I've got your parade right here!

So I snuck onto twitter today, and the big trend, as if we have nothing more pressing to worry about, was #HeterosexualPrideDay.  As a heterosexual myself, I obviously don't have any hard feelings toward people who are happy about being straight.  Enjoy it!  Have fun!  The thing is, I don't believe for a second that whatever troll came up with the idea of "Heterosexual Pride Day" (or any of the disturbing number of people who picked it up and ran with it) actually had that in mind.  What could the purpose of it be, honestly?  Most people who are straight don't even think about being straight.  They've never been persecuted for it.  No one ever stopped them from getting married or adopting children or visiting their partners in the hospital.  They never had to fight for these basic rights tooth and nail, only to have a large proportion of the population bitch about the times they happened to win.   When was the last time a straight boy's parents sent him to conversion therapy to try to make him gay or a pastor advised a struggling teen that being straight was a sinful lifestyle choice and she should repent and become a lesbian?   Ever hear anyone say, "I don't care if you date the opposite sex, but you don't have to do it in PUBLIC!"?  Me neither.  I'm an open minded person, and if my fellow straights have any legitimate grievances about which awareness needs be raised, I'm willing to listen.  I just can't begin to imagine what they'd be.  "Not being allowed to abuse minorities with impunity anymore" doesn't count.  

In the absence of a genuine ax to grind with society, then, why would anyone suggest a day for promoting heterosexual pride?  We all know the answer, though far too few are willing to admit it.  When a member of a privileged majority proposes an event like this, it's almost always in direct response to a marginalized group that tries to make itself heard.   There were no MRAs before women's lib and no moans about the lack of an organization for the advancement of whites before there was an NAACP.  In just the same way, no one would think of celebrating heterosexual pride if there were no gay pride festivities.  It's not really about celebrating straightness.  It's about getting back at minorities who we know very well are continuing to fight for a voice in our society.   It's an excuse for people who are afraid of losing power to thumb their noses at groups who are gaining ground and then play dumb.  I see the protests all the time from my fellow cis heterosexual internet denizens:  "But, this is special treatment and you wanted EQUALITY!"  Anyone who stands back and takes an objective look at the situation can see that the desired social equality has not yet been achieved in this case.  Try re-reading the paragraph above if you disagree.  LGBTQ persons continue to have legitimate reason for a special positive celebration of identity and for drawing attention to the important disparities that still exist. #HeterosexualPride is just another way of denying or making light of the problems that Pride Month was intended to address.  In summary, #HeterosexualPrideDay is "not necessarily homophobic" like the Tuna KKK's Whitest Christmas Ever was "not necessarily racist."  

Now, I have to make a confession.  I don't look at homosexual couples the same way I look at straight couples, either.   While I'm not THAT old, where and when I was raised, it was rare to see these people for who they were.  They were forced to hide and live a lie and hope that no one figured them out.   So, when I see them walking down the street holding hands or pushing a stroller, or having a romantic dinner, my spirits are lifted in an unusual way.  I think to myself how wonderful it is that people who once had to deny themselves daily can be free to express their love and live openly, and I smile to myself about the bit of progress that has come about in my lifetime.   (I realize it's all relative, of course. There are still so many places and situations where LGBTQ persons cannot be themselves, and their hard won liberties in our country remain at peril.)  This is well intended, but I recognize that it's still an outmoded pattern of thinking, rooted in a place that time should have forgotten.  I hope that a day will come when, instead of grinning (or grimacing, or gasping) at seeing a same sex couple pass by, we all just move along as though we've seen nothing out of the ordinary.  Because we haven't.  When we get to that place, where there are no special reactions and no raised eyebrows, when all couples are just couples, and all families are just families, when people of all genders and sexual orientations can live fully as who they are without ever having to consider the possibility of being beaten up, deprived of their social support systems or charged with crimes as a result, then maybe we can start debating about who gets more parades. Sound fair? 

In the meantime, if you want to know where straight people's parade is...Macy's puts on a great one at Thanksgiving, and there's the Tournament of Roses, Mardi Gras, St. Patrick's day, May Day, 4th of July, and every state and county fair. I hear that Main Street electrical one at Disney Land is pretty good, too.  Enjoy. 

The early bored special

My ride this morning was scheduled with the same service that picked me up from Heathrow nearly a month ago.  Because they were 40 minutes late last time, I booked for 10:30, to give myself plenty of time to get a backup taxi if they didn't show and still make it through the airport rigmarole.  This time, however, they showed up half an hour early, which sent me scrambling to get myself together before my 15 minutes of complimentary wait time were spent.   I was allowed to check my bag in nearly 5 hours early, and sent through a special security line where hardly anyone was waiting, even though expedited screening has never been less necessary.   My purse was pulled aside for a pocket sized bottle of hand sanitizer which I've taken through TSA at least twice before (while my carry on, which contained a similar but fuller bottle, whizzed right through), but I was still inside the terminal well over 4 hours before my flight time.  With no gate assignment to guide me, I retreated, again, to the club lounge, where I now find myself.  There are no privacy walls between the seats here at LHR, but there is space, quiet, a soft chair, password protected wifi, and a much larger number of lavatories per capita.  They seem to be playing an old Café del Mar compilation I've often heard on repeat in places that are intended to be perceived as swanky, which is amusing in a way, but not unpleasant.  If I must be in an airport for 3 more hours, it's better for everyone involved if I spend it hiding here, with my diet soda and chocolate eggs.

Walk this way

For most of the day, in spite of actively looking for motivation, I could not gather the desire to stir from the hotel.  I slept for several hours after breakfast, went to afternoon tea served by the hotel in honor of the queen's birthday, puttered around on the internet in search of things worth going out for, reorganized my luggage, and returned to the dinner buffet, quite nearly as ravenous as I'd been this morning.

After eating thousands of calories and sitting for hours killing time, I finally just put on my coat, went outside and walked.   I walked with no destination in mind, meandering through the streets, turning toward things that looked interesting and then, having investigated to my satisfaction turned back again.   I walked at my own pace and with my own purpose, in just the way I'd always wanted to travel before self doubt induced me to book a tour and be led about by others at a breakneck pace from dawn until the witching hour every day.

I mulled over my experiences of the past few weeks, where I'd been, what I'd seen and done.  Much of my misery, it seems, has been induced by my lack of control over my situation.  It's not the places, the people, the hotels or even my illness, as much as how little say I had in how my problems were managed.  At home, I am the master of my own destiny.   I spend 8-ish hours at work, for no more than 5 days in a row, and then I come and go as I please.  If I'm sick, I call in and stay put and sleep.   I take road trips when I want to, and I decide how often to stop and get out of the car.   I can choose my own recreational activities and I can keep the company I want rather than being thrown together with an ill-fitting crowd of people and having to get along.  This trip was more like a mobile workplace, three straight weeks of a job with no days off, where I could never escape my colleagues and where I had to take orders from strangers and follow their timetable, even when it was clearly detrimental to my own health and wellbeing to comply.  In the long run, it was better than not taking the trip at all, and I've learned some useful lessons.  Still, I feel compelled to try to come back, to do it my own way, to feed my own mind and soul without worrying about structure or checking off a set of boxes or the things other people say I ought to want out of the journey.  It's far better to travel the way I live, and slow down to find my own brand of enrichment and fulfillment rather than just struggling to keep up. 

Sloth and gluttony

The past 24 hours have primarily been spent on very boring attempts at self care.  I napped yesterday, got up and took a walk and shopped for a few provisions, then had a late dinner and went to bed shortly thereafter.  💤

This morning, for the first time in over three weeks, I slept until I woke up naturally without an alarm or a phone call, and then remembered I had one more breakfast included with my little package today.  Given that I finally could enjoy it alone and at leisure, it seemed worth getting out of bed.  So, I found our buffet, and I ate. And ate. And ate some more.  It's been at least 20 years since this much food has gone into my body at once.  It's normally physically impossible.  Even when we had the extended multiple course meals back in Italy, I only had a minimal serving of each food and didn't finish anything.  This morning, I had 3 plates of food—eggs, beans, fruit, cold turkey, cheese, pastries—as well as a heaping bowl of cereal.  After spending about 20 minutes sipping hot chocolate and reading the news, I couldn't resist returning one more time to fetch a peanut butter sandwich.   All this, and I'm not even full.   If I weren't just bored with eating and really craved something else(and if I didn't dread the humiliation of being banned from the buffet), I could easily take in more without any discomfort.  Perhaps the food really was necessary to my body for some reason, but I'm still hoping, for the sake of my health and my clothing budget, that this gaping hunger doesn't become a trend. 

If you can read this...

I'm sure that any city in Europe could begin to feel like home if I had a month or two to stay put and soak it all in, but, obviously, that hasn't been an option on my current trip.  Departing Paris after only a day and half left me unsatisfied, like a cliffhanger with no clear plans for a sequel.  I must confess, though, that stepping off the Eurostar in England provided an amazing relief for stress of which I wasn't even fully aware.  Seeing everything written in the language that comes naturally to my brain makes the world seem so simple.

Though I'm shy about speech, I can read enough French, Italian and Spanish to get around fairly well; but it didn't occur to me until now how much conscious effort I was spending on translation every day.    Is it possible that I could practice and study enough to feel this comfortable with other languages?  Thinking back to my early days in school, I feel really ripped off.  When I was a little child, and could have learned all this easily, I lived in a place where speaking only English was a matter of pride, where foreign language instruction was never an option prior to high school, and where those courses were a joke even when they became available.   Almost everything I know about any language other than American English is self-taught.  Children in many parts of the US are being cheated out of the opportunity to fully participate in the world by the way we approach education.  Of course, adults can acquire  new tongues, at least to some extent, but it's much more difficult when we have no foundation and no way to practice verbally.     I can't help worrying that "making America great again" is going to involve policies that only exacerbate this problem.

At any rate, it's time for me to quit my bitching and get some rest.  More from London when I've settled in bit. 

laissez le bon temps rouler

We had some guided sightseeing this morning, including the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame, among other obligatory tourist stops. Many from the group will be visiting Versailles this afternoon, but I've opted out, suspecting that it will cross my threshold for gaud and excess and just piss me off. Besides, I've really wanted to visit the Louvre more than anything else in the city, and that's where I'm going, now that I've finished my lunch.  Here's hoping the line isn't prohibitive by the time I get there.

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The queue was long, but it moved swiftly enough, and I got inside in time to wait in line to buy a ticket and then stand in yet another line to use the lavatory before spending an hour inside the museum itself.   During this whole first standing-in-lines phase, there were emergency alarms going off, which were completely ignored by everyone.  Fortunately,  there did not seem to be an actual problem.

I was overwhelmed by the size of the museum and the volume of work in the permanent collection.  It was immediately apparent that I would never see it all without planning a visit of many days especially for that purpose.  So, I followed the signs to the Mona Lisa, which is apparently exactly what everyone else had come there to do.  An immense gallery of Italian paintings was sparsely populated(relatively speaking), except for a small branch, where a packed corral of eager onlookers pushed and shoved to take selfies with the famous lady.  Many raised their phones as high as they could reach, recording segments of video as through they expected her to move.   Her mysterious smile, with its hint of a smirk, never seemed more appropriate.  You'd imagine that either she or da Vinci knew exactly what would be happening in 2017.

I'd like to see it all someday, but between the vastness of the Louvre, my time limitations, and the nerve wracking density of the crowd, I was convinced that someday was not today, and I left to get ice cream like a proper tourist.  On the way, I detoured through the Tuileries garden, amused by a flock of crows who seemed to be at war with the local pigeons.  Who knows what drama unfolds in the bird world, unnoticed by human eyes?

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Our farewell dinner was a warm gathering, with boeuf bourguignon, frog legs, assorted aged cheeses, and too much red wine.  We were entertained by a guitarist and singer who must have been an actual clown at some point in his career, and he managed to keep me laughing for most of the evening.  The sole exception was the five minute period when he noticed me singing along with La Vie En Rose and compelled me to get up and sing it with him in front of everyone.  This would have been fine except that I only know 80% of the lyrics and my pronunciation is atrocious.  At least it added to the comedy for everyone else, I suppose.

We ended the evening on the Trocadero platform watching the lights on the Eiffel Tower.  While I am of a mind with Guy de Maupassant, who often ate in the restaurant at the Eiffel Tower's base so that he might avoid having to look at it, it is fun to watch other people and their reactions as they view the tower and the light show.   The excitement it evokes is inexplicable and almost magical, and people from every corner of the globe fall under its spell.  Sometimes being in a crowd is beautiful, if I can just carve out enough room to breathe and stand very still. 

Arise

Yesterday left me with little to report.  Mostly, it was a day on the road, trying to sleep and recuperate.  My upper respiratory malady kept on giving, and on reaching our hotel in Bilbao, I looked in the mirror and discovered that I had developed conjunctivitis.  It started out looking monstrous, but, luckily, had improved enough by yesterday morning that I could be fairly certain I wouldn't need emergency intervention.  We stopped in Bordeaux, but I was not yet keen on exploring much and spent most of my two hours there sipping warm mint tea in a cafe where everything was red.   Poitiers provided a hearty dinner and a cozy bed.   

Today, my eyes are roughly the same size again, and I'm determined to finish strong in Paris, where we'll arrive this afternoon.  The stop in Amboise this morning was promising, with bright sun, crisp air, and friendly people(who are refreshing to find, wherever I may be).   Let's hope the trend continues.  🤞

This is getting old

I stayed in all day yesterday in Madrid, resting up and utilizing the hotel's wifi for frivolous pursuits, but the affects on my condition were disappointingly subtle.  I'm not sure what to do.  Throwing together a treatment plan for myself would be fairly simple if I could find a pharmacy, but the chances of anything other than an emergency department being open on Easter Sunday are almost nil.  My current malady certainly doesn't warrant such urgent attention.  Today is a day on the road, with stops at Burgos to eat lunch and visit the grave of El Cid, and then continuing to Bilbao, where we will be taken for sightseeing before going to our hotel.No one can stay in the bus during these stops, and so I must find a place to settle myself outdoors until they're willing to let us back inside.  At Burgos it will probably be about 2 hours.  As much as I'd enjoy the leisure to explore if I were in fighting shape, this is not going to be fun.  They can best give me my money's worth today by getting me to my next bed as soon as possible.

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We were, as predicted, dropped in Burgos for 2 hours.  I inadvertently left my hand sanitizer in the bus, which was completely inaccessible during our visit.  I didn't want any food, really, or any souvenirs, but I needed a lavatory, which meant the public WCs were my only option.  This is normally not a disaster, but today it was bad enough to drive me to tears.   I'll spare the details, but let it suffice to say it was inexcusably filthy and left me with no way to wash myself, then topped that off with trapping me inside for a couple of minutes, fearing that I was about to get sprayed down(maybe I should have let it?).  This is not something I easily tolerate, but I thought surely there would be another place to wash my hands or to buy sanitizer.  After walking the streets for an hour, in and out of shops and even consulting the tourist information center, where I was regarded quizzically and directed to a public fountain, I found no solution.  Finally, I simply walked to the back of a restaurant to find their facilities and use the sink.    I had every intention of patronizing their establishment afterward, but a sign on the bar specifically said not to disturb them because there was no service at the bar.  In an attempt to be compliant, I found an empty table and waited.  This had no apparent result, and so I left and bought bottled water and a bag of walnuts at a candy store instead.  The cathedral in the center of town has a beautiful facade, but I felt no desire to go inside with a mass in progress.   I sincerely feel like I can't think straight today.  It's as though simple problems,  which I should be able to solve easily,  suddenly seem insurmountable.  I know more than enough Spanish to communicate my needs to anyone in town,  but I draw a blank when I start to try to ask a question or explain myself.  I can't figure out why.  I'm not nearly sick enough for my illness to be causing any psychological symptoms, unless they're purely a result of sleep deprivation.  I want to feel normal again so I can write happy and coherent things.

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I'm feeling a little better now, but should definitely be in bed rather than at the center of Bilbao, where we'll be staying for the next hour by popular vote.  I found a nice bench, and it's not so bad out here at the moment.  We'll try this again tomorrow.  For now, guess which installation at the Guggenheim makes me say "NOPE" in multiple languages...

laguia.  

Random questions

It's wrong for me to come to Madrid and not see it, and it's wrong for me to go out and make people sick.  So, what's the right thing for me to do in this situation?  Should I take the crowded metro train over to cough on the Prado, or stay in my room looking out at the scenic hotel roof?

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Why was Good Friday good, exactly?  

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Should I be completely honest or just talk about what's awesome and leave the rest out?

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New idea for bullfights:  No one gets to use any weapons, the bull always gets to live if he wins, and if the matador loses he gets butchered and sold to restaurants.  Sound fair?

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Wouldn't it be cool if ferrets really ran the hardware store? 

Public Service Announcement

Siesta fail.  I got a little nap and took a pain reliever and decongestant, but my sore throat, fever and general malaise have won the day and I still ended up having to cancel on tonight's dinner and walk in the city. Madrid was a place I'd really looked forward to seeing, and the thought of not being able to get out while I'm here saddens me.  It appears, though, that trying to push through and participate in everything over the past couple of days has made me worse.  I can't get back home feeling this way, because there's too much to do on my return, and work starts again just over 2 weeks from today.  I don't want to let this slow me down, but it looks like my only choices are taking a break from the tour or never healing.

It's hard not to be bitter at the person who brought this to us from Australia, since it's now affected several people and resulted in an older gentleman having to call a doctor to the hotel a couple of days ago.  I'd hoped this blog would be something enjoyable to read, but it's turning out to be more of a hypochondriac's journal than a travel diary.  So, if you've made it this far, at least let me give you a little free medical advice:  If you're going on an international trip, especially with a group that will be in close quarters, please consider that what's simple "crud" for you might be a new and exotic bug for someone from another continent or a result in a severe illness for someone who's older or immunocompromised.   If you feel compelled to follow through with the journey in spite of an infectious illness, take precautions to keep from spreading it until you're completely recovered.  Surgical masks might make you look funny, but it's your choice and your responsibility. 

(The more you know 🌈⭐️).

A familiar desert

I don't feel like a part of this group.  It's not their fault, really.  It's a diverse bunch, and all but one of them seem to be lovely people who've been kind to me.  I don't dislike them.  I'm just not accustomed to spending this much of my time with people.  Between the transfer days in the bus and the planned gatherings, even having my own room or sneaking off alone during free time doesn't give me enough time to charge my batteries. I'm making a focused effort not to be unpleasant, and at the moment that consists of sitting at a table alone, far away from the others, across the nearly empty cafeteria where we've stopped for what the Spanish would call an early lunch.

Central Spain looks a lot like west Texas, only with much older churches and way fewer pickup trucks.  It makes me miss home, if you can believe that.  I miss my friends, my family, my cat, my bed, my computer that lets me format pictures on these posts so they're not huge, and my trusty thermostat.  I miss familiar faces, and others I haven't seen in ages and dare not mention.  I miss being understood, not so much verbally as personally.  As kind as they are, they just don't get it.  They don't understand why this experience takes so much out of me, or that I'm more an exhausted and anxious person than an absolutely terrible one.  Even if I tried to explain, they'd still just think I'm a spoiled, weak-willed, whiny American.  Maybe that's what I am.

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Finally in Madrid, and I'm afraid I'm getting sick again.  It's uncertain whether I'll go out at all while we're here, and it's a shame.  I'll try a siesta on for size.

Will of steal

The assumption is always that almost everyone believes sincerely that she is doing the right thing, however circumvent the process of rationalization might be.  So, of course, I've spent some time since last night pondering the reasoning behind the thefts I've encountered of late.  Why do people steal from one another in first world countries?  Are they just dicks?  

The most obvious reason that comes to mind would be hunger or any other physical need that required theft for survival.  But the people who've tried to fraudulently charge my credit cards in the past(and it's happened on multiple occasions) didn't exactly do it at the supermarket.  You can't eat a smartphone, and hacking someone else's Apple ID can't really provide basic necessities of any kind.  

A thief might believe that he is stealing back something that is rightfully his or to which the victim has no legitimate claim(think Robin Hood), but that would not seem to justify targeting random tourists.  We generally have little to no direct involvement in the political or economic woes of the countries we visit on holiday.  Some tourists are total jerks, of course, but a stealthy cutpurse doesn't usually interact with his marks enough to select for the assholes. 

Picking pockets might appear to be easy money compared to holding down a steady job, but there's always the threat of getting caught, and avoiding that takes more skill than a lot of perfectly legal occupations.  It also requires a time investment with completely uncertain returns.  

How many people are actually afflicted with kleptomania?  It has a lifetime prevalence of about 0.6% or so.  That's a lot, but not enough to explain away most of the robberies that occur.  Maybe some of these folks are in despair, thinking that they'll never earn the life they want by working inside the system, but what standard of living do most professional thieves ever achieve, really?

So is it just a "that person has what I want right now, and I don't want to bother with earning it myself so..." kind of mentality that motivates pickpockets?  Given that most of us find a way to think we're the "good guys" no matter what we're mixed up in, that seems like an oversimplification at best, and as unlikely as any of the other rationales.  It's just not a thought process that I can relate to(as far as I know).  If someone explained it from an insider's point of view, it might make sense to me; but, with my limited perspective, I can't seem to figure it out.  

Good Gaudí

I've wondered over the past week, as we've been in and out of so many immense and elaborate cathedrals of centuries gone by, what it would have been like to see one of them under construction during the hundreds of years they took to complete.  This morning, I found out.  The Sagrada Familia was designed primarily by Antoni Gaudí, and construction, which began in the 1880s, continues today.  It was consecrated in 2010 and is an active Basilica, but it is still only about 70% complete.  Even though it's already one of the tallest buildings in Barcelona, the church has yet to reach its full height, as the largest of the 18 planned spires is still a work in progress.  In addition to being tremendous in scale, the Sagrada Familia has multiple ornate facades, which, among many other things, tell the story of the birth, life and passion of Christ in its entirety.  When it is finally complete, the cathedral will be the tallest in the world, and will be in a style entirely unique.  I hope I live to see it finished.

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After our group sightseeing was done this morning, I was still nervous about striking out on my own.  My confidence was bolstered a little by the fact that I still had all my stuff in my pockets after our tour.   It occurred to me, when our bus passed by the beach, that I'd been too sick to get out while we were in Nice, and I'd never really visited the Mediterranean coast.  This would be my last chance to get in the water before we turned inland again tomorrow, and I didn't want to miss it just because I'm a yellow-bellied coward.  So, I packed up my cheap bag and my ninja scrubs and set out to dip my feet in the Mediterranean Sea.  Two trains and two short walks later, I was there(along with hundreds of other people).  The sand at the water's edge was coarse and rough, and the sea was surprisingly cold, but just being there brought me joy.  This, at least, is one regret I'll never have.   I didn't miss out, and my wallet, phone, passport and even my train ticket are all still safe here with me.  Time for a nap.

Los ladrones

Barcelona.  It's brimming with art and with life.  We've already been fed an array of delights--spiced chicken with cooked fruit, paella, Jamón ibérico, pulpo, custard with cinnamon--and treated to a magnificent flamenco show that touched on every emotion.  I wanted so desperately to give an unqualified glowing report about this place.   But then one of our group members got his pocket picked on the Rambla.  Luckily, only his phone was lost, but that's quite enough to throw a wrench in anyone's holiday, especially in a time when our mobile devices have become almost like external organs.  Perhaps it was a fluke, I thought.  He was a little careless, after all, carrying it in the open pocket of a jacket draped over his arm.  Then, as we arrived at the hotel, another victim, this time a tearful woman with luggage still in tow, was overheard just outside our door, reporting her stolen passport to the policía.  So that's two thefts, of which I've directly observed the effects in my immediate vicinity, within a three hour period.  I'm now a little afraid to go outside with my stuff.

No one can say I'm not careful.  There's never anything particularly valuable in my purse, and I've spent most of my days on this trip either wearing pocketed shirts (ninja scrubs, as my sister calls them) covered with a coat or with my hands in my pockets directly clutching my wallet and phone at all times. These thieves, though, seem to be so slick that I don't know how to reliably thwart them.

It would be a waste to be in Barcelona without enjoying what I can of its goodness, but if I lost either my phone or passport right now, it could become a life-ruining caliber of disaster.  I'm not sure whether I have enough pockets for this. 

Carcassonne

Carcassonne has been a resuscitating breath for my enthusiasm during our short stay.  Maybe it was the wonder of the old fortress and it's surrounding legends, sleeping in comfort until well after sunrise for once, or a little of both, but my cough and my anger are healing nicely. Today, we leave for Barcelona, where I may actually be able to speak to people coherently and without abject humiliation.  I have much to make me grateful.  Also, Carcassonne is a great game and you should try it sometime. 

Vive le France! 🇫🇷

A long sleep and soothing dreams improved my condition significantly overnight, and the drive from Nice to Carcassonne was much more pleasant than yesterday's.  We made a long stop in Avignon, a walled medieval city where the pope once resided for a time.  The papal palace made for a couple of lovely photos, and I found a few amusing curiosities around the city here and there.  Nothing pleased me more, however, than finally encountering a normal drug store, where I could browse the shelves and select my own items.   They even had diphenhydramine in stock.  Vive le France!

Carcassonne also looks to be a win so far.  We're going out to the old citadel tonight, which I'm expecting to be one of the highlights of the journey(at least for me).  My hotel room has a balcony with a view of it, and also has a bathtub and an apparently functional air conditioner (fingers crossed).  Aside from the odd placement of the toilet, which had me concerned, initially, that I'd been given the Brady Bunch's key by mistake, everything is lovely.  Can it last?  Stay tuned...

Status update

I'm still sick, and had to cancel my excursion to Monaco.  When I paid for a French dinner, two stale complementary croissants from the hotel lobby was not what I'd envisioned.  Maybe I'll save money in the long run by not visiting the casino, but I'm still bummed to miss the overall experience.  The staff here at the hotel has been kind, and I managed to purchase a pack of cookies and a bottle of water with relatively little embarrassment.   At least there's a bathtub, in which I'm now going to soak for about the 4th time this evening, and in which I may decide to sleep.  Bonne nuit.   🛀🏻

Arrivederci

There's a massive line to get into the Santa Maria del Fiore cathedral this afternoon.  Here in Florence, the number of visitors inside at once is limited to keep the noise to a minimum, a wise intervention which I fully support.  So, for now I'm sitting on a conveniently situated bench and watching.  The line seems to be moving quickly, and if it gets short enough, I'll go inside.  Ok, it's better.  Getting up...

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The cathedral is more austere inside than others I've seen, but obviously sturdy.  The only significant decoration is inside the duomo, and I'm disappointed to say that I didn't get to see it.  The area under the dome was blocked, and the only way to look up at it was to pay 15 euros for a reservation to climb it.  Even though climbing to the top of it was not the first thing on my list today, I'd have considered it cheap at the price just to walk underneath and look.   Sadly, there were no more reservations available until Tuesday.  So I meandered through the streets in confusion until I made my way back to Holy Cross square.  It must be understood that I knew exactly in which direction I wanted to travel, but finding a road that goes the right way here in the historical center is a challenge.    If only they'd followed the example of the original Roman layout a little more closely, but alas no.  Anyway, the folks at Santa Croce were happy to sell me a ticket to go inside, and nearly the entire place was accessible, including the font and some seating.  Photos were allowed as well.  In spite of this, it was relatively quiet and peaceful.  Galileo, Michaelangelo, and multiple noblepersons and clergy are entombed there.  This sort of thing fascinates me, perhaps more than it should.   I find myself looking at the older stones that are worn smooth, and wondering about who the bones they cover belonged to in life.  How did they end up there?  Who thought they were important?  Why were their epitaphs allowed to fade away?  I suppose it doesn't matter to them anymore.

A half marathon was run here today, and in the course of my convoluted travels I've almost finished one myself.   I still have another hour or so before the group reconvenes for dinner, and so I'm sitting here in Holy Cross square, keeping a determined eye on our meeting place to make sure I don't get lost again.   The piazza is full of weary tourists as well as street vendors, pigeons, and the remains of the marathon starting line.  I wonder if the people who actually live here ever get to use this space, or whether they make a focused effort to stay as far away as possible.

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Florence was a lovely and refreshing end to this leg of our journey.  I'm not going to talk about food again today.  See you in France.  

Time is on my side

The problem with busy days is that they're so full of things to write about, and leave so little time to actually do it.  By the end, I'm scarcely able to stay awake, and everything runs together, however impressive it may have been at the time.  Days like today are the ones I enjoy the most, and also, not surprisingly, the rarest.  When we're given an evening meeting point at 10 AM and set loose in the city, with no particular worries about being lost or left behind, I really have a chance to relax, and explore and think.  I don't have to worry about where anyone is or what anyone else wants to do.  Instead of being a component of a tour group, I'm just me, in Florence.   Me, in Florence, sitting at an Irish pub run by Italians across the square from the Duomo, because why not?  Maybe I'll actually get to write something coherent and non-angry about what I see during the day.

Just huge

I used more memory on photos today in Rome than I have in all the rest of the trip put together. Nothing has fueled my interest in this trip more than the promise of the antiquities of the forum and the mighty artistic achievements within the Vatican City. The colosseum was even more immense and complex than I'd imagined it would be and preservation appears to require a constant effort. Given the numbers of daily visitors walking the floors, chipping off souvenirs, and carving their initials everywhere, I'm surprised it's still standing at all.

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St. Peter's also dwarfed the images I'd formed in my mind, and was so full of art I simply couldn't take it all in during my relatively short visit.  The Sistine Chapel was painted in such fine detail that I could not process it all if I was left there for a whole day in quiet and solitude.  That's a fantasy though, because I'm now quite certain that one doesn't find quiet and solitude within the walls of the Vatican City unless that "one" is the pope.  Pope Francis eschews, at least publicly, much of the luxury and opulence that his predecessors enjoyed, and I can't help wondering what he thinks of the St. Peter Basilica.   It's already there, and it's a masterpiece of masterpieces, but should it, or other similar churches, have been built in the first place?  A non-religious person might look at the place in the context of its time and see a huge waste of resources, and even a religious believer can't deny that these ostentatious constructions are diametrically opposed to Christian values and to the vows of the clergy.  They're amazing.  People made these cathedrals to stand the test of time and they're marvels to behold, but was this an appropriate context for them?  Does it matter?  Would any concerted effort this grand ever have been carried out in the 1500s without religion or the resources of the church as a motivator?  Even the ancient Roman constructions I visited today were intertwined with the religion of the time in some way or other.  Patriotism can be an inspiration, but it's seldom completely divorced from an underlying assumption of divine right.  Being a humanist myself, I would like to see an example of an entirely secular undertaking of such a staggering scale, but I'm drawing a blank.