Sunday, 22 September -- Portugal, Day Seven; Coimbra, Day One

1) Up early according to plan and down to breakfast. Only two other couples were there with me when the buffet opened. The nice young man behind the buffet asked for our room numbers, and there was a bit of confusion when both couples, who were clearly traveling together, gave the same room number. “Are you quite sure you know where you spent last night?” I asked archly before I could stop myself, and we had a good laugh.

1a) Turns out one couple was in [Room Number] A and the other in [Room Number] B.

The view from my room. Observe the fog.

1b) I had hoped to sit outside in the pretty courtyard, but the fog was heavy and quite damp.

2) By 9:15ish the fog had given way to my guide for the morning, José, who brought me first to the nearby botanical garden — of which I knew nothing. What a beautiful spot! The most unique feature was a garden near the back for the sensory-impaired, with plants labeled that could be felt, smelt, and tasted even. Mother would have been absolutely thrilled with it.

3) Our perambulations through the garden led us back to the remains of the Roman aqueduct, and then uphill back toward the university. We stopped fairly often for José to share particular information about — well gosh, just about everything.

3a) There was a road race about to start, so I was attuned to seeing groups of runners about. While José and I were talking at the top of the hill, on a university plaza, we saw a young woman runner wipe out on the mosaic pavement. Other runners in her party took care of her; she was able to stand and walk away under her own power, so it didn’t look like she suffered any serious injury.

4) José then brought me into the beautiful old courtyard that survives of the University of Coimbra, the oldest university in Portugal. Ablaze with sunlight and full of large tour groups, José brought me to the extreme edge, where I peered over to discover — my hotel!

See that cluster of cacti just beyond the roof line? I think my room is underneath it.

5) Then down a nearby flight of stairs and past the Exam Tree (so called because it always blooms at exam time in the spring — much like the rhododendrons at ye Instytytte precede Reunions), to the entrance of the famous library. First I was shown the tiny cells where students were, um, held, for who knows what infractions.

5a) Then we went up a flight to a small library room with low ceilings. The old bindings of the books — some all black with gold, others all white with gold — enchanted me, but alas, photography was forbidden. Quite a group had assembled when we got the stern speech, in Portuguese and English, from the young woman attendant that we would have only ten minutes in the library and photography was absolutely, completely, totally, and utterly forbidden.

5b) Without me realizing it, José had positioned us so that we would be first up the stairs when the library was open. And my goodness — three enormous rooms with mezzanines and ceiling frescos and built-in ladders and immaculate, magnificent woodwork — the first thing I could think of was Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. They must have been inspired by this library. Even the way the room smelled was wonderful.

5e) José shared some facts about how students had to behave when studying in this room, for instance — no shoes, because they made noise and might damage the beautiful tables they were sitting at, and they couldn’t walk down the center of the room, because it would have distracted others. I remember learning in the 1990s that Radcliffe girls in the early 20th century were not allowed to walk down the center aisles of the Harvard libraries.

5f) We really were shooed out after ten minutes, back into the sunny courtyard. José explained that they keep the library unoccupied for ten minutes between each group of tourists to help control temperature and humidity.

The exam room. That’s the rector’s chair in dark green. The speaker’s podium is at center.

6) We then saw some palace rooms, including the guards’ room with its display of halberds, and the famous exam room where candidates defend their theses.

7) Then downstairs again. I passed on the seeing the chapel since so many people were waiting to get in. Our next stop — talking all the way — was the terrace of the local museum, where we had excellent coffee and conversation. In some ways that was the best part of the excursion, relaxed conversation in beautiful surroundings.

Our view from the museum terrace.

8) Our break done, we descended further to the fraternity house equivalent of the university. Some of them were tricked out with a lot of graffiti, including some messages hostile to tourists like me.

Obviously I took a photo anyway.

9) José and I parted ways on the main drag, and I proceeded to lunch at his recommendation, Sete: a light and creamy vegetable soup followed by a roast suckling pig pie. José had talked so enthusiastically about the taste and texture of suckling pig, I felt I should try it. A good choice.

9a) I was seated outside near the entrance, and I saw a party of tourists approach. “Do you have any salad?” one woman asked. “We’re just looking at the menu.” The host gestured toward the menu, and after a bit came “No, this isn’t for us.”

10) Then came the next ascent of Mount Everest. I tried a different way from before, and the benefit was revolutionary graffiti seen on my drive in from the station.

11) My final push brought me to the entrance of the museum. Should I go in, or go back to the hotel for nap? I know what you’re thinking, but . . . the museum won out. First the Roman cryptoforum in the basement (obviously), then a superlative exhibition of sculpture, then their permanent collection of paintings and metal work. I was loving every bit of it, but my ankles were not. Finally I hobbled through ceramics and fabric (mostly sumptuous vestments), and then I was free.

Santa Ana, one of the many beautiful sculptures on view.

12) I absolutely had to put my feet up at least, but then I was out the door shortly after 5 for the next big thing: a performance of fado at Fado Central. Coimbra is unique in that fado here is mostly performed by men. Here I enjoyed a performance of two veteran guitarists and two current students who sang. The richness of fado is beyond my description.

12a) Afterward the audience was invited for “a cup of port” in the external patio out back — a handy way to clear the small auditorium before the next show. The “cup” was really a shot glass, and I thought it was very good port. Ended up staying longer than I would have because there was no place to put the glass down!

The fado stage before the performance.

13) Dinner on the main drag at a different restaurant, where I could read A Very Short History of Portugal and eat a “bife,” a steak that came, improbably, with two large prawns on top.

14) Climbing Everest again as I’d come originally, I noticed the gourmet chocolate shop I’d seen while waiting for Fado Central to open. So of course I ducked in. The delightful young woman was talking to two customers about Rome and an unhappy love affair (or something) she’d had there (or didn’t), I don’t remember. Having been to Rome myself, it was a bond between us, and she and I had some pleasant banter while I bought chocolates — banter between ourselves, and with the two Norwegian ladies who had come in behind me. Rarely have I enjoyed buying chocolates so much.

15) And so to bed! José had encouraged me to get a glass of sparkling wine at the hotel bar and watch the sunset from the roof garden (which I think is just over my room), but the sun was already down by the time I got back. Tomorrow, then, is my last chance!

Saturday, 21 September -- Portugal, Day Six: Porto to Coimbra

1) A cool refreshing fog — not wildfire smoke, actual fog — saturated the city when I stepped out at 9 AM after packing my things. A friend had recommended Manteigaria for pastel de nata, and I had happened to pass it a day or two before. It was easily found, and they understood my linguistically-challenged order for cold brew and a croissant. (I just couldn’t handle pastel de nata for breakfast this day.)

1a) While I was waiting for my order to be filled, I found a place near the pickup counter where I wouldn’t be in the way. A young man, possibly German, asked me “Are you waiting?” What he really meant was “Are you in line to place an order?” I shook my head no . . . but he just turned where he was to face the register, which was not the direction the line was to form. In about 15 seconds, I was surrounded by new arrivals who all thought the line was supposed to go into this remote corner. (Have you seen this happen before, when the line just goes places it isn’t supposed to go? I got bumped from a flight in San Francisco once many years ago, and that line wove among the seats until someone marshaled everyone in to proper order.)

1b) What . . . what was it that possessed me to order cold brew, a thing I have never done before? The benefit, aside from the caffeine, was to remember my Granny Dimmick’s story about iced coffee. She and her girlfriends had gone to dinner at a new hotel in New Orleans (so this would have been in the 1910s), and “retired to the lounge” as one did for their coffee. They saw “iced coffee” on the menu and ordered it as a novelty. Apparently it was just awful and she never ordered it again.

Whereas outside the church influencers were modeling.

2) After my little breakfast I walked about, watching Porto and its shoppers waking up. The architectural attraction in this neighborhood is the Chapel of Saint Catherine, extravagantly tiled in blue and white. But to walk inside, it was immediately apparent that this was no tourist attraction but an active community of faith. The church was more than half full of people sitting very straight and very quietly in the pews, in prayer and private contemplation. Any tourists, like me, who remained for any time also kept quiet and still. There was no roaming about taking photographs.

2a) When I went to Venice in 2013 I said what we needed more is civic architecture with polychrome marble. Now I say that we need more civic architecture with decorative exterior tile.

3) My time in Porto was coming to an end, and I didn’t have the focus or imagination to rush about cramming in one more site. I spent the rest of the morning writing.

4) Contrary to Lisbon, the Porto platform for the train was thronged with passengers, all with a lot of luggage. My car was full.

5) Adeus, Porto! I am so happy to have made your acquaintance, but you have so many secrets still to reveal. Perhaps I will return one day.

6) Driving uphill from the Coimbra station, it pleased me to see a hand pop out of a car to wave at the driver. It made the place feel welcoming right at the start.

7) We seemed to drive perpetually uphill, but eventually came to the top — which I also recognized as the famous university. Turns out my new hotel, the Sapientia, is quite close indeed to the library.

8) If my hotel in Porto was posh and plush, this hotel is light and spare. In Porto I had an enormous window overlooking the back alley (which has its charms) and enormous blue velvet curtains that operated with a lightswitch and closed with magnets. Here I have smaller windows overlooking a bend in the Mondego River.

9) After a nap (how rare on this vacation!) I woke in somber mood, dressed, and descended infinite steps in search of some dinner. I avoided some street drama by a few minutes. A steep twisty intersection comes down to the main drag. One of the people I passed was a younger man with very long dreadlocks, shorts, and no shirt, squatting on the pavement going through a backpack. A couple minutes later, as soon as I hit the main street, I heard sounds of an altercation. Turning around, there was that younger man mixing it up with another man, hurling threats with very little room between them. I continued on.

10) Over dinner, I finished The Grand Affair, John Singer Sargent’s biography. (Spoiler alert: he dies at the end.) A campari spritz suited my mood: effervescence masking bitter subtlety. Pork croquettes, risotto with pesto and tiny shrimp.

11) And then the loooonnnggggggg trek back to the hotel up all those stairs.

12) Tomorrow, a guide is going to show me all the sights. In the meantime — sleep in this new modern environment.

Friday, 20 September -- Portugal, Day Five; Porto, Day Three

1) After a spinach omelette and plate of Portuguese baked goodies, it was time to bolt into the car for the long drive into the Douro Valley. The rain was pouring down in the city, needed considering all the wildfires. But it gradually lessened starting about 20 minutes outside Porto.

2) Marco, today’s Nice Young Man with a Car, and I kept up a fairly spirited conversation about the weather, the Douro Valley, and other things. But my mind found its way outside the window — especially as we neared the valley proper. Clouds or smoke streaked the ridges of the hills and terraces around us.

2a) As we were leaving Marco described the road we would be traveling on as “risky.” What he really meant was that the last bit of the road (I think after the village of Pinhao) was very narrow and curving in the mountains. There was a great deal of twisting and turning, reminding me of family vacations driving through the Ozarks. The sun was out by now, and truly — this area is so beautiful.

3) Stepping out of the car at Quinta Nova de Nossa Senhora do Carmo, I was struck by how long I’d been in a very active and crowded city, and how beautiful it was to be in this expansive and quiet valley of terraces and twisty roads.

4) I joined the small tour group just as we were escorted into room where the vats for the wine were. The guide explained that the room was set up to mimic the landscape of the valley, with a lower tier of concrete vats and an upper tier of smaller metal vats, each curved like the mountainside terraces. All taupes and beiges and no ornamentation, I felt this room would be paradise for minimalists.

5) We then saw the square 18th-century troughs were the grapes are stomped, and were led down a flight of stairs in to the wine library. Interestingly, in front of each bank of wine stores, the floor is sand to prevent breakage — genius. After we were shown through the next room where the wooden wine casks are stored, we entered the shop and a gravel terrace with folding tables overlooking the valley. The others, who were overnight guests, proceeded with their plans . . .

Note the sand floors at the edges.

6) . . . and my private wine tasting began. I think oenophiles must be like balletomanes, constantly comparing the performances of their favorites to promising newcomers. Four beautiful glasses were put before me on a printed placemat, and one by one the guide poured out four red wines, explaining how each was gathered and prepared. Talking about wine is so parodied — I don’t remember which comic said “light, but not insipid,” and of course Monty Python’s Australian cultural attaché famously said one wine “had a bouquet like an aborigine’s aampit.” The only one of my silly verbal ornaments I remember was about the second wine: “This wine wants to have a conversation . . . but I don’t think I want to invite anyone else to be a part of it.”

You can see the white truck rattling down the road at left.

7) I was left alone on this gravel terrace under a pergola with these four exceptional wines and a commanding view flooded with clear sunshine. I fell into a dream state (could this surprise anyone?) in which I found myself thinking a lot about my father, and — despite how very different we are — how much more like him I have become.

7a) Sound became prominent in this atmosphere of silent peace. A lone white truck rattling down the road across the valley, probably full of metal wine casks. Birdsong. Eventually voices from inside the shop behind me. Was there a brief moment of pre-recorded piano music? And then the guide returned to escort me to the restaurant for lunch.

Amuse bouche.

8) At this point I was the only diner, and I was shown a table away from the windows, but with a lovely view of the valleys on the other side. The most wonderful part of all this was the quiet in this low-ceilinged room. I settled into a comfortable chair and was very conscious of sitting up straight without effort, hands crossed in my lap, expectant.

Starter.

8a) And then a little poem of a luncheon was served to me, every course paired with an exquisite wine:

Braised mackerel, wild asparagus and coriander

Trás-os-Montes veal, mushrooms and caramelized corn

Fig cannellone, pine nut ice cream and fresh fig

The meal actually began with an amuse bouche of —darn it, I can’t remember what it was called exactly, but basically a carbonara croquette served on a porcelain tree stump. And delightfully savory. My bouche was amusé!

Entrée.

8b) And it kept on being amusé throughout the entire meal. The mackerel — such an elegant complexity of flavors! — was served with a grainha wine with “tones of passionfruit” in it that balanced against the fish perfectly. The veal — writing this a day later, it’s indescribable, but it has stayed with me in happy memory. But nothing surpassed the fig dessert, paired with a luscious 2018 port. And I had just been telling the guide at the wine tasting about having braised figs with Stilton at an East Boston barbecue some 20 years ago . . . and then coffee and, unusually, a wooden tray of pebbles (!) was used to serve three dainty little chocolatey things. Now that’s how to do café aux gourmands!

Dessert.

8c) About the time my veal was served another party was shown in, two vivacious blond Philadelphians with a local gentleman, their guide. When told that there was a small chapel here, one of the women exclaimed “Ohhhhhhh, so you could have a wedding here!” I lifted my glass to “take wine” with the other one when I caught her blatantly staring at me, and we ended up having some very pleasant banter.

Chocolates on the rocks. No, I did not try to eat the rocks.

8d) The dining room really started to fill up, including a couple of gentlemen and a party of seven French couples at a very long table. I noted that all the ladies sat at one end and all the gentlemen at the other — not boy/girl as we so often do in the States.

9) My dream state continued as I left the dining room. Remember the beginning of the 1963 My Fair Lady, all those dreamy-eyed women descending the stairs at the opera? I couldn’t get that music out of my head.

The winery where I had just been.

10) A nice young lady drove me from the winery to the river. She is making her career in hospitality (as opposed to oenology) and knew a lot about the region. I asked her how she liked driving on all these twisty mountain roads, and she said the first six weeks were the toughest. She certainly handled the car more deftly than I would have.

11) She left me in the care of the Two Antonios, father and son, for a brief cruise of the Douro River. And really, it was almost as though I had the river to myself! First I was shown to the open canvas-roofed stern, with benches and a table. After some history and conversation with Antonio the Younger, I was invited to sit in the bow if I wished. That’s where I spent the rest of the cruise, silently taking in this beautiful region and the quiet. For awhile conversation was an effort.

This was almost the only other boat we encountered.

11a) We made it upriver to Pinhao, where we turned right to make a U-turn under a bridge and make the return journey. About ten minutes later Antonio the Elder appeared and we made conversation about the region and the hospitality industry and COVID and much else.

12) I had originally, naively, assumed they would be carrying me all the way back to Porto, but a) apparently that’s a 12-hour trip, and b) there are three dams along the way. We tied up on the other side of the river, and Marco was waiting there to bring me back to the city.

13) We did stop to watch one of the Viking cruise ships enter the locks of the next dam, but I didn’t feel the need to witness how the locks worked. In fact, I slept pretty solidly for half the trip back into Porto.

Sao Bento Station. We need more decorative tile murals.

14) So that really was an all-day excursion, and I was leaving Porto the next day. I spent my evening viewing the enormous tile murals in Sao Bento station and then had dinner at someplace near the Misericordia, Galeria do Largo. And that, too, was a beautiful little dinner of bacalhau with escabeche crème followed by Iberian pork cheeks with “Fava Beans, Blood Sausage, Confit Onion, Douro Wine Sauce,” all with just one glass of a local rosé.

15) Walking back to the hotel through the streets heavy with throngs of tourists, I felt the contrast between everywhere I had been during the day.

16) In fact, I was so blissed out I couldn’t even concentrate on packing! An early, but a happy night after an exceptional day.

Before the wines were poured.

Thursday, 19 September -- Portugal, Day Four; Porto, Day Two

1) Determined not to sleep away more time in Porto than necessary, somehow I managed to get out the door by 10 AM and rush through two essential churches: the Carmo and the Misericordia.

1a) Is Rick Steves the 21st-century version of Baedeker? Would anyone else think of that but me? En route to the Carmo I picked out a couple local landmarks that might otherwise have escaped my attention: the lion fountain, and an Art Deco store facade featuring a peacock. I wouldn’t have known to appreciate them if I hadn’t reviewed the work of Mr. Steves (and his team) in advance.

2) The woman selling tickets at the Carmo asked everyone where they were from.

3) I was surprised to be immediately inside the church, no vestibule or anything. About five minutes later it surprised one little girl who came in so much that she tripped and fell. It’s a high impact interior.

HIGH IMPACT.

3a) The altar was nearly identical in design to the Clérigos church I’d seen the day before, only all gold. And the various religious statues, if anything, were more alive, more animated. I got much more of a sense of theatre from this church, uncomfortably so. I took fewer photographs than usual.

3b) No live organ recital, just pre-recorded Gregorian chanting.

3c) Weaving through long narrow corridors and staircases with many turns and rooms and balconies, I got the impression that the Carmo was really just a gilded anthill for tourists.

3d) But the most incongruous detail: the screen separating tourists from the organ loft upstairs was a design involving flamingoes. It felt . . . it felt Art Deco.

There’s a lot less smoke in the air today.

4) I sheared off down a long street that clearly had a church at the end of it, seeing interesting bits of urban decay among the shoals of tourist groups. But the church at the end was not the Misericordia, but the Beata Victoria (or something) and a scenic overlook of the Douro River — full of tourists in groups scenically overlooking. Aside from the view, there was some prominent graffiti.

5) Anytime the map app shows you a lot of zigzags in Porto, it surely means topography. So there was a switchback staircase to climb, but I was far from the only lost tourist groping around to find the Misericordia. Marvelous way to see the real Porto . . .

6) The Misericordia is more than a church. For centuries it was the premier charitable institution in Porto. The exhibition begins on the top floor in a gallery of donor portraits. Now you know how I love 19th-century portraiture, but . . . gurrllll, should this be a priority?

Made from the gold of wedding rings of anonymous donors.

6a) What I found truly meaningful was the small exhibit dedicated to anonymous donors, featuring a communion chalice made out of the gold of wedding rings of those donors.

Notice the altar is the same as at the other churches, but in white and gold instead of polychrome marble or plain gold.

6b) Beautiful art, sculpture, and even medical instruments of previous centuries — but I was getting time sensitive. Indeed, I almost missed seeing the church! And I found it quite beautiful, and empty as well, all the walls tiled in blue and white Portuguese tile.

7) I ankled my way through the tourist groups back to my hotel, refreshed myself, and leapt onto the Metro — by now I knew where to use my Andante card — and head over to Gaia for lunch. A high school friend had a friend who just moved to Porto, and she was sure we’d end up having a good conversation.

7a) She was right. As it happens he lives in Gaia — I had passed near his apartment en route to Niepoort yesterday — and he took me to one of his favorite little places in the neighborhood for vinhos verdes and bacalhau à brás, the local speciality. It was encouraging to hear him banter with the ladies in both Portuguese and English, and to banter with me over our excellent lunch. Encounters like this — this is seeing the very best of any city.

8) We ended up spending the rest of the afternoon mountain-climbing the streets in both Gaia and Porto, enjoying negronis at a café near my hotel, and walking even further into more bustling shopping neighborhoods I might not have discovered otherwise. Rua Santa Caterina? Near the dinner hour he needed to return home, but his contribution to my visit here was immeasurable.

9) I went back to my room to regroup before dinner — no, not a nap! — but in those 90 minutes the vigorous food hall I’d been shown two hours before was closing down, the shopper-thronged streets nearly empty. My energy gone. I found a little place near the hotel for something simple with a glass of wine and retired, heavily, to bed.

10) Because tomorrow will be a busy day along the Douro River . . .

The great hall of the Carmo church.

Wednesday, 18 September -- Portugal, Day Three: Porto, Day One

1) Who knows why I had such an unhappy night? Was it the second manhattan, the wait for the first? Was it the full moon? Was it lingering jet lag? Whatever the cause, part of the night was spent with an unbeatable headache. Then about six o’clock, rolling over — BOOM, my right calf cramped. Result: I slept in until after 10 AM.

1a) I managed to coax a small puddle of coffee out of the machine in my room — I did at least look it over the night before so I sort of had an idea how to work it, but I am not mechanical — wrote my pages, luxuriated in the amazing white marble shower, and dashed into the breakfast room just as the kitchen closed, but the buffet was still open, and that was all I wanted anyway. And they brought me beautiful, beautiful coffee.

It’s intense.

2) From ye Ryck Styvyes guide I knew that the Clérigos Church (with its famous tower) offered a free organ recital at noon, and I was close enough to amble over in plenty of time. For such a large building, the space for the congregation in the church is very small. And the altarpiece and organ bays — my goodness! I half expected an enormous staircase to pop out like a lolling tongue for the Ziegfeld Follies.

2a) In Venice and in Spain the churches came with instructional signs about how to dress properly in a church. I didn’t see such a sign here, but I did see about three young men wearing baseball caps.

Thou shalt not clap on one and three.

2b) The recital was lovely and expertly played, though I couldn’t tell you what the music was. Indeed, I think a lot of people got up and left after five minutes when they realized the organist wasn’t going to play Pachelbel’s Canon, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, “Amazing Grace,” or something from the Praise Hymnal. I stayed through the whole thing and was glad to.

3) Next I thought I’d tour the stock exchange, the Bolsa, which was right there by the hotel. Strangely, there wasn’t any sign of a ticket booth in this grand civic lobby — and I got shooed out by a guard when I went down a wrong corridor. Well, whoopsie-doo, it’s really City Hall. The Bolsa is someplace else entirely.

A very civic-looking vase.

4) Well . . . something had to be done. I leave here on Saturday, and I’d already slept the morning away. One comes to Porto for port, and I impulsively booked at tasting at Niepoort across the river in Gaia. I had two hours to get there, and could do so easily on the metro and on foot. If you know me well, you know I gave myself plenty of time to get lost!

Porto seen from Vila Nova de Gaia. Notice all the smoke.

4a) To travel on the Porto metro, you have to buy an Andante card and stock it up on your trips on a machine in the station lobby. I got thrown by the “Portuguese tax number” prompt, but somehow I managed to get a card. But then . . . there is no obvious place to use it, in the lobby or on the train. I fear I have unwillingly defrauded the city of Porto €1.60 or something. (This is the sort of thing that would bother Mother inordinately.)

4b) The metro crosses the Douro River from a high bridge. The evidence of the wildfires was still quite evident in the smoky pall that hung over and around the river.

4c) I disembarked by a popular little garden park full of people and a little café, and I began my walk to the Niepoort winery. Here is where we learn that Gyygle Myps cannot communicate how steep the terrain is. All I can say is what Marlene Dietrich is supposed to have said: “Cosmetics may take off 20 years, but you can’t fool a flight of stairs.”

There’s nothing here that would suggest I was in the right place, but I was.

4d) A memory came back to me on my walk there. On my last day at the Ballet (September 19, 2003), a Friend Who Is No Longer With Us included me in a small party attending a wine dinner at the Federalist. At that dinner we sampled a Niepoort port with the last course. To my surprise I was given a bottle of it as a gift! Subconsciously that must be why I chose this winery.

4e) In spite of one steep wrong turn, it will not surprise you to learn that I was half an hour early. But for awhile I couldn’t be sure I was in the right place. Niepoort doesn’t exactly swathe their headquarters with signage; in fact, there’s just a very small bright yellow doorbell with their name on it. I wasn’t going to ring the bell that early, so I stood there in the corner with The Grand Affair, alternately reading and watching what little traffic there was on this steep, bleak, and barren street.

It was actually much darker than this photo lets on.

4f) A delivery man did ring the bell, and it was eventually answered by a handsome vintner. Seeing me, he realized I was ridiculously early and invited me in anyway, and then handled his business with the delivery man. I waited for him just inside the winery, flanked on either side by enormous and very dusty casks stretching into the black infinity of the room, the sweet smell of wine and wood and dust and time gently making itself known.

4g) Eventually I was escorted through all this far into the back, where a corner has been turned into a reasonably lit and very clean shop area with a high bar and two large tables for tastings. The previous tasting was still going on, so I was invited to sit at the bar for a glass of 20-year-old port until the others arrived.

Not a great photo, but I like its mood.

4h) An intimate party of four assembled for the 5 PM tour and tasting: a couple from Chile, a woman from Hawaii, and myself. So we got it all in Spanish and English from another handsome young vintner. He did a commendable job in both languages, much better than I could have done.

4i) Dark, dusty, picturesque, historic — and the port we were offered to sample was succulent and substantive. Downstairs our guide unlocked first a set of old doors of solid metal, and then a gate of prison bars. Of course The Cask of Amontillado flashed through my mind — “For the love of God, Montresor!” — but instead we had learned bilingual chat on port and some particularly valuable old bottles — including one by Lalique.

The most picturesque flight of stairs on my way back, covered with murals of ruined buildings and garbage collectors.

5) After the tour, it was a matter of retracing my steps — I tend to do that very well — seeing different views of the river and the funicular railway, and underneath the bridge I’d be taking back over the river to Porto.

The smoky evening sun over Gaia.

6) By this time “I was perishin’ for real vittles,” and I chose a restaurant a block from my hotel. Old-fashioned: square white marble tables, high ceilings with unworking Art Deco fluorescent fixtures, mirrors, and waiters in smart white coats. And I had a good dinner: cod fritters, a franceschina (sp?), which is the French onion soup of sandwiches — savory, delicious, and embarrassing — chocolate gelato and a glass of port — and a half-hour wait for the check. And then an even longer wait for someone to take my card. I finally just paid in cash and left. I get it — I’m an American who doesn’t speak Portuguese. I don’t know how I rubbed you the wrong way, guys, but . . . it’s not OK.

7) Tomorrow I am scheduled to have lunch with the friend of a friend who has retired here, and I expect we’ll go someplace where the service is better. In the meantime, I may go find the Actual Bolsa in the morning.

Tuesday, 17 September -- Portugal, Day Two: Lisbon to Porto

1) I wrote my morning pages on the terrace by the small pool overlooking the wide river. The breeze was chillier than expected with all that sun. Before bed I had flirted with the idea of a late-night swim if I woke up again — but that never happened.

1a) Across the river I noticed a haze across the water, which I assumed was fog. My English friends corrected me via Whatsapp that most of Portugal was ablaze with wildfire. Remember this detail.

2) The hotel breakfast room included one long sturdy community table for ten, with very short tables pulled up to lounge furniture scattered through the rest of the room. I chose the latter, and my knees were just over the tabletop. The buffet had to be explained — different things in different parts of the room — but it was a lot of things I enjoy: delicious baked goods, meats and cheese, and tiny chocolate croissants. And most excellent coffee.

3) It’s worth noting that the hotel’s toilet paper was colored bright schoolbus yellow. I had to wonder if that was just them, or the whole country.

3a) If Mother had been along on this trip, she would have kept a sample sheet to put in a scrapbook. That’s what she did when she and Daddy went to Switzerland in 1970.

Look at how the designers used the carnation for the zero in 50. Beautifully achieved.

4) Once I got my train tickets — I am getting much more used to QR codes — today’s Nice Man with a Car brought me to Apolonia Station for the noon train to Porto. The train had been specially decorated to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the Carnation Revolution that ended the Salazar dictatorship. I suppose in America the corresponding year would be 1826, or 1915 for the Confederacy.

5) My seat in second class, “comfort class,” was in the center of the car with a convenient table, and my journey all the way to Porto was, in fact, completely comfortable. The car became full after the second stop — full of people with roller bags and full of confusion. Eventually everyone got settled enough so that the Nice Man with the Trolley could come through with refreshments.

This will give you a little idea of the wildfire smoke. It got thicker further north.

5a) Smoke from the wildfires became more prominent after Aveiro, and especially crossing the Douro River into Porto.

6) Disembarking down escalators and moving through corridors, the crowd moved like radioactive molasses — very active but hardly moving. Once I got through it I realized this was in part because the corridor terminated in two escalators, and most people couldn’t figure out which was which.

6a) Happily the Nice Man with the Car was there — I saw my name on his little screen from about ten feet and two minutes away, we caught each other’s glance and nodded — and then he got me out of the crowd and the station through the winding streets of Porto. On this ten-minute drive I got the impression of a tiled Malta.

The daintiness! Freshly baked almond cakes, grapes, and sparkling water.

7) My hotel in Porto is very posh, intimidatingly posh — like the Danieli in Venice, where I got to stay for a night in 2013. I was overwhelmed at the front desk with requests for passport and credit card and signature while simultaneously being offered a hot washcloth and a cup of tea. I can tell I’m going to enjoy it here.

8) The hotel is also near many of the must-see items in Porto, and I figured I’d go first to the famous Livreria Lello, a jewel of a bookstore. IF YOU GO: You must book a ticket online in advance; this is no place to book tickets on site. There are lines for each of the timed entries at 15-minute intervals.

8a) Lello has become less than a bookstore — it’s an Instagram Moment. Everyone wants their moment on that staircase! So there is a lot of (im)patient waiting for people to get that perfect shot.

8b) They aren’t that easy to manage, those stairs, and my attempt to descend as Dolly Levi nearly ended as Agnes Gooch.

8c) They do still sell books, and I picked up a volume of Portuguese history for me, and The Little Prince for Younger Nephew Who Must Not Be Tagged and his wife to read aloud to their Sweet Precious One.

Many Portuguese buildings are tiled on the outside. I love it.

9) Having thrown down the gauntlet to Porto, I needed some dinner, and repaired to the hotel bar. This turned out to require a lot of patience; I don’t know what was going on behind the scenes, but it took me a long time just to get a menu, and then to place an order with the slim and smiling waiter.

9a) The place started to fill with a couple different collections of Bluff Hearty Types of both sexes who required a lot of attention. They may have been gathering there for drinks before dinner in the hotel’s restaurant. My attention wandered between them, The Grand Affair: John Singer Sargent and His World, and — darkly — waiting for my drink.

9a) Which was lovely when it finally arrived, a succulent manhattan. Followed eventually by a loin of beef with mashed potatoes so smooth they were served in a bowl with a soup spoon. I preemptively ordered a second drink.

Dessert. Pretty much anything involving chocolate and hazelnuts works for me.

9b) Two ladies who arrived well after I did were also experiencing delays in service. While I waited for my dessert, I was giggling a little too loudly over someone’s Instagram post of questions received by NYC librarians in the mid-century. I could not contain myself over “What lassitude is New York City on?” This led me to apologize to them — and broke the ice for a very interesting conversation.

9c) Just before I left, a group of ladies left the bar, one of them making a special point to thank my waiter. “You have just absolutely made our stay here these last few days!” or some such. So it may just have been an off night.

10) And so to bed! I was damn near wiped out. Looking out my window, I could see the full moon dripping blood red in the sky, tinted by all the smoke.

Sunday-Monday, 15-16 September: Portugal Departure and Day One

1) The wheels of my new suitcase glide like silk over the roughest sidewalks. And it fit everything so well I didn’t need to take an additional carryon. So with that and a heavily burdened laptop bag, I easily propelled my luggage and myself to the MBTA to launch three weeks in Portugal.

2) Sartre famously said “Hell is other people.” Mother, less famously, said (and said and said) “This is an opportunity to practice patience.” And my departure provided a few opportunities for the latter provided by the former. (That said, why travel if you can’t deal with other people? Just stay home.) The one instance I’ll share is the delay at the metal detectors caused by the sweet old couple directly in front of me. Their difficulties reminded me of some training we got in aging-related issues back at ye Instytte around 2017-2019. We had to wear headphones broadcasting static and dark glasses, and then get timed on completing a series of tasks, the instructions for which were all given verbally. Or something like that. And whaddya know, all that distraction impacts the outcome.

2a) The power of one screaming child to influence an entire restaurant can never be underestimated.

3) It seems a whole lot of people on the flight got downgraded to a lower level of service, including me. I was actually OK with that — though that seat did feel a little narrow. Imagine my surprise getting a refund via email! Now that is actually a pretty nice way to start the trip.

4) I rested rather than slept on this night flight. Toward the end I noticed that the man next to me had the Kirstie Alley remake of The Parent Trap on . . . a curious choice.

5) One of the attendants complimented me on my clothes as I was exiting the plane: navy blue blazer, gray polo shirt, khakis, burgundy leather belt and shoes. Dressing well is the best revenge.

6) Passport control offered two choices: “All Passports” and “Electronic Passports.” Long story short, I chose the former, which was a lot longer — and apparently I could have used the other, but there was no one to ask. That zigzag queue did feel like it would take forever, but it was a handy study of just who’s traveling now. And that’s just about everybody. A melting pot of languages.

From the hotel terrace.

7) The advantage of the “All Passports” line, long as it was, was the handsome smiling young customs official who welcomed me to Portugal. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that “Et le douannier, c’est notre affaire!” didn’t pass through my mind. “Il aime à plaire, it aime à faire le galant . . . “

8) After finding my bag at the extreme end of baggage claim — clearly they’d had time to gather the fall harvest while I was in the passport line — I was then able to Leave the Secure Area and find the Nice Man with the Car who was going to get me to the hotel. At the exit I found myself on a landing in the large terminal. At the height of about my calves, leaning against the edge, were the usual signs with traveler and agency names. For a change, mine was one of the names. And the Nice Man with the cars was very nice, well-dressed and well-spoken, and he allowed me to sit in the front so I could have more of a view of Lisbon than the roof of the car.

9) Really, I expected a superhighway, but instead we were practically taking back roads past old Manueline barrack-style buildings in various states of spruceness or decay — and graffity ornamenting them both. The airport is that close to the city.

The Sé of Lisbon.

10) In a twinkling we were driving past the Sé, the cathedral of Lisbon, up the traditional narrow winding street to a narrow winding alley that ended . . . at my hotel! It is quite charming and modern on the inside, and I even have a small seating area outside facing the river beyond the hotel terrace.

11) I figured I’d better get started right away before the jet lag slammed me, so I changed and headed to the Sé. This enormous pile reminded me very much of the Escorial outside Madrid — unforgiving and austere granite with elements of colorful beauty.

On the Sé balcony.

11a) First one goes upstairs to the church treasury. The stairs turn off to an extremely narrow balcony outside underneath the cathedral’s rose window. There’s a lovely view, and it’s really pictureseque and stuff — but the only way out is the way you came in, and when other tourists come in, there’s nothing for it but to squeeze past them.

From a window in the chapter room.

11b) Photographs did not appear to be allowed in the treasury, which contained the usual collection of gold-embroidered vestments and other precious oddments. I recall a beautiful ceramic head, a reliquary of St. Ursula. But the true showpiece is the Patriarchal Gold Monstrance, also known as the Rich Monstrance, all gold and diamonds and other precious stones, clearly the masterwork of its creators.

11c) The adjacent chapter room, exquisite in every detail, included two tall windows with balcony grilles overlooking the sunny river view. The sumptuous creation of man overlooking the simplicity of Nature.

Saint Sebastian.

11d) In the cathedral itself, what impressed me most was the little chapel of St. Sebastian.

12) Fading, I returned to the hotel and crept into bed for a couple hours necessary sleep. I was roused less than three hours later by a knock on the door. “Not right now!” I called sleepily. “It’s a gift!” came back the feminine voice. “Just a minute!” I answered, sliding naked from the bed to find something to put on. The robe I grabbed hastily in the bathroom a) was so small I had no choice but to hold it closed, and b) the stupid belt just fell on the floor . . . and I had to answer the door!

12a) The nice young lady was there to offer me a slate plaque with three exquisite chocolates on it and a nice note from the management. We had some confusion about holding the door open and my robe closed, and then she explained that the Do Not Disturb sign was actually part of the doorknob. Her English was better than my Portuguese at least . . .

13) The real gift of her untimely visit, however, was to motivate me to start my evening. I redressed and stepped onto the hotel terrace, taking a seat at a long wide marble counter facing the river, a glass of sparkling Portuguese rosé, and two small chicken croquetas. The idea of reading became impossible.

An attempt at a panoramic photo from one of the overlooks.

14) For the views, I ascended the hill and discovered two beautiful overlooks, each heavily populated with young people, tourists, bougainvillea, and of course azulejos, the famous decorative tile of Portugal. At one there was some gentle live music going on, a violin and a guitar.

14a) Also here, a beautiful tile panel mentioned in the guidebooks of the conquest of Lisbon in 1147. It’s set into a wall in this little park, with a window over it. I kept wondering whose window that was, and how they liked being over a major tourist attraction with guides interpreting it in every language every day at every hour.

15) For dinner I chose a wine place recommended in a pamphlet published by the hotel. Just bear right at the Sé and continue for two blocks. There I sampled a couple lovely light Portuguese wines, but their menu was a) really more tapas, and b) just . . . whaaaaat is this? Tomato water? Leaves? Like Mrs. Maisel’s unworldly mother-in-law, I need food I can understand.

The wine started to go to my head.

15a) So after the admittedly wonderful tapas-size bearded forkfish or something, I found an unpretentious little bar just behind the Sé where I had a hefty pasta carbonara.

16) And so to bed. I tried writing outside in my little seating area, but even the magically beautiful full moon over the water couldn’t keep me awake. I retired grateful for safe travels and for this little jewel of an oasis in the Alfama of Lisbon, a nice spot to ease myself into this vacation.

Tuesday, 20 August -- Palm Springs, Days Seven and Eight

1) Throughout this lovely week away I had been waking naturally between 6-7 AM; the advantage to this was being able to enjoy the most beautiful part of an August day in Palm Springs, the dawn. No complaints from me!

1a) Today the dawn came with a difference: an absence of caffeinated coffee. The decaf was delicious . . . but its impact was felt later.

2) This PSP visit was almost entirely incognito; I didn’t alert the faithful to my plans, and initiated no get-togethers. (I hope this has not led to offense.) Today, my last full day in town, came my one independent social outing, to meet the mother of a friend at Sherman’s. Our meeting was absolutely delightful — to appear as cool and elegant as she did at the height of desert summer is the mark of a true lady — and despite my being challenged by the increasingly oppressive acoustics and a gathering headache, we had a wonderful conversation.

2a) The occasion did, however, make me hyper-conscious of my table manners. The hearty Sherman’s-sized Cobb salad served me nearly overflowed the plate, and it took more concentration than usual to keep from getting a speck of it onto the table.

3) It was my intention to get in some shopping after lunch with one of my hosts — I had committed no Acts of Retail thus far — but by the time I got home my head was near splitting in half. Remember what I said about the decaf? There wasn’t enough ibuprofen in the world to solve this problem. I spent the afternoon either in bed or pacing the floor.

4) But like a miracle I rallied for a final cocktail hour in the pool — just something very mild — and then our long-anticipated farewell dinner at Farm on La Plaza. My indisposition had led my friends to worry that we might need to cancel the reservation, and I regretted having caused that much distress.

4a) As a chronically early person who is subject to the whims of the MBTA, one adjustment I constantly have to make in Palm Springs is that you really can be anywhere in ten minutes, even the airport. And so it was for our delightful little dinner. It felt like we left the house in the shadow of the time of our reservation, but even with a whisper of trouble finding a parking space, we got there exactly on time. Sometimes you really do just have to let go and let God.

4b) Farm is, appropriately, like a Spanish-style farmhouse of the 1930s, and we were shown into a small brightly whitewashed dining room hung with desert landscapes of 100 years ago and only five or six tables. The room was full when we got there, but gradually emptied so that we ended up shutting down the place.

4c) A cluster of alstromeria on the table reminded me of ushering at the wedding of friends when I was in graduate school — also in August, come to think of it. The bride had French-braided her hair up into a knot at the top of her head with a cluster of white alstromeria and (I believe) a few white ribbons trailing down the back. She looked absolutely lovely, but the day was so hot and her hair not quite long enough, that it all disintegrated not long after the reception started and she just had to put back her hair with a barrette.

4d) The real table manners challenge of the night came right at the beginning, when we three launched into the special appetizer: a succulent baked Brie topped with hazelnuts. The cheese had been removed from its rind and was served in a shallow bowl, very much like dip, but with insufficient utensils for elegant consumption.

4d.i) Worth the challenge though. Absolutely delicious, would definitely order again.

4e) The dinner was quite lovely: for me, a French country salad (the super-thin beet slices were shingled at the bottom of the plate), filet mignon, and the chocolate and caramel “sphere” which was really a dome, but still amazing, all washed down with a charming rosé.

5) That night was, as I recall, the official night of the full moon, a super moon. As always, she was more beautiful than any photograph I could take — but it didn’t stop me from trying again.

EPILOGUE: Travel Home

1) This morning I did set the alarm so I could write my pages, finish packing, and enjoy a final dip in the pool before my friends carted me off to the airport for my noon flight. They made my first summer visit to the desert memorable for all the right reasons.

2) Through security I was not the only male subjected to a pat-down. Tedious.

3) On impulse, I bought a small box of cactus candy in the Phoenix airport, because I remembered a colleague from Ye Instytytte bringing back a box to the office about 35 years ago.

4) Flying home, I finally turned my attention to reading about my September destination, Portugal.

5) Landing just before midnight, I took a cab home with a Venezuelan cab driver who has been in Boston 23 years. He was very nice, not too talkative, and already knew about the Amory Street shortcut — which really proved he’s been in Boston all this time.

Monday, 19 August -- Palm Springs, Day Six

1) As if on cue, the jackhammers split open the morning precisely at 8:00 AM. At least we’d been warned; my hosts had heard from their neighbor that patio renovations would be taking place, and noise would be possible Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.

2) But that’s why we’d planned to spend much of the day away from home, riding the famous Palm Springs Aerial Tramway to Mount San Jacinto State Park. And certainly it would be at least a bit cooler! So at 11:30 I reported promptly with a backpack containing sunblock, lip balm, and a couple snacks, and off we went in the blasting heat.

3) Thank goodness we saw that Albert Frey architecture exhibition the day before, ’cause we passed one of his buildings on the way there, and the lower tramway station is one of his most famous buildings. So I felt like I knew what I was seeing.

Some of the windows were kept open, which brought a welcome breeze.

4) The tramcar itself is circular, and the floor rotates so that passengers get a 360 degree view — twice! — in the 12-minute trip up or down the mountain. There is no seating except for two small padded seats flanking the operator for those who really need it. Railings on the windows do not move with the floor, but there are moving handholds in the center.

5) The doors were closed, and whoopsie-daisy, up we go! The car ascended swiftly, pre-recorded facts and figures chirping at us in the background. The cables pass over five towers, each of which cause the tramcar to swing a little. The operator let us know it would happen, particularly at the third tower. It’s a little unnerving.

6) “You don’t have trouble with heights, do you?” asked Dave, when we were about halfway up. “Yes,” I said, without missing a beat. But I got all the way up to the top without drama — just concentration on the scenery — amazing — and trying to blot out voices and conversations.

AIGH!

7) How lovely to be on land again! And at an elevation just over 8,300 feet! The overlooks into the Coachella Valley all the way to the Salton Sea — just incredible. I was reminded irresistibly of visiting Rock City in Tennessee as a child. (It is, of course, much closer to sea level . . .)

8) I was fascinated not only by the scenery but by the many warning and instructional signs. You wouldn’t think it would be necessary to state that high heels are dangerous, but — and I am not making this up you know! — there was a woman in our tramcar in five-inch stiletto heels and a clinging jersey dress, clearly visiting in a non-hiking capacity. I hope she did not end up having to go outside.

9) Almost at once we repaired to the scenic overlooks facing the valley. The expansive windmill farm, the grid of Palm Springs itself, the hazy horizon . . . and then our more immediate surroundings of boulders and tall wind-altered pines.

9a) I can find a drag queen name in almost anything, and in the park signage I found Miss Rocky Backbone and Miss Fern Valley.

10) Seated on the intimate top tier of the three-tiered restaurant, we enjoyed a quiet lunch of burgers and iced tea with commanding views in a rustic mid-century room.

Steeper than it appears!

11) After lunch Owings and I actually did a mild spot of hiking out the back of the lodge, where the paved path winds steeply down. We speculated about the logistics of actually building the park and the tramway: transportation of construction materials and supplies and staff, the housing (and cooking!) required for the crew, weather conditions . . . how did they do it?!

12) The film shown in the tiny cinema is about 25 years old, made to celebrate the retirement of the old tramcars and the launch of the new (current) ones. It hasn’t aged nearly as well as The Romance and Sex Life of the Date at the Shields Date Farm in Indio, which I saw there on a previous visit.

For the engineers.

13) On the way down, the operator turned the journey into a sing-along, any perky touristy narrative substituted with recordings of “Sweet Caroline,” “Country Roads,” and “September” by Earth Wind and Fire. It actually made the return journey a bit less tense for acrophobes like me, but there were a couple bluff and hearty guys, traveling with their wives, who were not having it; I think they must have been Yankees fans.

13a) I did make the mistake, at the top, of looking down the length of cable we had to travel, and it was just like looking up at the top of the Eiffel Tower from its second level. I really need to learn not to do that.

14) Inevitably I wandered into the gift shop, but then wandered out again almost right away. “Stop!” said the clerk. “You can’t leave without buying something!” When I turned around he added “Just kidding!” Ha ha ha no.

14a) But from him I learned that there’s a difference between the park gift shop at the top, which is run by park volunteers (and was closed), and the tramway gift shop, which is run by the tramway staff. All I have to say is, a) petty, and b) there were better T-shirts in the park gift shop.

15) Next stop: a tourist information center closer to town . . . that was originally a gas station designed by Albert Frey! Delightful for a) architecture history, b) air conditioning, and c) being able to see in the cement/concrete/whatever flooring the auto repair bays (or whatever they’re called). The building suits its new purpose well.

Neither demure nor mindful.

16) After cocktails in the pool — and why not? — we had a beautiful little dinner of chicken parm and pasta while watching the Democratic National Convention on TV. The flaps on my skull nearly opened to emit the light of Enlightenment when Owings took down the flat screen from over the fireplace and angled it toward the table. I was not expecting that!

17) The full moon felt exceptionally beautiful arcing over the neighborhood that night.

My lunar photography is never stellar.

Sunday, 18 August -- Palm Springs, Day Five

1) To my surprise, I woke well before 6:00 AM — but that is the most beautiful part of an August day in Palm Springs. A morning of dawdling in the pool proceeded until the phone rang. Could I be ready in ten minutes to leave for brunch? The answer, of course, was yes, and with a lick and a promise I joined my hosts in near-record time.

1a) Yes, you read that correctly: “the phone rang.” My hosts collect telephones and have arranged a PDX (?) phone system with around 20 different telephones, including about six in the living room alone and one in the car. I have a flame orange trimline phone in the casita that might have appeared in The Towering Inferno. I love it.

1b) I am so glad other people understand technology, because honestly . . .

2) The car phone was demonstrated for me en route to John’s, a diner where you order at the counter and your food is brought to you just like Bonanza. We had a very good brunch, but I was most taken with the sign at the entrance warning that “Service Dog Fraud Is A Crime” and speculating about what sort of incident led the management to post it.

3) Next stop: the Palm Springs Art Museum’s Architecture and Design Center for the final day of Albert Frey: Inventive Modernist, an architect of whom I had never heard but without whom Palm Springs As We Know It simply would not exist. The center is housed in a midcentury building that used to be a bank, recalling many childhood visits with Mother to Calcasieu Marine National Bank on Enterprise Boulevard. (The exterior of that building was completely changed many years ago, so that now it looks like it was carved from meringue.)

3a) We arrived just in time for the guided tour of the exhibition, which the docent began by confessing she felt emotional about a show meaningful to her coming to an end. She was really an excellent presenter, communicating with just the right amount of enthusiasm (read: not excessive) and making eye contact with everyone throughout the group. I confess I felt torn by a) wanting to show her attentive respect, b) following the material, and c) feeling that post-prandial slump and wanting my nap.

3b) Whaddya know, he designed MoMA! And they had the original model for it right there.

3c) Near the end the docent spoke about Frey’s final home in Palm Springs, built on an “unbuildable lot,” which was fronted by a flight of stairs and a swimming pool. At the foot of the stairs was a large Swiss cowbell, and guests were strongly encouraged to ring it loudly before mounting the steps. Apparently this was because Frey would swim and do yoga in the nude (because of course, everyone should), and the sound of the bell would give him just enough time to get out of the water and wrap a towel around himself.

3d) Afterward we three got to chat with the docent a bit, which was a real delight. Like many others I am guilty of wanting to share bits of information with a speaker that they may not know; this time it was two things that related to her presentation, an anecdote about Le Corbusier and the fact that, while Europeans may not have allowed women to study architecture in the 1920s, MIT was graduating women architects in the 1880s. She really was very nice — just made my visit to that little museum.

4) More lethargy for me in the afternoon, until showered and freshly dressed I reported for duty at 5:00 PM to assist if needed for the dinner party beginning at 6:00 PM. Turns out I was only needed to help set the table and light the candles, but I was comfortable with light duty.

5) And right at 6:00 PM the three guests arrived, launching a really nice evening. We were served Friend Zone cocktails, which involve muddled cotton candy grapes (of which I’d never heard); the resulting pink drink, served straight up in martini glasses, just managed to complement what everyone had chosen to wear: white, yellow, purple, red, blue. Truly, it’s all about accessorizing!

6) Over a dinner of chicken saltimbocca, broccolini, and plentiful potatoes, the conversation ranged from Portugal through circuit breakers, other forms of technology, the Frey exhibition, the closure of the Barracks, recent travel, and wines. For dessert, a substantial and luscious crème brûlée provided the perfect finish.

7) Once the guests left, it was time for more conversation in the pool, but since I never really did get a nap, I retreated to bed about 10:00 PM.

Saturday, 17 August -- Palm Springs, Day Four

1) When, at 6:30 AM, I realized I wanted to remain in bed with my . . . unhappiness . . . instead of starting the day, I burrowed further into the comfortable sheets and let how my body felt in the bed win over the wakefulness in my head. But that could not be a sustainable solution.

1a) Depression “strikes like a thief in the night,” as Miriam Hopkins describes her (fictional) headache in The Heiress. Suffice it to say that this was a low-energy day, whether I was in the pool or my bed.

2) After lunch I had snuggled back into bed with Kate, resisting invitations to go grocery shopping . . . until the prospect of chocolate jolted me into my clothes. Chocolate can alter your mood even when it’s only the prospect of chocolate!

3) So in the middle of the afternoon, when I imagined all good Palm Springers would be cowering at home with their a/c, we were out and about in the heat. First stop, the library to check out some DVDs. I noticed the warning sign which said something like “In the event of an earthquake, do not shelter in the stacks, but get under the tables in the center of the room.”

3a) There was also a very odd gentleman, dressed for a marathon, who appeared to be running it within the library with a crabbed gait. I had to wonder just what was going on with him.

4) At Ralph’s (the supermarket), the cashier turned out to be a native of Worcester, Mass., so that was a nice interaction. The New England diaspora grows!

5) My mood was not lifting, but after an attempt at a nap I sat in the shade near the pool reading Kate, and experiencing the heat and the breeze — the sight and sound of the wind in the neighbor’s cluster of palm trees. And it was beautiful.

6) We three spent the cocktail hour in the pool (I made manhattans with orange bitters), lined up at the edge reading, which was kind of funny. But I finally finished Kate. (Spoiler alert: she dies in the end.) Quite an interesting read — a woman devoted to control of her own narrative.

7) For dinner we drove to Il Corso, a delectable Italian restaurant with very high ceilings and a good vibe. We observed a protest in favor of democracy for Venezuela at one intersection, which looked like several dozen people.

7a) An exquisite dinner for me: pomodori e burrata salad (basically a cubed insalata caprese), pappardelle norcina, and a succulent chocolate cake. Only after I’d ordered did I think that choosing a spotless white linen shirt was probably not the wisest choice when ordering pasta. But I passed the test! Otherwise I might have left looking like Jackson Pollock’s mother . . .

7b) The waiter brought a spoon for the pasta, but I have learned that that is not correct because it isn’t what is done in Actual Italy. And again, I passed the test!

8) Leaving the restaurant, the sparkling pure white full moon made me think of “Ist Ein Traum” from the finale of Der Rosenkavalier.

8a) Floating in the pool afterwards, mellow from my meal, the addition of the moon to the oak trees and the monolith fountain made me think of it as a stage setting for some forgotten opera (see photo at top). A sacred rite, a secret meeting of lovers, a murder, a poet in despair — all of this heightened by the landscape lights boldly lighting the big oak tree. But instead of opera, I found myself humming “I Loves You Porgy” and channeling Ella Fitzgerald.

9) Hopeful that tonight’s big dinner and musical speculations lay the foundation for a beautiful day tomorrow.

Friday, 16 August -- Palm Springs, Day Three

1) Irrepressibly awake at 6:30 after eight solid hours of sleep. The coffee I made today was very much where the expression “Here’s mud in your eye!” came from. I wrote my morning pages and then glided back and forth on a pool float for an hour waiting for the sun to peep over the roofline.

1a) There are two oak trees just beyond the deep end of the pool. One defines the compound with its near-spherical crown and angled branch near the bottom. The other, closest to the house, looks like a tangle of yarn and bits of laundry lint — but it is quite the attraction for birds, hummingbirds especially. One occupied my attention as it hummed about, including hovering for several seconds about four feet above me.

2) After 8 I curled up on a shady chaise longue near the deep end and caught up with the news. That launched a lazy morning in which conversations took place in and around the pool and the kitchen. We had been warned that there would be construction noise from next door today, but it turned out they postponed the start of the job until Monday. So domestic tranquillity was not disturbed.

3) We got sandwiches and brought them back home for a late lunch, after which a Cooper’s hawk was seen on the fountain. I got a photo of it flying away as I stepped outside.

Cooper's hawk launch!

4) A headache bothered me in the afternoon — too much sun already?! — which seemed to settle into my right shoulder blade, too. A nap helped only a little.

5) Reading William J. Mann’s Kate, I am struck by the impermanence of human relationships, friendly or romantic. It’s both poignant and annoying to read this as I come to the end of an online friendship that has run its course . . . for my friend. The head knows one thing and the heart feels another; it is ever thus. A Friend IRL expressed compassion: “You and I are both big personalities,” he said, and that’s not wrong. We hear the cry all the time “Be yourself, be yourself!” And then I am myself and people, exasperated, say “Not that much!” Come to think of it, Marie Antoinette’s lawyer, Claude-François Chauveau-Lagarde, told her to be herself, and they still sent her to the guillotine. Oopsie!

6) Floating in the pool after the sun had dipped behind the hedges to the west, cirrus clouds marbled the sky — and directly overhead appeared a rainbow shaped like a smile. I had never seen anything like that before. I want it to be a happy omen.

7) My host made lemon drop cocktails for the cocktail hour, which not only packed a punch but felt beautiful. Gourmets have explored the word mouthfeel more than I, but that’s probably why I enjoyed it so much.

8) “We’re not going anyplace fancy for dinner,” they told me, so I just threw on a T-shirt and shorts, and shortly we were in a booth at Sonny’s, a restaurant themed around the late Sonny Bono where all the entrées come with “Sonny’s garlic parm mashed potatoes and seasonal veggies.” We sat inside rather than outside under the misters. The vibe was good in that pale grey room with accents of red, and I enjoyed my merlot and crispy chicken with lemon aioli.

9) After dinner, rather than the video hurly-burly of Quads, we drifted next door to the slightly more muted hurly-burly of Streetbar. We managed to snag a table and enjoy another round. I would know nothing about popular culture if it wasn’t for little outings like this.

9a) During dinner I realized that the message on my T-shirt, “Do Better,” might be seen as off-putting or attitudey in a gay bar. Oopsie.

My hair was totally on point last night.

10) In a mellow state, back at home one of my hosts and I talked about the Big Issues (see #5 above). Truly a trouble shared with a trouble halved. Also, we should all be having more of these conversations at night in swimming pools.

Thursday, 15 August -- Palm Springs, Day Two

1) After falling asleep just after midnight giggling over my late-night pool plunge, I was unavoidably wide awake at 6:15. There was nothing to do but get up, make the coffee, and sit out by the pool writing my morning pages. After all, I was planning to adopt a siesta lifestyle for this week’s visit — and that means an early start!

Charlotte Greenwood in the drug-induced Busby Berkeley finale of The Gang’s All Here. IYKYK.

2) The day really dissolved into conflicting nap times, adjusting to the change in time zones, and morning glory muffins. No, that is not a euphemism — really! — but a muffin recipe involving carrots, pineapples, apples, and heaven knows what else. Absolutely delicious.

3) After a cocktail hour in the pool, we three dressed and sallied forth to the Palm Springs Art Museum for their Free Thursday (or whatever it’s called). I had not yet visited, and it’s quite an interesting modern art collection. “Meditations in Glass” presented several sculptures in glass; “The varied works in this exhibition invite contemplation and stimulate daydream and reverie.” Some I found quite wonderful, others invited me to contemplate what on earth the artist was thinking.

What if all these bottles had been filled with Victorian cocaine cough syrup? Would this be a crack house?

3a) But my absolute favorite was the exhibition of Norman Zammitt paintings, Gradations, which seemed to incorporate all the good aspects of 1970s design. That might sound like a contradiction in terms, but I promise — his work is incredible.

WHOOSH!

4) From the museum we passed by the controversial statue of Marilyn Monroe and her mind-bending pantyline to a street fair along the main drag. The first thing we noticed was a brass ensemble playing that perenially cheerful selection “Like a Bridge Over Troubled Water.” One notices the heat — as that snarky gym instructor asks in The Women, “How does she avoid it?” — but walking at a stately pace helps. I was familiar with this street from previous visits, and it was fun to see all this bustle.

4a) We saw a sweet old doggie wearing actual shoes on all four paws trotting along with its owners. Apparently the pavement here gets way too hot and shoes are needed to prevent paw burn. The more you know . . .

4b) The restaurant we had targeted for dinner was closed, so we reversed ourselves back to the garage. I particularly noticed a booth selling beeswax candles on the way back and thought, “My God, aren’t they risking their entire inventory in this heat?!”

5) We ended up at a speakeasyish place in a strip mall, Paul Bar/Food, which is just the sort of place I like. And we got there just in time, as I was starting to get a wee bit hangry. The place was jammed, but they squeezed us into a long thin table at the back before very long. In due course I demolished a New York strip steak with frites — grrrrrr! — and a bourbon and soda while my friends tried out the fish (salmon for one, trout for the other) and manhattans. The vibe got more relaxed and welcome as the place slowly emptied. I hope we go back.

6) All this nothing to do wore me out and it took only a quick dip in the pool before I slunk into the casita for a sound night’s sleep.

Dave made me do this.

Wednesday, 14 August -- Palm Springs, Day One

1) After very little sleep, I got up at 5:48 AM and was out the door three hours later to airport. It felt virtuous to empty a dishwasher full of clean dishes before leaving on a trip.

2) On the Ligne d’Orange, first I noticed a woman traveling with an exceedingly large hat in her lap that seemed to be made of big loops of raffia ribbon. It’s as if the cast of The Music Man had all been on vacation in the Caribbean before the curtain went up on act one. Tiny paper umbrellas were studded over it, too. I can only imagine what it was for.

2) Later a young man boarded the train and sat with his knees folded up to his chin and his feet on the seat next to him. Not very polite — but then I remembered how in my 20s I used to sit with my feet up on the Green Line all the time, colonizing three seats in that L configuration on the old trains. So I am just a big old hypocrite, even though I wouldn’t sit that way now. Young men will always need to be educated.

3) Everything went so smoothly at the airport, and then it really didn’t matter, because my first flight was delayed an hour. I passed the time over a second breakfast reading William J. Mann’s biography of Katharine Hepburn.

3a) The waitress thanked me for tipping 25% and I said “Well, you’ve been so nice . . . and this coffee is so strong that if I didn’t, it would probably beat me up!” We had a good laugh.

4) Why I chose to tempt fate by traveling in full canonicals — channeling Hercule Poirot in Death on the Nile in my white linen suit with a pink shirt and bow tie — who can say. But I didn’t even get to board the plane before I ended up with a spot on one pant leg.

4a) That hardly mattered, because the motherly flight attendants on both flights absolutely adored me. It’s true, people — when you dress up, it makes a difference!

4b) Disembarking in DFW, I passed a man who said “He’s dressed up like one o’ them aristocrats.” I just said “Thank you” at the time, but later I wondered if he had a guillotine in his roller bag.

5) To my delight, my DFW arrival gate was only a few gates away from my beloved Pappadeaux, where I had not been since . . . oh, who knows, at least 2023 and probably longer. Gumbo, shrimp étouffée, key lime pie, and a mild bourbon and soda made my layover paradise. Sadly Pappadeaux no longer offers internet to its diners, and the DFW internet — how shall I say this? — proceeded at a stately pace.

6) Taking the tram to my departure gate, I remembered flying through this airport 40 years ago and having to run from the far end of Terminal A to the far end of Terminal B (and making my connection — couldn’t do that now!) Now there are five or six terminals and a tram. It’s pretty amazing.

6a) The heat of the day made itself felt in that tram. Texas is oppressive.

7) Being early to my gate made no difference, as my second flight was delayed by an hour and a half.

8) On board, the lady sitting in my row (with an empty seat between us — score!) saw my Hepburn book, which launched a brief chat. In the 1980s she was working for some high-end china/crystal store in New York (not Tiffany) when Hepburn came in. “She’s a shoplifter,” her boss told her. “Shadow her.” So for half an hour this woman followed Katharine Hepburn around the store, pretending to clean and polish things to keep from being too obvious. And then wouldn’t you know it, Kate picked out something, paid for it, and left. “Well,” I said, “at least you got a great story out of it! How many people can say they shadowed Katharine Hepburn as a suspected shoplifter?”

8a) Other passengers just had me shaking my head WTF. A woman sitting across the aisle from me chose to get up just as soon as we started to back away from the gate. And then closer to takeoff (!), a teenage girl ambled — ambled! — forward and ended up switching her seat to sit in the front of the cabin. Honestly, people!

9) The day had been very long at this point, and even Hepburn’s career couldn’t keep me engaged. I thought the flight would never end; I had forgotten we jumped two time zones on this leg instead of one. But the flight attendant saw my suit and said “Aren’t you nice to dress up for me today!”

10) The evening heat of Palm Springs made itself felt as soon as I got off the plane, but not unpleasantly. I was just so glad to be off the plane! And then my friends were there past security to greet me with smiles and hugs and many words of welcome.

11) We were back at their house in less than 15 minutes (whereas it had taken me over an hour to get to Logan from my house), where I proceeded to launch the cocktail hour by jumping fully clad into the pool. After 13 hours of travel, it was a needed expression of freedom!

Thursday Night, 1 August -- August Begins

1) August, my favorite month! How marvelous for it to begin with a) a negative COVID test after a week in quarantine, and b) a major hostage release. Good omens!

1a) And yesterday, July ended with the installation of our new fence, complete with new gate and arbor.

July, 2024: Here at Maison Robaire, the new fence and arbor before the gate was installed.

2) My vision for this August includes (why I don’t know) pressed white linen (both shirts and cocktail napkins), vines of ivy, purifying sunshine, bright surfaces, open windows, the colors green and yellow, Queen Anne’s Lace, and multi-faceted, mostly happy conversations.

2a) Some of the building blocks under this castle in the air include the visit of a high school friend, a week in Palm Springs, and acting out the title of that old elementary school primer, Happy Times With Our Friends.

3) Two rather nostalgic or sentimental or poignant songs build August’s foundation this year, too. Inexplicably a couple days ago I remembered Norma Rae and its theme “It Goes Like It Goes,” which makes my heart cry like every waltz ever does. And today a dear friend introduced me to “Down by the Salley Gardens,” the poem by Yeats arranged by Benjamin Britten, which makes my heart cry both more tenderly and more deeply.

3a) “She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;//But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.” goes the poem. And how much easier would our lives be were we to take love more easily than we do! Not just romantic love, but all kinds. Because as much as I hate to acknowledge Change, we all of us change from Within, and that affects how we relate to everyone Without.

4) In conclusion, when September comes I hope I can associate these words with my favorite month: bright, crisp, happy, laughing, deep, new, learning, healing, forgiving, clear. What do you want from this month?

Tuesday Afternoon, 30 July -- Quarantine '24

“I scheme a lot, I know. I plot and plan. That’s how a queen with COVID spends her time.” — Eleanor of Aquitaine (paraphrased, obviously), from The Lion in Winter

1) Last week Monday I did a tarot reading about a task facing me. The card for the incoming influence was the Six of Wands, often associated with victory — encouraging; but the card for the final outcome was the Three of Swords, which represents sorrow. Immediate result: I postponed completing the task until Wednesday.

2) And it’s a good thing I didn’t postpone it any further, because Thursday I woke with an irritated throat. As my energy flagged during the morning (rare), I felt more and more suspicious. Immediate result: a faint pink line on a COVID test. I would be quarantining for the foreseeable future.

3) Suddenly I was back in 2020, learning to count to 20 while washing my hands again. Paper face masks inside the desk in the kitchen had taken on the smell inside the desk drawers. Happily, that’s a nice smell, the smell of my gramma’s house.

4) Gramma once told me that she was courted in every Chinese restaurant in the Twin Cities when she was a girl (let’s say roughly 1919-1923). Early in quarantine that memory led me to realize I had all the ingredients for egg drop soup in the house: vegetable stock, a raw egg, and a peeled clove of garlic.

4a) I also discovered a box of frozen meatballs in the freezer I’d almost forgotten about, and they served nicely both in soup and with mushrooms.

4b) But really, I’ve been eating mostly peanut butter and jelly, and not really eating a lot.

5) You’ve heard me say often enough that Murder is relaxing at times of stress. Coincidentally I’d just brought home The Bishop and the Butterfly: Murder, Politics, and the End of the Jazz Age by Michael Wolraich, which tells the entwined stories of the murder of Vivian Gordon, FDR’s campaign for President, and the fall of Mayor Jimmy Walker and Tammany Hall. Great reading, and you certainly see how the system was stacked against women.

5a) I have now turned to William J. Mann’s biography of Katharine Hepburn, which is also turning out to be quite interesting.

6) People have been very kind with offers to help and bring in needful things, but since the neighbors brought me cough meds and drops and tissues yesterday, and since the grocery deliveries are reliable, I’ve been completely comfortable.

6a) Because there were a couple nights when it was just impossible to get to sleep and I’d periodically be plagued with a hacking cough. It was so bad on Sunday night that I allowed myself to sleep in until almost 11 AM, which meant I missed . . .

7) . . . the arrival of the fence company to install our new fence. After having been awakened by a phone call, I faced a raft of texts from the neighbors asking me to open a window so the workmen could plug in a drill or something.

Before the gate was added.

7a) They sorted it out without me, and now, Tuesday afternoon, our beautiful new fence is complete! We have wanted to do this for several years now, the old fence having been bashed by falling tree limbs and the gate barely hanging on its hinges. Now we have a lovely new fence with the addition of an arbor over the gate. It’s a lovely improvement to have completed this year!

8) Current musical obsession: “It Goes Like It Goes,” by Jennifer Warnes, from Norma Rae.

9) Hoping I will be testing negative by Thursday. Please send healing thoughts!

Sunday Midday, Bastille Day 2024 -- Relevant Quotations

In light of what happened on the national stage yesterday, and the response I’ve seen to it on social media from people I know and people I don’t know, these quotations come to mind.

1) From the Margaret Mitchell novel Gone With the Wind: “Mrs. Elsing’s head jerked up and she started toward the door. With her hand on the knob of the front door, she stopped and turned. ‘Melly,’ she said and her voice softened, ‘honey, this breaks my heart. I was your mother’s best friend and I helped Dr. Meade bring you into this word and I’ve loved you like you were mine. If it were something that mattered it wouldn’t be so hard to hear you talk like this. But about a woman like Scarlett O’Hara who’d just as soon do you a dirty turn as the next of us —’”

2) From the Ranald MacDougall screenplay of Mildred Pierce: “Veda, I think I’m really seeing you for the first time in my life and you’re cheap and horrible.” (Relevant scene may be viewed here.)

3) From Timothy Snyder’s On Tyranny: “12. Make eye contact and small talk. This is not just polite. It is part of being a citizen and a responsible member of society. It is also a way to stay in touch with your surroundings, break down social barriers, and understand whom you should and should not trust. If we enter a culture of denunciation, you will want to know the psychological landscape of your daily life.”

Thursday Evening, 27 June -- Dining, Unexpected Fauna, Etc.

1) Last weekend I was out twice for dinner, first to Pammy’s in Cambridge, a new-to-me restaurant somewhere in that No Man’s Land between Cambridge City Hall and Harvard Square. My goodness, what succulent pink champagne! They offered a prixy-fixy menu of three courses, which for me were Delta Queen asparagus garnished with a squash blossom, a lasagna bianca surrounded by green salad (probably my favorite course), and a bit of veal with two kinds of sauce. We splurged and split a chocolate-hazelnut torta that was out of this world. This is a great special occasion place, don’t be fooled.

1a) Sunday night I brought two friends visiting from out of town to Dalí, where I hadn’t been since long before the pandemic. How marvelous to be back! (Funny, it was smaller than I remembered.) Even on a Sunday night, there was barely room to move. The cocktail menu included luscious delights, starting with lavender gimlets and then Pisco sours. Tapas generally doesn’t work for me as dinner — Daddy wants a meal! — but we had several plates of gorgeous little bits, and I can’t say I left feeling undernourished.

Pammy’s at the end of the night.

1b) On both these nights I had to make do with reservations at 8 PM or later — not what I prefer — but how interesting it is to observe a dining room wind down for the night, gradually become more quiet and more welcoming to intimate conversation.

2) Walking through the cemetery earlier this week I encountered not one, not two, but three unexpected forms of fauna. The first was a dead squirrel (!), which I took to be a bad omen. (I altered course immediately.) The second, in the section I call the Diaspora, was a large turtle! How on earth did that get there? And finally, walking into what I call the Back Forty on Hackmatack Avenue, an unexpected shape near the purple martin house turned out to be a gigantic raccoon. You could have put a saddle on that thing! (I reversed course.)

A turtle!

2a) Later I was only mildly startled to see three of the cemeturkeys taking their siesta under a tree. I have begun to collect their feathers whenever I spy some of them left around after some Avian Incident.

3) Preparing for this talk my alter ego is giving Sunday on tennis etiquette has led me into the books by Big Bill Tilden, and in the chapter on Sportsmanship in Singles and Doubles, he has this to say: “Now this whole question of good and bad sportsmanship is essential. A nation whose men have been trained to the practices of honesty, generosity, and fair play is bound to have a policy of broad-minded liberality in all its international dealings. The opposite is likewise true. It has been found that following the doctrine of ‘Might is Right’ in sport results in giving an entire people the same point of view.” Somehow this feels significant.

Once upon a time asparagus was served after the roast, but at Pammy’s they serve it as a starter.

Tuesday Midday, 18 June -- Start of a Heat Wave

1) How fortunate that, one week before a heat wave is to begin, my new HVAC system was completely installed. After 20.5 years, including 5.5 past its scheduled obsolescence, this long-contemplated project has successfully concluded.

2) You can always tell when a heat wave is coming because the MBTA sets the air conditioning in all the subway cars to Morgue.

2a) New HVAC or not, I came into town to try to get some writing done at the Athenaeum. A change of scene is helpful.

3) Most everyone knows the song “We’re Havin’ a Heat Wave, a Tropical Heat Wave” but the singer whose interpretation of it I love the most is . . . Edith Bunker. Alas, Archie could only take so much and cut her off!

3a) There doesn’t seem to be a clip of it on the internet that I can find!

Sunday Night, 16 June -- Father's Day '24

1) Well, this shirt was my dad’s. I think he may have gotten it on his first trip with Mother to Hawaii in 1977. There was a matching bathing suit that, um, no, that wouldn't have suited me. One can only be so matchy-matchy in life.

1a) The ivory necklace was Gramma's. Daddy would not approve.

1b) That said, a burgundy necktie is not always the solution, Daddy.

1c) The fact that this shirt actually fits me now is, um, a cautionary tale told too late.

2) Interlochen has been so much on my mind lately, and I can't forget that that entire idea was Daddy's, as soon as he saw the ad in the back of National Geographic. You only understand the sacrifices your parents make much later, but he found a way to make it work. And it’s no exaggeration to say that that decision saved my life.

3) When Daddy turned 70 I assembled a book of greetings and tributes from friends and family, and his cousin Delmer really defined him well: “a Christian gentleman.” But for me, “A loving and dutiful father” defines him better.