmate Bea Raynor Furman wrote a song based on a conversation a large group of us had over breakfast at Stone, talking about Interlochen as the place “where the black sheep go.” The black sheep is always the one who lacks the understanding of the flock. What better place, then, to be accepted and understood just as one is than in a flock of black sheep? At Interlochen we not only found instruction (and, one hopes, patience), but also understanding of our individual needs and ambitions for artistic expression. This is Babette’s cry, “Give me leave to do my utmost!”

In the teenage years, one’s emotions are more highly keyed than at any other time in one’s life. Friendships, romances, and collaborations are felt more intensely, more immediately. Many, if not all of us, remember particular people whose mere presence altered the kind of experience we had here. People stand out for any number of qualities: talent, compassion, wisdom, beauty, and at Interlochen a love of fun, the arts, and mischief. The term “practice hut” brings up any number of memories of the friends of our youth.

And also the term “excellence.” As growing and learning artists, we were challenged to give each other our best in every concert, every performance, every rehearsal and collaboration. The joy of successfully completing a concert, performance, or gallery opening with friends is celebrated as much today as it was when we were in the spotlights ourselves. Earlier this weekend, as at previous reunions, I have been struck by the thought that every ensemble has its history as a group: its leader, its characters, its own memories and jokes and shared experiences.

It is an emotional experience to return to the scenes of our youth, especially for those of us who have come back to Interlochen for the first time in decades. There is so much to remember, and there are so many to remember. My own sense of memory and the loss of friends has been keener because it is now more than half my life since I graduated. So it is worth restating the words of Kahlil Gibran, “When you part from your friend, you grieve not; For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.”

Hallowe'en 2022 -- Spooky Movie Recommendations

Hallowe’en is today, and you are probably (not) wondering what Weeping Baby Pumpkin Head(s) and I have been binge-watching this month. Well, too bad, here’s a few anyway.

Allan Dinehart, Carole Lombard, and Randolph Scott in Supernatural.

SUPERNATURAL (1933): Absolutely at the top of the list is Carole Lombard’s only horror film, Supernatural. The scientific premise is unusually ridiculous. A notorious strangler, Ruth Rogen (Vivienne Osborne, in a manically intense performance), is about to be executed, vowing revenge against the lover who betrayed her, a phony spiritualist named Paul Bavian (Allan Dinehart). Local scientist H.B Warner has been experimenting with “nitrogenic rays,” ultraviolet rays emitted from the corpses of the recently deceased that could influence the behavior of the living. He persuades Rogen to allow him to use her corpse in an experiment. Of course this takes place in his Manhattan penthouse laboratory — don’t all scientists have one?! As luck would have it, Warner’s friend bereaved heiress Carole Lombard and her fiancé Randolph Scott (looking woodenly studly in black tie) ignore the pleadings of the butler to keep out of the lab, Rogen’s spirit inhabits Lombard, and hilarity ensues as Rogen’s quest for vengeance against her former lover takes form when he contacts Lombard to conduct a seance.

There’s so much to love here. Lombard’s use of makeup to show when she’s possessed by Rogen couldn’t be more obvious. Dinehart frequently shows up as the villain, in Study in Scarlet and several of the Charlie Chan films. Randolph Scott in a tux — yes, please! But my most favorite scene is with my beloved Beryl Mercer (James Cagney’s mother in Public Enemy) as the comic landlady encountering a kitchen counter of cockroaches with a bottle of gin.

Boris Karloff (yes, that’s him!) and Gloria Stuart in The Old Dark House

THE OLD DARK HOUSE (1932): Kind of a hot mess with some standard plot elements, e.g. rainy night, large spooky and possibly haunted house in a very remote location, eccentric inhabitants, someone who might or might not be a homicidal maniac locked in a distant chamber, etc. But the performances! Boris Karloff as the menacing butler, Melvyn Douglas (!), Raymond Massey, and the imortally prissy/queeny Ernest Thesiger. The way he said “My name is Fem” is worth the price of admission. Bonus: Gloria Stuart, later known for her Oscar-nominated performance in 1997’s Titanic, at the height of her youth and beauty. Directed by that genius of early cinema James Whale.

Would you just look at her shoulders?!

SECRET OF THE BLUE ROOM (1933): Gloria Stuart again! This time she’s the object of every man’s affections, including her father’s, Lionel Atwill — but IS he her father? On her 21st birthday, Irene von Helldorf and her father Robert entertain three of her suitors at a late dinner, where the story of the fatal Blue Room is reluctantly recounted. Long story short (too late!), one suitor declares that he’ll sleep in that room that night, and has disappeared by the next morning! Bonus (for me, anyway): Paul, the butler who’s in on the secret, is played by Robert Barrat, who also played Barbara Stanwyck’s evil father in Baby Face. Also, Elizabeth Patterson who plays the cook has a fabulous scene with Marie Dressler in Dinner at Eight. Also, Gloria Stuart’s dinner gown in the first scene . . . oomph!

MURDER IN THE BLUE ROOM (1944): Universal must have been in a bit of a rut late in World War II, because they basically took Secret of the Blue Room and made it a musical comedy by adding an Andrews Sisters-style trio, the Jazzy Belles, and a few numbers. And some appalling puns. I adore a big house party weekend, as you know, but there are limits. 😉 On the other hand, the Big Surprise is Donald Cook, famous from his performances in Show Boat and The Public Enemy (as James Cagney’s upstanding older brother).

Susanna Foster and Nelson Eddy in my very favorite scene in Phantom of the Opera.

PHANTOM OF THE OPERA (1943): I may well have written about this before, but it’s the only version of Phantom for me. I still remember seeing it on TV in my early teens for the first time! And while every performance is spot on and the production values superb, and in spite of what Hollywood did to the plot, it will always be the music that draws me here. The film opens with the third act of Martha, and I fell in love with what I learned years later was “Mag der Himmel euch vergeben.” Notice how cleverly the cameraman cuts to the chandelier for the tenor’s high note, since the tenor isn’t a character in the story! The film’s score includes an opera they cobbled together from famous bits of Chopin, Amour et Gloire, and I still get as excited as I did when I was a boy when Susanna Foster appears and sings an aria based on the nocturne that my grandmother, my mother, and I all played. Some kind person has mounted the on Youtube without all the backstage dialogue. (“Why, I was drugged! And you all know by whom. Anatole Garron did it to make room for that baggage!”)

Nicki Andre as Madame Lorenzi, about to scream the chandelier down.

Bela Lugosi and Dwight Frye.

DRACULA (1931): You can never go wrong with a classic, and Bela Lugosi’s Dracula leads the pack. Arthur Friedman used to talk about his line readings, particularly “I never drink . . . wine,” which added so much to his performance. Dwight Frye should be getting equal time for his dark and frantic performance as Renfield, the mild-mannered lawyer who becomes Dracula’s rat-obsessed vampire slave. The way he says “God will not damn a lunatic soul” could break your heart. And his evil laugh could haunt your dreams.

THE GHOST AND MRS. MUIR (1947): This ghostly romance was on late-night TV in my early teens, and I watched it after my parents went to bed with the sound down as far as possible. The movie was interrupted about every five minutes with local election results from Beaumont, Texas, or someplace. Arguably Rex Harrison’s finest performance (yes, I include My Fair Lady in this), but the film is really carried by Gene Tierney’s gentle and determined spirit, and Bernard Herrmann’s poignant score. And the supporting cast lights every corner, especially George Sanders, Edna Best, young Natalie Wood, Anna Lee as Mrs. Fairley, and my beloved Isobel Elsom (best remembered as Mrs. Eynsford-Hill) as the weepy mother-in-law.

Happy Hallowe’en, all!

Friday, 28 October -- Birthday Fifty-Nine

1) Thank you, it was a lovely birthday, low key but sparkling, starting with the arrival of a dear friend at my home with a luscious box of Kain’s Doughnuts for a nice long kaffeeklatsch.

2) This concluded, to my surprise and delight, with a drive through my beloved Forest Hills Cemetery, through which my friend had never traveled. The photo is one he took not far from the grave of William Lloyd Garrison.

3) One of the ladies Cecil Beaton always praised — it might have been Lady Diana Manners, but it might have been another — said that “A rose always pulls up a mixed vase.” And the Oak Room (or something similarly grand) always pulls up a birthday. When Craig told me a couple days before that he and David would be taking me to lunch there, I gasped out loud. The Oak Room makes something an occasion.

Craig captured this as a live photo; it’s too bad you can’t see this in motion!

3a) The one advantage to traffic making me late was that I could sweep in in my cape to greet them, already at the table. In the words of the late Cornelia Otis Skinner, they “blew me to a swish luncheon” of (for me) Aperol spritz and lobster rolls, and the most excellent conversation.

4) I admit it: I love presents. And I love books. And I love books that are presents! This year I received a gigantic book on Barcelona architecture (my English friends, who will never let me forget that I described the famous-to-everyone-but-me La Pedrera as “some apartment block,” will be relieved), Dress Codes: How the Laws of Fashion Made History, by Richard Thompson Ford, which I had just checked out of the Athenaeum but had to return unread; and from Miss Kymm, No Pickle, No Performance, the theatre memoirs of Harold J. Kennedy, which we talked about during our reunion and is technically not a birthday gift, but it arrived during Birthday Month, and I love it, so here it is.

4a) Best of all, Carl sent me a beautiful new copy of the centennial edition of Emily Post’s Etiquette, which differs from the copy I already have in one very important way: it is personally inscribed to me, “the one and only Etiquetteer,” by Lizzie Post Herself, the co-author. Carl just did a book event with her in New York, he having a long association with the Post franchise. Wasn’t that enormously sweet of him?!

5) Other than these encounters, and a committee meeting, the rest of my birthday was online or on the phone, including about 130 greetings on ye Fycebykke at last count, and a beautiful call from Aileen, one of my oldest friends from Lago di Carlo.

5a) Sweetest of all was a call I got last night from . . . you will never believe it . . . my Niece Who Must Not Be Tagged. I never hear from the children (except Alex, who sends me almost daily photos of Sweet Layla), which is not unusual, so a nice long conversation with my niece filled part of my heart, to hear about her life and what she’s doing directly from her. That made me happy.

6) And just think, next year I can finally admit to 40!

August 22-29: One Week on the Mediterranean Aboard the Queen Elizabeth

At last turning my attention to this memorable week almost two months later. I’ll cover the hlghlights of each day.

August 22: Embarkation Day!

1) Our assigned boarding time was 4:00 PM, but with nothing to do, we took a chance that we could go aboard earlier. The taxi drove us along the highway past Montjuic and its terraced cemetery. From where we were, it looked like terrace after terrace of paved walls; much as I love cemeteries, I’m glad I took a pass on this one.

1a) We arrived to a cruise terminal that seemed almost empty, quite a surprise after my previous, more actively peopled experiences. Even more surprising, after all the rigorous preparation of COVID documents, we were asked for none of it. I was both relieved and disappointed.

2) Our little cabin on deck 6 couldn’t have been more immaculate, or more perfect with its balcony.

Drinks before dinner. Neck scarf from the Alhambra.

3) Beforehand I had made sure we had been assigned to the second seating for dinner. We were shown to a table for two (I had hoped to get in with a party of gentlemen at a larger table, c’est tant pis), which ended up being right next to a similar table for a single lady traveling alone. Our excellent dinner passed with a triangular conversation — but neither Carl nor I had taken this cruise to entertain the ladies. On the way out I requested we be changed.

4) After dinner we went up to the top deck where there was a sort of informal dance party going on. From up there we could watch the ship navigating the intricacies of the harbor, and then out to sea.

August 23: Gala Night I

The salon!

1) Room service brought us a sumptuous breakfast (ordered the night before), and then I was off to the spa for a haircut. It had been a month since the last one, and I wanted to look completely sharp that night in my new black tie. The stylist was an absolute delight and we had a good chat while she made me look fabulous.

2) If I do say so myself, Carl and I both looked absolutely splendid in our dinner clothes.

3) Our new dinner table was on the other side of the dining room right next to the window. We felt very protected from spinsters in need of conversation.

August 24: Villefranche

Villefranche!

1) The Riviera! Villefranche looked beautiful in the dawn! We were taken ashore by tender on this very hot day and spent a bit of time in the port office or lobby or whatever it was looking at maps and Carl asked people questions in his meticulous French.

2) We stumbled upon the sweet little local cathedral, and then I was the Model of Patience no little time as we navigated around the Citadelle (Villefranche’s very old fort) to where Carl was sure he remembered an area of cute shops, etc. “But there’s a shopping area right here on the map,” I said, pointing in the opposite direction. Long story short, he eventually confessed that he had gotten turned around, I was very forgiving, and he treated me to a nice snack at a waterfront place, and then lunch at the waterfront place next to it a bit later.

The Cocteau Chapel from the outside.

3) The big surprise in Villefranche was this tee-tiny chapel decorated by Jean Cocteau, the Chapelle Saint Pierre, who knew? Sadly photographs were not permitted inside, but that little space was so intimate, spare, and charming.

August 25: Rome!

1) The evening before, on a whim, we managed to get two of the last places on the organized trip into Rome from Civitavecchia (the port), and thank goodness we did. Navigating the train station would have been insane! Plus that, we would never have found out that the Colosseum doesn’t sell tickets on site until we got there, which would have ruined our day. The professional guide educated us, and steered our group to a tourist bureau/office/cafeteria/gift shop near the Vatican where a very courteous lady managed after a great deal of effort to score us two tickets. I called her “la principessa di gentillezza” in gratitude, and she stood up and bowed at that.

I forget which Pile of Grandeur this is.

2) We walked everywhere in Rome for just about the next six hours, starting — unexpectedly for me — with the Vatican, which just happened to be right there. We just walked and walked and walked and walked — from the Vatican to the Colosseum via the Pantheon (which we didn’t enter, the line was too long), and then through the Forum and out again, and down the banks of the Tiber back to the Vatican.

The fountain outside the Pantheon.

2a) But what we saw! Piles of grandeur at almost every turn, and a few tempting menswear stores there wasn’t time to explore. I am really going to have to return to Rome at some point, for both grandeur and menswear, but in a cooler season.

A Great Big Ol’ Pile o’ Grandeur this!

3) We took a chance that our tickets would let us into the Colosseum just a bit earlier, but nothing doing. We got to the head of the line, and found out that the QR codes are time sensitive. We passed the time buying bottles of water and looking for slivers of shade among the international bouillabaise of tourists.

3a) Touring the Colosseum and the Forum was a thrill and a privilege. Both of us were thinking about Edith Wharton’s Roman Fever, of course, but also the Forum’s technical marvels. That feeling of Oh my God, I’m here in this place!

4) Yes, we walked along the Tiber on the way back, shady, much quieter than I expected. We’d see a ruin of some sort next to an auto body shop. After a gelato at the shop where we got our tickets, we got a bit lost en route back to the train station, but eventually made it there — both of us absolutely bushed.

Great Big Tumultuous Pile of Grandeur.

4a) I might have fallen asleep on the 45-minute train ride back to Civitavecchia. Then changing clothes for dinner, I discovered I had developed bits of heat rash on my thighs and the tops of my feet. A small price to pay!

August 26: Pompeii!

1) Neither Carl nor I had ever been to Pompeii, and early on we signed up for the group excursion there. It turned out to be organized on, um, Italian lines: confusion and delays, mostly because about 25% of the group needed to move at a slower pace.

1a) This is your periodic reminder that Europe does not comply with the Americans with Disabilities Act.

In the fish market.

2) Once all that got sorted out, Pompeii was most interesting. I had no idea they were still picking up from an earthquake 50 years before, which was a warning sign about the volcanic eruption! We saw quite a few bakeries, and I was impressed by the murals/frescos/whatever in the fish market, but I would have enjoyed seeing some of the villas. I would certainly love to return for a more extensive expedition.

A Pompeiian bakery.

3) Back on board, we headed to afternoon tea, in the ballroom, “not for the first time since the journey began.” On my 2019 crossing, I remembered a stampede of people crowding outside the doors until 3 PM, practically hip-checking each other out of the way to get a good table. None of that here! We generally got a table by a window, and it’s a treat to be there at the beginning for the parade of waiters entering from the kitchen bearing teapots and trays of scones, sandwiches, and sweets. A guitarist entertained each day.

At tea. More sandwiches, please.

4) In the evening it was beautiful to sit on our little balcony as we steamed out of the Bay of Naples.

August 27: Gala Night II, Masquerade

1) For this second night, Carl had brought a beautiful mask from home, while I bought a simple black one on board. With my peacock waistcoat from Walter’s of Oxford, I added peacock blue socks and clipped a pair of Gramma’s two-tone blue rhinestone earrings to my new opera pumps. It was a masquerade night, so it was important to be creative!

1a) Those opera pumps — they’re exquisite, but I should’ve ordered a half size larger and waited the five weeks needed, regardless of the risk I wouldn’t get them. Not that anyone will be calling me Aunt Pittypat with my size 13 canoes! My solution was to put a boot sock over the shoe trees before treeing them; by the time of our first gala, I could get through the first half of the night without agony.

2) We went up to the Commander’s Lounge in the bow where I had a pre-dinner drink, both of us looking stunning.

August 28: Palma de Mallorca

1) We were among the first off the ship to see Mallorca. In retrospect, that was not a great idea. Sunday mornings the shops weren’t open yet, and we couldn’t go into the cathedral during Mass. But we walked about a bit, and I noticed the similarities to Barcelona.

Very like Barcelona.

2) We were back on the ship in time for lunch, which neither of us expected. But it was a beautiful lunch at a window table in the stern! And it was a great day to nap, promenade, and pack.

Bizarre graffiti in Palma de Mallorca.

August 29: Return to Barcelona

The dawn of disembarkation.

1) We had an early breakfast in the dining room. Daddy needs his coffee.

2) One of the positive changes brought about by COVID was that we were able to disembark directly from our cabin — we didn’t have to assemble in one of the public spaces first. Before we knew it we were off the ship, collected all our luggage, and got a taxi immediately!

3) Thus ended a fantastic week aboard a sumptuous and comfortable ship, seeing all new-to-me places with the best company.

Thursday, August 18 -- Granada, Day One: The Alhambra

Writing this over a month after the fact. Throughout this entry, play over in your mind the entr’acte from Act III of Carmen, which was constantly in my thoughts this day.

1) The best piece of advice I got in Granada — possibly the entire trip — was that my timed entry to the Alhambra was only for the Nasrid Palace(s), not the whole site. Thank goodness I didn’t wait to show up until 2 PM! Armed with that knowledge, I set out fairly early (before 10 AM anyway). It was only 20 minutes on foot from my hotel, the reason I chose it.

2) The first thing I noticed was how cool it was, probably the first time I’d felt cool since I’d arrived in Spain.

3) My feet carried me up a somewhat steep and curving street to a thick stone archway, beyond which was a quiet road abundantly shaded by trees and steeply banked by trimmed hedges. How lovely to slow my pace and enjoy drifting uphill in this quiet place, completely aligned inside myself with the Act III entr’acte from Carmen! There were not many other people about: a few gardeners, workmen dealing with irrigation, but few to no tourists like me.

3a) Also quite possibly the most homoerotic statue I’d seen on the trip, a fountain with a statue of a beautiful young man and a goat.

4) The entrance to the Alhambra bubbled with tourists and their languages. I found a near-empty refreshment stand in a shed where I got a coffee and two croissants for my breakfast and chatted with a couple American couples only slightly older than myself.

5) Waiting in line I heard someone say the word “passport.” And I froze briefly, recalling that the Alhambra, unlike everywhere else, would require a passport for entrance — and mine was back in my hotel room. Just like the week before at El Escorial, I returned downhill at a reasonable pace, retrieved my passport, and briskly returned uphill — just over 40 minutes.

A grotto of maidenhair fern.

6) And let me tell you, it was more than worth it. Without question the Alhambra was the most romantic location I visited. Its gardens, fountains, vistas, roses, hedges, tiles, mosaics, carvings, archways, capitals, fretwork — every last blesséd bit of it! — just won my heart.

Glorious orange cosmos someplace around the Medina, I think.

6) Beautiful moments of plant life: a) a dear friend had tipped me off that Granada was the City of the Pomegranate; so when I rounded a corner to see pomegranates hanging from a tree, I laughed in delight; b) a grotto thickly hung with maidenhair fern, which I remember both for a patch of it near our front porch when I was a little boy, and for its use in table centerpieces in Edith Wharton’s “After Holbein;” and a very large plot of orange cosmos. And there were black-eyed Susans for Mother, her favorite flower. The color combinations made it evident that someone had thought this out quite carefully.

7) From the entrance, I made my way first to the Generalife, also known as the summer palace. I’d been hung up on the word “Generalife,” which sounds like it ought to be some soulless insurance company, General Life. It’s made me look askance at their website this entire year. But that is not at all how to describe this charming mountain ridge of gardens, courtyards, arcades, and fountains.

Would you just look at that fountain?!

8) So the Generalife is along one ridge, and the rest — what I think of as the Alhambra Proper, including the principal attraction of the Nasrid Palace — is on another. The first section of this is the Medina, and one meanders through it until one gets to an area between the Nasrid Palace (which is what everyone wants to see) and the Alcazaba (which is an uninspiring bit of fortress I wish I hadn’t bothered with).

8a) This is also the neighborhood where the restrooms and vending machines are, and all I can say about that is that the facilities offered have exceedingly low ceilings for the number of people inside.

9) From there I went into a building that I later learned (later = today, October 9) was the Palacio Carlos V. Well, that’s nice. Big and square on the outside, Roman amphitheatre (without the theatre) round on the inside, it seemed to house offices and a museum that required another ticket. My feet weren’t going to allow me to do that, but of course, the round courtyard was entirely appropriate for selfies.

That line of umbrellas to the left marks the line to get into the Nasrid Palace. Thoughtful of them to provide shade!

10) All tickets for the Nasrid Palace include entry times and, as I often have, I took a chance and got in line about 15 minutes earlier than I might have. And when I got to the front of the line, they sent me back! Well! At the Alhambra, anyway, they don’t mess around.

10a) During both my waits in line, it was most interesting to see all the other tourists from quite literally everywhere, all doing the things tourists from quite literally everywhere do: look for places to sit down, debate with each other about what to do next, and (like me) ignore printed materials right in front of them. One family with a child in a stroller was turned away because the Nasrid Palace cannot accommodate anything with wheels — and they say so at every opportunity.

11) When I finally entered the Nasrid Palace, it was heaven. It could be said that the Alhambra is the original source of things that have inspired me since infancy, specifically Rimsky-Korsakov’s Sheherezade and all the Orientalia my gramma assembled to make her home so wonderful. The arches! The fretwork! The little niches overlooking Granada! The mosaic tiles! The courtyards and their marble fountains and meticulously clipped hedges!

11a) Yes, it was hot, and yes, there were other people, including a few groups to navigate around, but my goodness — I was passing through a dream, and only wished I could have taken a plunge into one of those fountains.

12) I passed out of the Nasrid in a dream, except for my feet, which could only support my dreams so long. I continued through the remaining, glorious gardens, retracing only a few steps back to the exit — and of course the shop! They were awfully accommodating and very nice.

13) Back in the town center, I browsed lazily through the Alcaiceria — again, if it looked like I could buy it at home, why would I buy it there? — and then I remembered vaguely “Oh yes, the Albaicin, the boys in England kept telling me not to miss that.” Well . . . I might have anyway, but regardless, armed with the not-as-reliable-as-advertised Gyygle Maps, I set off on a perpetually uphill climb up narrow cobblestoned residential streets, not really knowing what I was looking for, facing unexpected construction, summer heat, and personal confusion. “Why is it always up?!” I kept asking myself? “Because, you doofus,” I told myself about ten minutes later, huffing and puffing along the cobblestones, “it’s a scenic overlook!” It can only be up!”

It took me forever to get here and witness this view.

13a) Not for the first time since the journey began, I cursed my lack of advance research. I think I probably missed a mosque or something, but I have only myself to blame.

My drinks-eye view of the Alhambra later, after my hike up to the Albaicin.

13b) But when I limped to the top, I did have to admit the view was quite something! After a moment of Dutiful Appreciation I limped back down again, retraced my steps, and ended up at a restaurant facing the Alhambra across the way. They hadn’t opened for dinner yet, and I somehow couldn’t make the nice young man understand I didn’t care, just feed me. Instead, he brought me a tinto e verrano and a tiny dish of olives, and I just sat back, enjoyed the shady quiet, and let my dogs bark under the table.

The final courtyard garden of the Nasrid Palace.

14) Later, I returned to the restaurant I’d dined at the day before, because I simply had no imagination left. Besides, my train was leaving very early the next morning for Barcelona, and let’s face it — I’d already lived a week of enchantment visiting the Alhambra. What a day!

Exhausted, but happy and grateful in the gardens of the Nasrid Palace.

Tuesday, October 4 -- Women Who Sing

1) I don’t often talk about the role Hee Haw had in my life — as much anticipated as Laugh-in, but something my father enjoyed as well — so it was with sadness that I learned this morning of the death of Loretta Lynn. One of the great American women of all time, bar none.

1a) I love this recording of her as a guest on Hee Haw singing “In the Sweet Bye and Bye,” a favorite hymn.

2) Today is also National Vodka Day, so here’s a recording of my very favorite George Gershwin song ever, “Vodka,” as sung by my beloved Spider Saloff.

2a) Broadway fanatics may also remember Dorothy Loudon singing at the Tonys a few years back.

3) Yesterday I was doing some research at the Massachusetts Historical Society, and came across a diary account of Adelina Patti singing La Traviata at Mechanics Hall when the stage curtain caught fire. Thankfully the stage hands yanked down the curtain and successfully extinguished the flames, but that’s an unexpected example of a diva setting the house on fire. 🔥

Wednesday, September 7: Malta, Day Seven -- More of Valletta

1) This morning my first destination was supposed to be MUZA, The Malta National Community Art Museum, but I ended up standing at an intersection with a church. “Well,” I said to myself, “you’re in no hurry.” It turned out to be the Church of St. Francis of Assisi, and I had walked in during a mass. Not a very respectful time for photography or blatant tourism.

2) Quietly I sat at the far end of the back pew, listening to a responsive reading led by a woman’s voice from the front; I could not see where she was. About two dozen people my age or older were scattered the whole length of the church.

2a) I couldn’t tell if everyone was speaking in Latin or Maltese.

3) My eyes found much to interest me: the dome, paint flaking away, ringed by a gilt Latin inscription to honor St. Francis the Poor, as well as round or oval windows of yellow Maltese crosses surrounded by lavender and clear glass; the pale pink (a very delicate pink, not like anything of this century) walls alternating with blue or purplish columns, a splended mural of Christ and St. Francis on the ceiling.

3a) Appropriately for a Franciscan church, they don’t seem to be swimming in cash. Aside from the flaking dome, the crystal chandeliers around the church were so dusty they were opaque.

I call this “Last Picked for Snack Time” and “Abstract with Rice Krispie Square.”

4) I left after ten minutes or so to continue my search for MUZA. Long story short, the entrance was on a different street of the same block that Google Maps said. Along the way I passed the front door of my next door neighbor, the Prime Minister of Malta; his HQ, the Auberge de Castille, is right by the hotel!

Look how lively and joyful this figurine is!

5) MUZA is right next door, at the old Auberge d’Italie — finalmente! The galleries are curiously arranged. The ground floor consists of four or five small, low-ceilinged galleries with art of the last 100 years: portraiture, sculpture, abstracts, mostly by Maltese artists. A glass door I completely missed in the latter led the way to a fiercely modern staircase of glass and steel over the original limestone ruins to more galleries upstairs. The guard had to show me where it was!

The Family: Lord Louis Mountbatten, Prince Philip, Elizabeth II, Charles III, George VI. Keep in mind that I saw these the day before the Queen died.

6) The upstairs layout was even more curious, like a labyrinth over two levels, no clear path, several dead ends and retracings of steps. But much of interest! Early 19th century religious works, 20th century busts of the Royal Family, bits of furniture, many works by Matteo Preti (who painted much of the co-cathedral), and somewhere there was one Caravaggio.

Cain and Abel. In the words of the late Eleanor of Aquitaine, “What family doesn’t have its ups and downs?”

6a) I remember especially paintings of John the Baptist (he’s kind of a big deal here), and three paintings to do with Cain and Abel, one quite violent.

Behold!

6b) And also St. Joseph’s amazement at the Peach of Hercules. Scandalous!

7) All savvy museums force you to exit through the gift shop, and in this one the male attendant (the female attendant sold me my ticket on arrival), engaged me quite animatedly about the collection and my opinions. Alas, I was not feeling so animated, but I did take note of the many bracelets on one brawny wrist.

A charming cul-de-sac near the church.

8) Early in the afternoon, I resolved to visit one of the places I absolutely didn’t want to miss: Queen Adelaide’s Church, the Anglican Church built in the 1840s at the instigation of (and funding by) Queen Adelaide. On arrival, I was surprised to find its famous steeple covered in scaffolding! And also the side of the church that faces the sea. Oopsie! Were they closed? Nope, I just went further than the entrance.

9) When services are not taking place, tourists enter practically on the altar. And I thought it was curious that the altarpiece chosen was The Mocking of Christ, Ecce Homo. After the delicious, overwhelming baroque excess of St. John’s co-cathedral, I found this more restrained and austere church interior restful.

10) Artistic exuberance found its outlet in needlework here! Marvelous seat cushions and kneelers, all embroidered lovingly by ladies of the congregation over the years, I’m sure.

“This tablet is placed by his sorrowing parents.”

11) Many war memorials reflect Britain’s presence here in World War II, and before. More unusual, the fabric covering the walls at the back of the church had been used at the coronation of George VI.

Renew, reuse, recycle!

12) Returning to “my” neighborhood, I saw people gravitating past the stock market through an arch. “Hmm,” I say to myself, “perhaps that’s where the earth-shattering kabooms have been coming from all this time!” I arrived in Valletta only a couple days before Victory Day, September 8. Possibly the most important Maltese holiday, it commemorates the end of three — count ‘em, three! — sieges: by the Ottomans in 1565, by Napoleon in 1800, and by the Evil Axis Powers of World War II in 1943. What this meant was that I’d occasionally hear cannon fire from my fourth floor bedroom periodically, including about midnight, but from where?

13) My destination turned out to be the Upper Barrakka Garden, a sort of terraced affair, quite intimate, with a café, and an arcade of memorials overlooking the Saluting Battery where the cannons are. But instead of cannoneers, I found a wedding reception.

14) Ambling up the coast, I ended up at the Lower Barrakka Garden, which has a sort of temple memorial and a charming fountain. Also a lot more interest from the locals.

15) On the way back, I ran into Saint Swishy outside one church; see photo at the top of this entry. Really Saint James the Great with his telltale clamshell, but he is obviously so happy about his new party frock you just can’t help but love him.

Monday, September 12: Malta, Day Twelve -- The Blue Grotto

1) “There’s still time to redeem yourself in the eyes of all Europeans,” my English friends Whatsapped me this evening. The principal impression they’ve formed from my travels is only, I hope mockingly, “croquettes, some sort of omelette thingy, some apartment blocks, steps, and what foreign women choose to wear.” I think they were only looking at Barcelona. 😉

1a) They are going to read this, which is just proof of our enduring friendship. ❤️

1b) But they have a point. My illness since that unfortunate dinner in Marsalforn — I now refer to it as my mal de merde — has kept me from doing, seeing, writing, enjoying as much as I’d like to. Now that I feel at last on the mend, I can start to share more of my journey.

1c) Besides, Thursday I return to Barcelona — Thursday! — and Saturday, finalmente, I fly back home. Time’s a’wastin’!

2) Spontaneity is just not my thing, but after breakfast I did something fairly spontaneous: catch a bus in 15 minutes, because it was going to the Blue Grotto. (Capri doesn’t have a monopoly on blue grottos — surprise!) The excitement of deciding to catch a bus in 15 minutes!

2a) Again, this wonderful old-fashioned hotel is a hop and a skip from the bus station, and I go there two minutes before boarding. Good thing, too — the bus was full of people going to the same place. I wore my face mask for possibly the first time since I got to Valletta. (And I was the only one.)

3) Bus route 74 does not take the most picturesque route through the island, or even very wide streets. I swear the buses themselves must have to do yoga every morning and get greased with Vaseline to negotiate these narrow streets and hairpin turns!

4) Google Maps said to get off at the stop called Panorama, but when the bus pulled up at the stop called Grotto, everyone made a bolt for the door, so I felt I’d better, too. We were right, and Google was wrong.

5) What’s involved in seeing the Blue Grotto? I really had no idea! I was sort of hoping there would be a beach. Turns out what you do is pay eight euros to get in a small boat with other tourists; the boatman steers you there, through, and back, maybe 20-30 minutes. We were three to a bench, and the boatman had us sit toward the center to maintain balance.

6) Was it worth the trip? I’ll let the photographs tell the story. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss this!

7) Disembarkation back at the dock was tricky, but with the urgency of the boatman to get everyone out and start the next trip, one does what one’s told.

8) On the return trip, the bus magically changed from a 74 bus to a 73 bus, but it was still going to Valletta! I saw more of the island, including actual highways.

9) Following siesta, I drifted into the streets for happy hour and dinner, ending up at a place that served black arancini and knockout ribeye with mushroom sauce.

10) Tomorrow I have to get up early because I have a 9 AM scheduled departure to tour Mdina, “the silent city.”

Tuesday, September 6: Malta, Day Six

1) The alarm roused me at 7:30, and after writing my pages, I walked up a flight of stairs to the breakfast room. It’s immediately above my room, so the view is the same, only unblocked by walls. And wonderful!

1a) The glassed-in breakfast room is bordered by an open-air balcony at which I got the last open table. Everyone in the hotel seems to have gotten there before me! I did feel a bit queasy, so I stuck with a coffee — I must have at least one cup, dahlings — and a banana. It was pleasant to pass an hour in quiet contemplation overlooking the harbor and a very large cruise ship.

2) The main attraction in Valletta — perhaps in all Malta — is St. John’s Co-Cathedral, the headquarters church of The Hospitaller Order of Saint John of Jerusalem, of Rhodes, and of Malta. And it’s only a three-minute walk from my hotel! So I determined to go this very day, this very morning.

2a) A friend said that, if I found Versailles understated, I would love this cathedral. And I must say, this is the Cecil B. DeMille Production of cathedrals if there every was one! An absolute orgy of Baroque decoration, from the polychrome marble tombstones paving the floor to the barrel vault ceiling of frescos depicting the life of John the Baptist. Honey, light me a cigarette, ‘cause it was good for me, too, and I’m going back for more.

2b) Like any other Cecil B. DeMille Production, the cathedral had a Cast of Thousands, and inevitably everyone was in everyone else’s way.

“Did you see them?! Did you see how they came?!”

3) Complimentary audioguides provided very erudite information, rather intimidating, really — and also had to be handheld. Since I was also holding my hat and glasses case, it made it difficult to take photos. About halfway through I just surrendered the audioguide to the staff and remained to absorb, observe, and photograph.

4) I particularly noticed the skull motif on tombstones and other monuments.

5) Caravaggio has a short and turbulent relationship with the Order in the early 17th century, which enriched this cathedral with at least two of his paintings. The Oratory is sort of Caravaggio HQ — very dark and shadowy after all the glittering gold of the church — and very moving.

The most sinister skull I found in the whole place.

6) Beginning to flag, I stepped out of the Oratory and noticed a sign directing people to the balcony. “Balcony?” I asked myself. Of course I plodded up the 45 steps to be rewarded with a spectacular view above the crowds of all the church. Thrilling.

6a) I did notice while I was up there that the guard assigned to the balcony positioned the standing fan to blow only on him.

7) From the cathedral’s website: “Congestion or overcrowding can cause a great deal of harm to the building and its priceless artefacts. This is due to fast-rising temperatures and relative humidity levels brought about by aspiration and the body heat of large gatherings.” I was definitely feeling the humidity; the space is not climate-controlled. So vowing to return, I stepped outside and popped back up to my room, feeling more than a little overwhelmed.

8) My bathroom has a bathtub, but no bath tap — only a handheld showerhead on a bracket. But it led me to the perfect way to cool down: I lie in the tub, plug it with the stopper, turn on the water as cold as possible, and just drench myself with the showerhead until the tub is filled about two inches. Heaven.

9) The other big event of the day was washing my clothes in a tiny laundromat in the next block — such convenience! — since I was down to my last T-shirt. It feels good to have clean clothes.

10) Turns out most attractions, and even quite a few shops, close for the day at 4:30. So it was unfortunate that I didn’t wake up from my nap until about 4:25. Oopsie.

My view during the cocktail hour. It took me a bit to figure out that the clock doesn’t have a minute hand.

11) In the early evening I got to fulfill the American stereotype of a European vacation, which is sitting at an outdoor café with a mild alcoholic beverage and a bit of food, observing the passing scene. The little plaza outside the entrance of the cathedral (which is where the tourists exit), filled this purpose admirably. It was so pleasant to be there then, because the heat of the day had mostly passed.

12) I observed workmen taking out temporary flagpoles that had been set up near the cathedral, all topped with elaborate gilt Maltese crosses, and all anchored into holes in the cobblestones with wooden spikes. And I observed a few couples of men, which reminded me “Oh right, Malta Pride is going on. I should do something about that.”

I may not be doing anything about Malta Pride, but the bank is.

13) Instead I went right back to my room, took my pills, and started searching for Laugh-In videos since apparently it’s Joanne Worley’s birthday today.

Monday, September 5: Malta, Day Five -- Gozo to Valletta

1) Promptly at 11:15:56 AM, Cabby Two drove up to my little hotel, son in tow in the passenger seat, and whisked me off to the ferry terminal. We had a pleasant chat on the way there!

1a) Adios, Marsalforn! I had a lovely time on Gozo in spite of one of your restaurants afflicting my insides.

My final view of Gozo.

2) And at the end of my ferry ride, Cabby Three collected me and drove me 45 minutes to Valletta, along a different route than I first experienced. We discussed the Maltese tradition of villages displaying Maltese flags and lightheartedly competing to see which village had the largest and best, government corruption, burgeoning construction, and other things.

3) I was prepared to be charmed by my next hotel, the Castille, and I was! Obviously old, the narrow lobby is paved with mellowed black-and-white marble and lined with gilt settees. The elevators might be described as French, e.g. narrow and a bit eccentric. My room on the top floor overlooks a large square, gardens, and the harbor through two windows on one side, and a closeup view of the Castille Palace from the other.

3a) The décor is perhaps your grandmother’s rarely-used guest room with a whiff of 1970s Spanish Mediterranean, but the peacock blue prints of the drapes and linens remind me happily of the blue shag carpet I had in my bedroom as a boy, and the drapes Mother made for that room. I am completely happy.

4) After my retirement in Marsalforn, it’s nice to be in the center of things again. The first order of business was a book; I am perishin’ for something to read! The closest bookstore to the hotel was called Agenda, and when I got there I wasn’t surprised, as I found many books on Maltese administrative law, politics, and diplomatic history. I was not going to spend 40 euros on a book about the Allies nearly selling Malta out to Italy to get Mussolini to bargain with Hitler (at least that’s what it sounded like).

Unsurprisingly, the Maltese cross shows up a lot.

4a) Eventually I found Ichigo Ichie: The Art of Making the Most of Every Moment, the Japanese Way, by Hector Garcia and Francesc Miralles. It’s a good time for this particular book to fall into my hands.

5) I was actually feeling better and felt I could eat a meal for dinner safely, so stopped at one of the many sidewalk cafés in the neighborhood for an Aperol spritz and a succulent dish of pasta with ham, mushrooms, and cream sauce. I promise I didn’t gorge it all down.

6) Strolling about after dinner, I found a pharmacy, where the pharmacist sold me something that should help, and then a supermercato where I bought a couple bottles of water. Bottled water is a lifestyle over here. I can’t imagine what Europe did before plastic was invented.

7) And that was my first half day in Valletta! What’s exciting is a) I’m here, b) I’m in one room for nine nights, the longest of this entire six weeks, and c) there is so much to see and do in the immediate vicinity. I’m delighted.

I’ve got on my happy face.

Saturday, September 3: Malta, Day Three -- Gozo

“An attack of indigestion? Why, I was perfectly well when I went on the stage!” — Jane Farrar as Mme. Biancarolli in The Phantom of the Opera (1943)

1) Let’s just say I was indisposed throughout the morning, but I couldn’t, wouldn’t let that keep me in my room all day. So I set off shortly after noon on the bus to Ta’ Pinu, the Church of Miracles.

2) It’s practically in the middle of nowhere, but on Gozo, that can’t really be more than 30 minutes away. Surrounded by sun-baked valleys , its entrance is flanked by curved walls decorated with mosaics telling the story of Christ.

3) Surrounded by sun-baked valleys, and nothing else. I was thinking there might be a town center or something, with restaurants. But nope, it’s the church, its parking lot, a mountain path with stations of the cross, and a couple refreshment trucks.

4) I saw the sign about proper dress before I went in, and worried momentarily that my shorts were not long enough since my knees were completely visible. I pulled them down a bit, but I didn’t need to worry. The only dress code enforcement most of these churches do something about is the bare shoulders of women, and there’s usually a stack of paper shawls, and even paper skirts, for them.

4a) As it happens, they didn’t have some mean nun at the door measuring hemlines . . . just a few signs observing that the whole place was on CCTV cameras.

5) Inside the church I saw only four people sitting in a pew at first, probably a family group. Beautiful, spare (especially compared to many churches I’ve seen on this trip), very quiet, and quite light given that there weren’t that many windows. Mosaic was the preferred means of artistic expression, that and limestone carving.

6) I sat in the back on the left and prayed for the preservation of Democracy, which may indeed take a miracle, and left an offering in the collection box. I was very glad I was there.

7) If you visit: Restrooms simply do not exist at Ta’ Pinu, no matter how much you walk into every corner of the church inside and out. Save time by appealing to the nice person at the gift shop in the back of the church who will admit you through a Staff Only door; the unisex multi-stalled restroom is behind what looks like a sacristy. Check first to be sure there’s toilet paper, no matter how urgent the moment, or you might wish you’d brought an extra COVID mask.

8) I really didn’t feel like more sightseeing, so I returned to Marsalforn (I keep wanting to say Dorsalfin!) and passed an enjoyable two hours looking over the bay at a bistro called Otter’s, writing in my journal and sipping at a couple Aperol spritzes.

8a) I do most of my personal writing as morning pages now, as part of the Artist’s Way, but I didn’t start that until February, 2020, just before pandemic quarantine. I am close to finishing this journal now, and it turns out I started it in September, 2019, just after I returned from my big post-MIT trip to England. How time flies . . . .

9) This was really my day! Tomorrow is my last full day on Gozo, and then I move into Valletta for the final leg of this incredible journey.

Friday, September 2: Malta, Day Two -- Gozo, Ramla Bay

1) Again, when I don’t have a plan in advance, I sometimes/often/always don’t get the day started until nearly noon. Which is Not Good. But after breakfast I determined that today would be a Beach Day and that I would go to Ramla Bay, or Ir-Ramla l-Ħamra in local dialect. And I’m glad I did.

2) Another bus stop (also near the hotel), another bus route, this time including a few more traffic backups on narrow streets and hairpin turns on mountainous switchbacks. I think some churches were still tidying up after the Feast of the Assumption two weeks ago; in one village I saw an enormous crown and another gigantic religious accessory outside a church, and a street and a few balconies still hung with elaborate cloth hangings of red and blue trimmed with gold. Most beautiful.

3) Approximately 20 minutes later I was at the beach! Just in time for a late lunch of Perrier and a beef burger (they don’t call them hamburgers here; the nice young lady at the cash register corrected me) and chips (I knew not to call them fries already).

4) Ir-Ramla l-Ħamra translates to “red sands” or some version thereof, but for me the reddish tinge wasn’t visible until I was walking on it. The beach is beautiful! Cliffs to left and right, one I believe being associated with the nymph Calypso and Odysseus. I did not hike up them to see. Looking over my pictures today, I’m surprised I didn’t take any photos of them.

One of the swimsuits I got in Palm Springs last winter.

5) It’s been such a long time since I went to a proper beach, and this one was well populated, but not crowded. A bouillabaisse of languages — and beachwear. My absolute favorite was a woman wearing a lace tunic over her swimsuit that could have come off a 1915 evening gown. Otherwise I think I spotted only three speedos, all worn by barrel-chested Men Only Slightly Younger Than I who, if not actually Teutonic, were Teutonic Acting and Appearing.

6) I was traveling light: no umbrella, no hippie bedspread, no book (!), and also (uh-oh!) no sunscreen. Just a hotel towel, my journal and a pen, my phone, my hat, and a long-sleeved white shirt from Mykonos. As is often the case at the beach, that shirt served as my sunscreen.

6a) Unfortunately I ripped a hole about three inches wide in it over the pocket when my hand thought it was the sleeve. First the seersucker shorts, and now this! I’ll return to Boston in tatters at this rate.

7) This was a beach day of memories of other beaches and other times. Ramla Bay is a crescent like Singing Beach, and how many happy weekend days did I spend there with friends in the 1990s! Ramla Bay includes a band of rocks just under the surface, reminiscent of Herring Cove. The waves are warm and frequent, like Galveston, but not as large, and the water is definitely clearer. But the colors of Ramla Bay are of a bolder palette than any of these beaches, not just the redness of the sand, but the vigorous Mediterranean blues of sea and sky and the ruggedness of the cliffs.

8) In the ‘90s I’d take the 10:15 train up to Singing Beach and catch the 6:25 (?) back with an orange freeze from Cap’n Dusty’s, a good seven hours on the beach. Today, maybe because I had no umbrella, I decided to pack up after less than two hours — but completely satisfied.

9) I misjudged the arrival time of the bus, but was able to wait in a bit of shade, listening to a young woman ask a young man about bus times and car services.

10) In the evening after a bit of a nap, I patronized the next restaurant to the right on Marsalforn Bay, Unwined. A table right by the water, an Aperol spritz was followed by mussels, and then a Gozitan burger and an excellent glass of the local merlot. That Gozitan burger was a bit challenging, being served on a what appeared to be a large, coarse, flat bagel.

A horizontal Dagwood.

11) And OK, maybe I did have another glass of merlot with a Chocolate Vegan (“Made with real vegans!”) dessert that was absolute heaven. It was the perfect way to conclude a languid evening.

Thursday, September 1: Malta, Day One -- Gozo, the Cittadella

1) The hotel breakfast room includes a small terrace with high walls, a retractable canvas roof, and the sweetest rustic pottery dishes in blues and greens. It was pleasant to enjoy a late morning plate (or two) of baked goods and fruit, and of course coffee.

The first cup of coffee is the best.

2) Because I still hadn’t figured out what to do with my day. Unhappy news from a friend at home made me choose to visit the cathedral of Gozo inside the Cittadella, the ancient fortress in Victoria, Gozo’s capitol. This involved taking the bus; well, one of the reasons I chose Malta was there public transportation, wasn’t it? A bus stop was just around the corner, and in about 20 minutes I was in Victoria.

3) Just as when I was trying to get to the Museo Sorolla in Madrid, I went in the exact opposite way Google Maps wanted me to go from the bus terminal to the Cittadella. But when you get to the top of a hill and you can actually see your destination in the distance . . . well, that’s a good indicator to change course.

3a) One benefit was the discovery of a series of mosaics depicting the Creation.

4) Streets (and sidewalks) are narrow all over Gozo, and Victoria suffers from a shortage of traffic lights. But eventually I blundered into the Cittadella Visitors Center. Their video presentation of Great Events in the History of the Cittadella featured the ancientness of the building by being shown in a rectangular stone room with arched panels in all the walls. The panels were used as movie screens for a continuous colonnade of pictures — 15th-century Sensurround! I would never have thought of that, and could just hear Mother saying “Different!'“

5) From there I stumped up a few flights of stairs (they grow ‘em big in Malta, too) and eventually found the cathedral. A round and pleasant lady took my money at the entrance to the sacristy and through there I entered the church. Only four or five other tourists were present, including one woman wearing a paper shawl; shoulders must be covered, so ladies without coverings of their own are provided with these paper shawls. With a subdued recording of a boys’ choir in the background, I was able to slip into the second pew and spend a few moments in prayer.

6) The church is just stuffed with art, more than many of the churches I saw in Spain — shucks, throughout my life! And to my surprise, quite a bit of it was installed in the last 30 years. The trompe-l’oeil painting in the dome over the altar is perhaps the most spectacular, but I was more interested in the polychrome tombs set into the floor, and the unusually tall and sparkling chandeliers. (Possibly they had just been cleaned for the Feast of the Assumption two weeks ago.)

A gruesome martyrdom in the Cathedral Museum.

7) Next up, the cathedral museum, which one friend might have described as the Housewares Department. One floor of some really elaborate silver (and a few gold) objects, one floor of paintings retired from active service, and various relics of the bishops of Gozo. The bishop’s landau, once used on great occasions, filled up a lot of the lobby.

8) And then, to the summit! Gozo seems to be made up of sweeping valleys divided by hills topped with ancient towers and/or limestone snowdrifts of townhouses. I got my photos, and was asked in halting Italian by a nice lady to take her photo, which I was happy to do.

9) The Gran Castello, one of the surviving residences inside the Cittadella, has been arranged to approximate life in a household of the 16th century (I think). Mother would have loved it, but at the moment I wasn’t that interested in local crafts of bygone days. The layout and the stairs were kind of fascinating — so many dead ends! And in one courtyard going down into the servants’ area of the dwelling, I got a hot blast of food cooking — which was not part of the museum exhibit, but a kitchen vent from the restaurant next door.

10) That, of course, led me to think of lunch, and I finally found at the top of a parapet a casual café covered by a flock of square white umbrellas branded with a popular cola logo in black, all persistently flapping in the stiff breeze. I found a table against a limestone wall, ordered a large bottle of water and the chicken kebabs, and settled in to read about the death of Edwina Mountbatten.

10a) We were quite high up, and Miss Agusta Wynde made me look up more than once to see if any of those umbrellas were going to escape to freedom. Most were secured in holes in the stone floor and packed in with wooden spikes, but one was weighed down by a large block of limestone on its base. Its shaft kept wanting to set sail, but it looked like the umbrella ropes had been tied in a way to tether it. Even so, before my lunch was over, the canopy of that umbrella was in shreds.

A graffitto of a ship scratched in by a prisoner.

11) The Old Prison included a lot of graffiti scratched into the limestone walls, and very stern signs not to scratch anything into the walls yourselves, or even touch them.

12) Catch a breeze wherever you can here, especially along the narrow outdoor corridors of the Cittadella. Heavenly!

13) Walking down the slippery stairs to the street, and looking at all the limestone buildings old and new, I thought Victoria both colorful and charming, but it could use a good tidy-up, a repointing, and a bit of paint here and there. That’s generally true of Marsalforn, too.

The view from my dinner table.

14) In the evening I dined at Il Gambero, the restaurant next door to the place I’d dined the night before, Il Kastell. Thursday is their barbecue night, so I ended up having chicken and garlic skewers with a gin and tonic. Quite delightful.

14a) I will clearly just be able to work my way down the bay, restaurant by restaurant.

15) It is so interesting being on this little crescent of restaurants, beach stores, and nooks and crannies. It always seems lively here!

The final panel in the Creation mosaic I stumbled upon in Victoria.

Wednesday, August 31: Barcelona to Malta

1) I had expected to take the metro to the airport, but when I flung wide the curtains of my southwest-facing ninth-floor room, the sky was swept with stormy grey that threw the hills surrounding Barcelona into sharp relief. Only five minutes later they were gone — torrents of rain. So it had to be a taxi.

2) The cab ride turned out to be a mild sort of urban terror. Aside from blinding rain, driving through a couple flooded intersections*, and the kind of speed that promotes hydroplaning, the air in the taxi was full of the rings of smartphones and speaker dialogue the cabby was having with an unusual number of callers. He had three phones going! I finally realized that he wasn’t only a cabby, but also the dispatcher. As I’ve said before, multitasking is overrated.

3) Safely at the airport, check-in couldn’t have been smoother. The terminal included an unusually large number of children traveling with their parents. Gates aren’t assigned at BCN until about an hour before flight time — curious. But my air travel was the best kind, uneventful.

4) My excellent travel agent friend Tim planned the Maltese leg of my trip, so outside Customs, I was met by a driver and the rep from the local travel agency. I am more used to hauling my luggage off to the subway, but a) there are no subways in Malta, and b) my destination was two taxis and a ferry away, so I was grateful to be guided. This also gave me the pleasure of learning more about the island from the cabby, a loquacious native Maltese gentleman. We talked about the construction boom, limestone walls along the roadways, Maltese history, local strawberries (quite rare, and coveted by the locals), Lord and Lady Louis Mountbatten, and water conservation. Turns out most of Malta’s water comes from desalination plants.

4a) Often during this drive I thought how the colors of the landscape — dark green, brown, and a bleached-gold cream — were like the colors of Southwest Louisiana on sunny winter days, but in different proportion. Here the predominant color is cream from all the local limestone; the green and brown of vegetation (including a lot of cactus) are almost incidental. Back at home, the dark green of the pine tree takes the honors..

5) Cabby One dropped me at the ferry terminal for the ferry to Gozo, an uneventful journey except for the views of the cliffs of Gozo. Cabby Two met me, a friendly young Gozitan lady whose young son was in the front passenger seat. We also gave a lift to an elegant British lady, just off the plane from Geneva and trying to get to her house in Victoria, the Gozo capitol. We had a very friendly chat!

6) Phil Harris refers to “the nice little hotel that fit our budget” in The High and the Mighty, and I am delighted with mine in Marsalforn, the beach village where I’m staying a few days. Steps away from a beach bay ringed by restaurants and hotels, unpretentious, clean, and comfortable. And my goodness, after a month of beds made with thick duvets (in August heat!) I have a bed made with just a sheet over me. Perfection.

7) Cabby Two had recommended the restaurant closest to the hotel, Il Kartell, and I had a lovely dinner there: rabbit pasta (rabbit seems to be a prominent part of the local diet), “classic” chicken and cheese, and a bottle of local chardonnay. Cabby One told me that many Maltese wineries import their grapes — there’s so little rain here — but he gave me names of wines made with grapes grown on the island, and I’ve forgotten them already.

8) Speaking of rain, it did rain a bit during my bayside dinner. On Malta, I take that as a good omen.

With the little bay of Marsalforn behind me after dinner.

*This reminded me so much of when Lake Charles flooded during my teenage years.

Monday-Tuesday, August 29-30: Barcelona, Days Nine & Ten

When last we spoke, I had just spent a full day in Málaga; that was, unbelievably, two weeks ago. Since then, I’ve been to Granada, returned to Barcelona, and spent one wonderful week aboard the Queen Elizabeth cruising the western Mediterranean with Carl. I’ll get back to that, but first let me recap the last two days in Barcelona.

1) We woke early — not unusual on a travel day, and debarkation is always active — and I had a glimpse of our maneuvers into port before I settled at the desk to write my pages. Our luggage had been collected the night before, and we had both responsibly laid out our clothes for the day before going to bed.

Our last dawn from the Queen Elizabeth.

2) Carl has become a true Cunard Convert, and especially of dining room breakfast. We were seated at a window table in the stern (as often before — tables are only assigned for dinner) and got to see all the goings-on in port over coffee and eggs Benedict and whole wheat toast.

3) COVID has changed debarkation for the better. I remember organized chaos in New York back in 2019, and having to gather in the theatre or the ballroom back in 2010 and 2012, at the crack of dawn. Now we were assigned a debarkation time and were instructed to proceed to the gangway directly from our cabin. Much more efficient! After we retrieved our luggage, I was even more surprised that there was no Customs inspection (so we could leave the building immediately), and that there was no line for taxis (so we could leave the port immediately). Whoosh! Adios, Queen Elizabeth! You were more than a delight this week, and I hope to make your acquaintance again.

4) Back to the Hotel AC Som, where I was touched to find out they’d saved “our old room” from our pre-cruise stay, which was very sweet.

4a) I must say, the staff at this hotel have been 110% wonderful at every turn. Not centrally located, but I’d return.

5) After settling in, Carl and I set out to explore the Gothic Quarter at his request. The two landmarks I knew — the Picasso Museum and the Museum of Chocolate — were both closed, alas. Mondays! But I was able to tour the Church of Santa Maria del Mar; Carl waited for me patiently, but I didn’t keep him long.

5a) The church is beautiful, very high-ceilinged and mysterious, with some superb stained glass that doesn’t photograph well.

6) With the day pressing on, we relaxed over a pizza lunch at an al fresco café in a small plaza behind the church, enjoying pizza that had been warm once and observing the heavy cycle of tour groups coming through nearby. It was so interesting seeing what people thought appropriate to wear . . .

7) Near the Picasso Museum we found a shop Carl found perfect to pick up some gifts, which made me happy. On my first visit almost a month ago (!) I had remember the shops here being chicer. Second time around so many of them were just touristy stuff.

8) En route to the nearest metro, we discovered an elaborate triumphal arch from the 1880s made of red brick and including bats in its ornamentation.

9) After a nap — a) I love naps, as you know, and b) as usual, I hadn’t slept well before debarkation — I took Carl out to Vivo for a tapas dinner on our last night in Europe. I had enjoyed Vivo so much earlier in my Barcelona week! And this dinner was exceptionally good: ham and chicken croquettes, beef cheek canneloni, patatas bravas, and then — lobster paella. I had wanted some good paella on this trip, but everywhere I’ve been they only make it for two! This paella turned out superbly, and Carl being a Maine boy was quite happy with a lobster version.

10) We had gelato at a very swish gelateria across from Vivo afterward; I almost thought we were in 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Can you believe this hallway to the gelateria kitchen?! Staff only, of course, but wow, what a presentation!

11) It turns out Carl is also very fond of Marriott hotel breakfast buffets, and after a good breakfast, we easily piled into a cab to get him to the airport early for his flight. Easily, except . . . for a wardrobe malfunction. As I plopped into my seat, I felt and heard every stitch of the seat of my seersucker shorts give way; I screamed in my heart. Thank goodness my shirttail covered the damage when getting out!

12) Carl’s check-in turned out to be super-swift — how fortunate that he and I are both programmed to be early! — and I bid him farewell at the entrance to security. We will reunite in Boston at the end of September.

13) For me the rest of the day was about repacking and consolidating my luggage, sleep, and then returning to the part of Barcelona where I felt most comfortable, the Passeig de Gracia. And tapas dinner at Tapas 24 with Edwina Mountbatten and a momentarily vexing nosebleed.

14) Walking up the Passeig de Gracia again after dinner, I was struck again by Barcelona’s unique style, so heavily influenced by Gaudí and Art Nouveau (the good parts) and also Franco (the big apartment blocks). It’s been an incredible city to visit, but I’ll feel more comfortable returning when I know some of the language, and travel with someone who knows more about the city than I do.

An extraordinary apartment building on the Passeig de Gracia.

Tuesday, August 16: Málaga, Day One

1) After writing my morning pages on my little balcony, I headed behind the hotel to hike up to the Alcazaba, an old fortress or something from the Moorish era. Beautiful views of the port and the city compensated for the steep climb on slippery stones and through several switchbacks. So many opportunities to be grateful that I am making this journey now and not postponing it for later in my life!

It’s breathtaking, and it took my breath.

2) I wasn’t in the mood for an audioguide today, and as I wandered through the gardens and ruins of the Alcazaba, I didn’t need it. The walk today functioned more as a memory aid. I found myself remembering many moments from my career, my family life. Perhaps this day’s journey was like walking a labyrinth.

3) There was another site included in my ticket, but when I found out it was a further 20-minute walk uphill, I took a pass. Instead, with great timidity and baby steps in some parts, I retraced my steps down the mountain and went in search of lunch.

4) Now this is what I love about Spain: they serve you a potato salad that has meat in it, and shaped like a crown. What’s not to love?

5) Continuing evidence of flamenco was everywhere in the town, especially the women in flamenco dresses.

6) After lunch, Málaga Cathedral, soaring, grand, beautiful.

7) And then I actually took advantage of the hotel pool for a quick swim and an Aperol spritz. The sun was fierce, and the vibe was British Holiday, although there were a couple Sven from Sveden types.

8) In the evening, I put on my seersucker suit for an elegant dinner in the hotel’s rooftop restaurant. The host led me to a table right next to the balcony railing . . . and I could stand it for only about ten minutes before asking to be moved to a table away from the edge. My fear of heights really seems to be coming back this trip.

8a) Anybody from Lago di Carlo will remember when Ryan Street was turned into a pedestrian mall in the early 1970s, including a clock tower with a wide second-floor viewing platform. One evening our family was downtown with another family, and I just refused to go up in the clock tower. Well that lasted about five minutes; Daddy came back down that corkscrew staircase, marched me upstairs, and made me walk around the perimeter of that platform for a good five minutes. It was very embarrassing, but it cured my fear of heights — or at least of that particular height.

From my table I could see all the ground I’d covered in the morning. That’s the Alcazaba on top.

9) The dinner itself was lovely: foie gras with quince terrine*, bream (!) with garlic and roasted eggplant, and a glass of white wine that arrived after I finished my dinner.

10) All in all, Málaga was interesting, but it didn’t put me in the best mood for some reason. I was content to spend the rest of the evening in my room, packing and watching Desirée.

Savory bream with garlic and roasted eggplant.

*Doesn’t that sound like a detective’s name: Quince Terrine, Private Eye?