Cuaresma, or Lent

We are currently three weeks into the holy season of Cuaresma, or Lent. Growing up in a predominantly Catholic community centered on the local parochial school, Lent (and Advent, leading up to Christmas) was a period of significant, noticeable change. The colors of the priest’s vestments and the altar cloth changed to penitential purple from everyday green. Fasts hit on Ash Wednesday, when Catholics (and Episcopalians among others) carried a visible reminder in ashes in the form of a cross on the forehead, and Good Friday, which was also the only day all-year that no masses were celebrated. The absence of meat on Friday was a year-long thing back then, so there was nothing new about it during Lent.

Time marches on, or to paraphrase the Beatles In My Life, some things “have changed, some forever not for better.” The Roman Catholic Church decided to modernize some of its practices after the Second Vatican Council, in a bow to the modern world. Unfortunately, the world didn’t respond in kind. There was no great increase in devotion, no increase in charitable activity, no increase in vocations to the priestly or religious life. Rather, most took the changes as signs that such things didn’t really matter: if the Catholic Church doesn’t even require such things, obviously they won’t matter to the faithful.

Some Catholics struggled with abstaining from meat on Fridays, which remained a requirement only during Lent. Children didn’t like fish, and some were allergic to it. Business people had dinner engagements where avoiding meat was a hardship. The Church compromised by indicating Catholics should substitute some personal form of denial in place of abstaining from meat. What the faithful heard was “we only have to give up meat on Fridays during Lent.” Ask a Catholic friend (or yourself) what you give up weekly during the year in lieu of abstaining from meat, and you’ll get an excuse (“Oh, that’s only during Lent) or a puzzled stare. Not what was intended, but what was effected.

It’s not like it was a great hardship. I’ve caught myself eating fine Salmon hierbas on Fridays in Lent and thought, “well, I’m technically in compliance, but is this really penitential?” Where I grew up in northern Indiana (last millennium), fish was fresh as perch from Lake Michigan (where fish could be used as thermometers due to their high mercury content), or frozen and expensive, or frozen and cheap in the form of “fish sticks,” which mainly consisted of batter around unidentifiable fish-meal that served as a means to carry enormous slabs of “tartar sauce” into one’s mouth, since eating “tartar sauce” by itself would be uncivilized. Heck, even McDonald’s catered to Catholic tastes, inventing the filet-o-fish when burger sales plummeted on Fridays.

Nothing reminds me of life as it was back then like being in an overwhelmingly Catholic country here in Mexico. Restaurants and shops advertise their comida de Cuaresma, special menus or meals that comply with the liturgical restrictions. When I still worked, the guards at my office building routinely stopped me to say “Sir, you have something on your forehead” every Ash Wednesday; I responded, “why, yes, yes I do.” That would never happen here. Holy Week, Easter Week, and the days between Christmas and Three Kings Day are vacation days, either in fact or in practice. The Mexican federal government and the Catholic Church have been at odds (or even at war) over the centuries, but the practices and habits remain unchanged.

I saw a phony FaceBook meme quoting Pope Francis as saying ‘to be kind to strangers, to help the homeless, rather than giving up things’ this Lent. I knew without researching it that it was false, as it makes a fundamental theological error. That is, it equates an everyday necessity (give to the poor, clothe the naked, etc.) with a penitential practice. The former all Christians are called to do ALL the time as in Luke 17:10, “we are unworthy servants, we have done only what we are required to do.” The latter is something we do special. But why?

Penitential acts are not for self-improvement. Long before Dry January became a thing, I started giving up all alcohol during Lent. No red wine with my pasta. No afternoons with a margarita on my terraza. No beer (green or otherwise) on St. Patrick’s Day (On this, I am still lobbying the Church in Mexico to offer a dispensation, as my Bishop back in Indiana did; no luck so far). While my Irish liver enjoys the respite, that is a secondary benefit. I give up something I enjoy as a penance: in a small way, I mirror Christ’s period of fasting in the desert before He began His earthly ministry. And I deny myself something that I want in order to submit my desires to God’s. If God wants me to drink Guinness on St. Paddy’s Day, He’ll arrange that dispensation; otherwise, my next tipple will be at Easter brunch.

That is also why I avoid some of the Pharisaical or Jesuitical practices (big words we could easily translate into modern language with “lawyerly”). For example, some friends offer to not drink in front of me; I insist they go right ahead and enjoy themselves, which is all part of my penance. Others recommend a non-alcoholic beer or a Mocktail which is promised to be just as good as the real thing; I decline, since the point isn’t the alcohol. And perhaps you’ve heard of Lent as a period of forty days, but if you count on the calendar from Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday, there are forty-six days. Seems that forty total excludes Sundays, which are technically Catholic “feast” days when fasting and penance are inapplicable. Sorry, but that turns a long-run commitment into a series of one-week stands, which doesn’t sound theologically appropriate to me. Likewise, the fasting and abstinence rules apply only until age fifty-nine, but since God gave me more years than that, and I’m still healthy, I think I owe something in return.

Penance is a discipline, and it turns the mind from things we want or crave to higher things. I also gave up added sugar this year. Sugar is terrible for you, but I gave it up because I like it, and it’s so terribly addictive that I kept adding more just to make my coffee stay just as sweet. Every day starts with a reminder that while I would prefer adding sugar to my coffee, I said no. I don’t like my coffee better now, but it’s proving a solid exercise in self-denial.

Marriage, faith, or career all require hard work. It is rare to find a married couple who just always-and-forever get along. See one and ask them, they’ll tell you the relationship is either strengthening or weakening. You’re working on it or else. You won’t find a successful professional who is simply a natural. Even freakishly-talented sports superstars readily admit to thousands of hours practicing. And faith is the same. The more time and effort you spend on it, the better you are at it. Which is not to say it makes you a relatively “better” person. Just ask my wife, who readily admits I can be a just a subtle shade of irritable for some reason during Lent. I don’t know what the heck she’s talking about. Perhaps her penance is dealing with me during Lent!

No, giving up alcohol or sugar doesn’t make the world a better place. It may not even make me a more faithful person. But it’s an attempt at denying one’s self, and if there’s anything today’s world is sorely lacking in, it’s that type of self denial.

Palma de Mallorca, Spain

le Seu as the locals call it

Forty years ago, at the height of the Cold War, a lowly US Army First Lieutenant took his pregnant wife on a week-long vacation (we didn’t have the fancy term “babymoon” back then) from Bavaria to the Balearic islands. They spoke no Spanish, had no cell phones, and had only a 1:250,000 government map to navigate by. They stayed in a tourist-package hotel near Magaluf, one which targeted Brits, evidenced by a full English breakfast and the London tabloids at the front desk. The hotel next door was for Germans: it had brötchen mit käse and the Süddeutsche Zeitung to read. From this the 1LT learned that Americans weren’t unique in wanting things from home, even on vacation.

even impressive at night!

Only his pregnant wife had an international driver’s license–a must back then–so the Lieutenant was reduced to the role of navigator. They got lost, more than once, on mountain roads, looking for a religious relic in a remote village, following a tiny line on a large map (insert your favorite Lieutenant with a map joke here). They arrived in small towns without any ability to ask for directions or even for help. They sought and found a convent offering a unique local pastry by walking around a village until they saw a nun, then following her home. They ended up on a “bilingual” cave tour where the local guide described the cave formations for ten minutes in Spanish, then stopped and said. “The Madonna. See? The Madonna.” They attended a silly recreation of a knight jousting competition (complete with eat-roast-chicken-with-your-hands) because it actually made sense regardless of the language.

and more so inside

It was their first great travel adventure. They survived, proof that there are Guardian Angels and they do look after fools and children (the couple qualified both ways). It was a great success, and they had stories to tell which still amuse themselves and others to this day.

When we started on planning a visit to try out the region of southern Spain, Judy asked me if we would be far from Palma de Mallorca? Why, no, and so here we are, forty years later, back where all the wanderlust started. The Cathedral still stands as mighty and majestic as always, but there’s an entirely new chapel with a Antoni Gaudi influence. The arch which was a must-see in the 1980s (“it had a mix of Roman, Muslim, and Christian influences”) is only a footnote now, found via Google Maps. One can’t get lost, even navigating the winding backstreets of the old city, because GPS tracks your every step. And the little lanes and winding country roads are now well-lit streets and highways courtesy of the European Union.

The now-obscure Arch

We speak Spanish, but everybody speaks English, too. Oh, and some German here. There are still little hotels catering to Brits and Germans, but who needs newspapers when your smart phone is in constant touch with news back home. On our last night, the hostess at the tapas bar heard us speaking English, so she assigned the English-speaking Argentine waitress to our table. When Judy started ordering in Spanish and we explained our home in Mexico, the waitress loved it. We even found a little Catholic church back near Magaluf, where the very English congregation holds one English-language Mass every Sunday with a very Nigerian priest presiding. Such is the world today!

Mallorca retains its unique culinary traditions, a mix of Spanish and North African, as translated by the Catalan settlers who civilized the islands. Plenty of delicious seafood, rabbit (like Malta), olives in every form, and of course tapas. The road signs are a mix of Mallorquin (local Catalan dialect) and Spanish, which at times even defeated Señor Google Maps. We traveled among the locals, visiting Sunday markets and strolling through the plaza, secure in the knowledge that even in a tiny village, we could find a kebab place for lunch–because who doesn’t want kebab for lunch? Apparently the whole word does!

We walked, we drove, we wandered, seeing how much had changed and how little, too. Mostly we recalled how much we had changed . . . and how little, too! The Balearic islands are known for partying, nature, and glitz (Mallorca, Menorca, and Ibiza respectively, although there’s a mix on all three). We were then youngsters “putting away childish things” and becoming adults. We had dreams of children and career and travel. Now we’re far more mature–at least in years–and we have realities of grandchildren, retirement, and still travel.

Perhaps Buckaroo Banzai was right: “no matter where you go, there you are.”

Andalucía, Spain

What’s better than being an expat? Maybe an intercontinental expat? A Tri-national? We’ve noticed that every Spring, we like to head to Europe for a few weeks. It is the period of the worst weather where we live–although I would note it is still not bad weather, per se, just dry and warm (90 F) with no rain in sight. And it’s shoulder season in Europe, with improving weather there but without the large throngs of tourists and expensive airfares. We would spend more time there in Europe, but we get tired doing the bag-drag as we visit all those wonderful places. Which got me to thinking, which is always dangerous, as my wife likes to say.

Córdoba Courtyards I

What if we got a holiday home somewhere in Europe, where we could go and stay for an extended period of time. How long? EU rules permit tourists to stay 90 days out of each 180, so an April-May-June period is doable. I considered Airbnb and its variants, but we don’t want to be trying a new place every year, and there is no guarantee you can get the same place. We don’t want “a” place, we want our place. But what kind of place?

Córdoba Courtyards II

Has to have great weather during the target dates. Small city or village, not big urban setting. Apartment or small house; we don’t need a big property, and can’t have a yard or garden to maintain. Are such things available, and affordable? Turns out they are! We’re not talking about those One Euro houses you sometimes see advertised: here’s two words of advice on those–JUST NO! But reasonable and affordable small homes and apartments are available for a few tens of thousands of US dollars! Why?

Columbus tomb in Seville

Many European countries are on a population downslope, a decade or more ahead of the US, which is experiencing the same phenomenon. In brief, there are two sets of aging grandparents with one child each, the coupling of which has one child. So there are three households, many times in small cities or villages, and only one young adult to inherit them. This adult wants to live in the big city, where there are jobs and opp-or-tunities (as Eminem sang), not in Grandma’s village. So these small houses are for sale, and there are many of them, which drives prices down. The trick is to find one which doesn’t require enormous renovation, is livable, and is in a town not on the brink of itself expiring.

Scenic overlook of the gorge in Ronda

My basic research indicated two target areas: southern Spain (Andalucía) and southern Italy (Puglia and Sicily). Both have great weather and many available properties. Spain has a well-developed expat market paved by Brits back before Brexit. Italy has the same for Americans returning to their Italian roots. Spain has a language advantage (for us), a better, high-speed, rail network, and allows tourists to own cars. So we made our way to Andalucía to see how it feels.

Málaga Waterfront

Much as Jalisco summons up Mexico, Andalucía calls to mind Spain. Tapas, Flamenco, bull-fighting, Jamon Iberico, and more history than anyone can possibly consume. Córdoba and its alcazar, Málaga and the sea, Granada and the Alhambra. It all felt oddly familiar. We had no language difficulty at all. We refused to adopt the Ca-thil-ian lisp, but no one paid our “esses” any attention. A few times we caused some confusion with a pronunciation gaffe, but generally everybody was welcoming and genial. The culture was easy to adapt to, with the exception of the hours. They keep to the afternoon siesta, but eat another meal around 10:00 pm! Given we have taken to eating only breakfast and lunch, we got along fine, but I have no idea how Spaniards do it, eating so much so late. And it remains the case that nothing happens before noon on Sunday, owing to Saturday’s late night revels.

Snow-capped mountains from the Alhambra

The weather in January is about as cold as it gets here: 50-60 daytime, 40-50 nighttime. Bright sun most days, with fair skies. Cafes are still open, and restaurants have outdoor heaters. Even the beaches are still active, although more for exercise than sun-worshipping. The summer can get beastly hot (>100 F), so air-conditioning is probably a must, heating a maybe. Spring might require neither.

Cave bar in Setenil

Andalucía passed all our tests. We probably won’t go looking for a place in the big, touristy cities, even in the suburbs. But we saw plenty of smaller towns and even villages that were attractive options. Welcoming culture, great food and weather, good-to-great transatlantic options (including a nonstop from Guadalajara to Madrid): All boxes checked. Come Spring, we’ll give Southern Italy the test!

Stone age megalith in Antequera

A Mexican Cable Fable

One of the things making expat life such a phenomenon is the internet. No matter where you go, you can bring parts of your life with you: television shows, sports, even family connections. This access greatly mitigates the home-sickness any expat might feel living far away in a different culture. Of course the internet is (in the famous quote from the late-Senator Ted Stevens) “a series of tubes” through space. Tubes, cables, whatever. The ridiculous metaphor works on many levels, since a small series of cables is the lifeline which provides the whole world to your home. Yes, your telephone does it without cables and delivers it to the palm of your hand, but only a digital native wants to stare at a palm-sized screen all day.

When we arrived in Mexico, our first house had internet supplied by TelMex, the onetime Mexican government utility now owned by Mexican billionaire Carlos Slim. It was old-school copper, bundled with your landline, and you could get upwards of 20 Megabytes per second (mbs), enough to stream live television. Reliability was always an issue, with frequent outages and significant speed lags when more users logged in. Years behind the developed world, but good enough.

Eventually fiber optics came to Mexico. TelMex by law had to provide it to all customers, installed free of charge, but their roll-out plan was several years long. Our neighborhood paid to jump the queue, getting fiber optic cable installed early. Of course it was a classic negotiation: we had to pay to have it done, while those immediately around us declined to join in, getting the installation for free. Our neighborhood voted to go ahead, since we wanted the improved speeds (>50 mbs) and reliability. As for our other neighbors, it was just their good fortune to get access, too.

You might be wondering at the fiber optic speed, as in the States it would be in the hundreds of megabytes per second. Here, the fiber optic cable runs to a box in your neighborhood, but the last hundred feet or so are still copper cable into your house and modem, resulting in less performance. Fiber optic cable is expensive and delicate, so TelMex decided to take the performance reduction and avoid the problem of all that cable maintenance. I can’t say that I blame them. If you step on it, kink it, or otherwise molest it, fiber optic cable dies. Copper is far more resilient. You’ll see just how much more later.

Years later we moved into another house closer to the Ajijic centro, and the TelMex fiber optic was already in place there. We were all set for about a year, until the quality and the performance became unstable. It went out for days at a time, and when it worked, speeds dropped below one mbs (barely able to read e-mail) in the evening. Needless to say, television and streaming were out of the question.

We flagged down a TelMex vehicle in our neighborhood (that’s what you do here), and the technico (repairman) agreed to take a look. His instruments told him there was a signal getting through to our modem, but it was very weak, and there was something wrong down the line leading into the house. He showed me where our connection ran along our property line, then into a retaining wall and down to a junction box. The copper cable was stuck inside a broken, corroded plastic tube as protection: for all intents and purposes, it might as well have been lying on the ground. And in the junction box was a mass of extra cable, left there by the installers probably because they didn’t want to bring it back. It was a mess, and the technico couldn’t tell where the problem was, as he was primarily an “indoor” repairman, and this was clearly an “outdoor” problem. He worked for several hours identifying where the cables were, but could not help us any further. He even refused a propina (tip), as he said it was just his job. We weren’t excited about contacting TelMex for help, as we had heard plenty of stories of bad customer service.

Look closely, …
I don’t think this is up to code
Nope, certainly not right!

We had upcoming travel, so we delayed contacting TelMex. We adapted and endured for a few months. I started using the internet early in the morning, when there was sufficient bandwidth. Judy & I shared time, to make sure we both weren’t trying to use the same few mbs. We sometimes used our phones, even for hotpots, but our T-mobile unlimited international plan throttles you down to 2- or 3-G speed when you are outside the States. We made do. Finally, the internet connection went out completely, and we had to contact TelMex for help.

Judy used the app (en español) to alert them to the problem and what their technico previously had told us. She lost the chat before she completed it, and thought she may have to start over. When she did the next day, they informed her that we already had a trouble ticket and would see a repairman shortly. At least they didn’t say, “mañana.” The next day, he alerted us he was coming and arrived late in the afternoon. He confirmed we had no connection, and I showed him the cable and the junction box. He inspected the cables, and while he agreed they weren’t protected properly, he said the problem must be further up the line.

He walked along until he found the appropriate utility culvert and opened it up. Inside there was another mass of cables, and another junction box for the incoming fiber optic cable. The tunnel was full of dirt, water and an ant colony, the latter quite upset their secure complex was disturbed! The technico brushed all this off (he had seen worse, obviously) and picked up the fiber optic cable, half of which was sticking loose out of the junction box. You could see the cut open ends of the cable and the light shining through! How it got that way he didn’t know; he seemed amazed anybody in our neighborhood had internet with that connection. He told us he needed to return the next day with more equipment and a partner to help test the re-installation.

Late the next afternoon, they started in on the junction box, cleaning the leads and reconnecting the cable. After about two hours, he came up to the house to say they were done, and our internet connection should be restored. It was: a bounteous 50+ mbs! Yes, we still see pretty substantial changes in speed, and brief outages. And we’ve purchased a Starlink dish as satellite backup. And no, the TelMex workers still refused a propina.

Lessons learned? Internet access is a key component to expat life. We bank, connect to family, plan travel, and socialize using it. TelMex customer service was very good. They were willing to speak slowly in Spanish, and happy we could understand and respond. Things like internet speeds are relative, and you can live with much less than sizzling. Global internet access continues to increase. It is amazing to me we’re using the same satellite system (Starlink) as a back-up that the Ukrainian army is using to fight the Russians, but that’s the nature of technology today. Sometimes old tech like copper wires has its uses, especially if the new tech like fiber optics is fragile.

Nothing momentous, just another aspect of life as an expat.

Baja and the Ruta del Vino

Back after Christmas, we flew from Tijuana back home after getting stranded by bad weather. As a result, we ended up with a large credit on Volaris, a discount Mexican airline beloved by those who are under 5 feet 4 inches, travel with only a purse, and don’t really care what day you depart or arrive, as long as the cost is under $50 USD. I exaggerate. Only slightly.

Being a discount airline, Volaris helpfully expires your credit after only six months, relieving you of the burden of actually using them. Some of our hefty credit was about to expire, so we decided to risk another spin on the Volaris Wheel of Fortune. But where to go? Why not Baja California?

During our Christmas cruise, we visited Cabo San Lucas and Todos Santos, at the very bottom of the peninsula; so this time we headed back to Tijuana, to see the area inland at the very north of the peninsula, called la Ruta del Vino, which lies just north (and inland) from Ensenada.

This area, the valle de Guadalupe, is where 90% of Mexican wine is produced. Mexican wines have a growing reputation in the wine world, based on two important facts: the first is European vintners who wanted to go to the New World and try something new, and the second is Baja’s unique climate, which has many of the advantages of California’s wine growing regions without the costs.

Our concept was simple: fly up during the week, hit a few of the two hundred-plus wineries, eat at a few promising places, then come back home before the next weekend’s crowds. There was one flaw: Volaris. They attempted to involuntarily change our itinerary twice before the trip, once moving our departure back a day, the other time changing our three-hour afternoon return flight into an overnight red-eye. I was able to adjust and keep the flights as we wanted. But of course, Volaris had the last word. When we arrived for our afternoon departure from Guadalajara, they announced a three-hour delay (no explanation, no weather, just sit and wait). We also got to enjoy Volaris’ unique boarding and de-boarding processes, modeled after those you might have last seen at Kabul international airport.

After surviving the one-row-at-a-time deboarding (which sounds good, but when one’s hand baggage is not directly above one’s seat, and you can’t get up to get ready until the flight attendant approves, it’s achingly slow), we found the 24-hour Alamo car rental kiosk empty. The taxi hawker told us he knew where Alamo’s office was; they were supposed to be at the airport, but of course they weren’t. As the taxi took us ever further from the airport area and into Tijuana, Judy finally got the Alamo office phone number to work, and they informed us to turn around and go back to a different location, where we finally got our vehicle. As this was the week after the Standard time change, we didn’t arrive till after dark. So our leisurely and scenic afternoon drive along the Pacific coast turned into fighting rush hour in Tijuana, then driving in the dark along the unlit roads of the Baja interior wilderness.

An “intersection” in Baja

And by wilderness I mean no streetlights, few road signs, and one (count it, one) paved highway. Topping it off, Waze decided a route over the mountain was a few kilometers shorter, so it sent us that way instead of on the highway through the valley. The blessing was that in the dark, I couldn’t see the cliffs we were snaking around. It was not a promising start.

Still, the morning dawned and we saw what we had missed the night before: the natural beauty and bounty of Baja. We had a cabaña at one of the boutique wineries, set amidst the vines. This is a growth industry: nearly every winery we saw was adding acreage, building cabañas, or enlarging tasting venues. The valley is close enough to San Diego that there is a steady stream of Americans taking day trips on guided tours, then there are the shore excursions from ocean cruisers, and finally the more adventurous types (like us) just arranging it all on their own.

Just a part of the valle

We have never been to Napa, but based on what I read and heard from others, the valle de Guadalupe could be described as either a poor-man’s Napa or Napa many decades ago. The vineyards are in, the wines are improving, the wineries are branching out into tours and restaurants. Higher-end gastronomic experiences are spreading, featuring fresh seafood and exotic fusion cuisine. There is a small but increasing set of gastropubs and microbreweries, too. The infrastructure remains pretty basic, but is geared toward American tourists. Most of the working locals we met at tastings were surprised to find gringos who spoke (or at least tired to) español and lived in Mexico.

If you don’t stop here, you may not be allowed to leave Baja!

Since we primarily eat breakfast and lunch, and our hotel provided a freshly made breakfast plate each morning, we were limited in our ability to sample the cuisine. One of our two lunches had to be at la cocina de Doña Estela, a local favorite once named the world’s best breakfast restaurant. Down a rutted dirt road, in the middle of nowhere (Baja, remember), we had a huge steaming plate of machaca (dried shredded beef re-hydrated while cooking with eggs, peppers, onions, etc.) and another of corn pancakes, a savory take on a usually sweet breakfast staple. With drinks, the total was around $500 MXP (perhaps $25-30 USD), and the portions large enough we could have skipped our first breakfast that morning. We didn’t, because like all hobbits, one must eat both breakfasts!

As to wines–we did come here to taste the wines after all–we had an enjoyable time sampling a variety of types of wineries. Again, one can’t miss L.A. Cetto, the largest Mexican winery and local mega-producer. This winery aims at the low-to-middle class market, aiming to make drinkable products for the average consumer. I’m no expert, but I am in the target demographic, and we liked their offerings. At the local wine museum, the curator told us her favorite boutique vintner was Magoni, so we tried that one, too. This was an intriguing, new winery in a beautiful location. We sat under a giant tree which had been cultivated to provide a tent-like canopy over about a hundred tasting seats and tables. Another enjoyable experience.

There are so many vintners experimenting in Baja you can find almost any combination: organic? Si. Straight traditional varietals? Si. Obscure blends? Si. The lure of a start-up region which doesn’t have many rules is attractive to some in the industry, who like working with unusual blends and varietals

Advice for visiting Baja? Either come midweek on your own, or get a tour. Many of the larger wineries (for tastings) and restaurants insist on reservations on weekends and during the high tourist season, and a tour will cover you for these. There are plenty of small, independent operators who won’t break your budget, and they help out local small business-types. I would plan to visit at least one of the scenic, high-end restaurants with a view for a sunset dinner. If you’re on your own, don’t overdo the tastings, and make sure your rental car has some off-road capability (most do). Don’t be afraid to try the seafood: its fresh and delicious! I doubt the wines are world-beaters (if you have that type of palate) but it might be fun to visit and taste at a place that eventually will be world-class. Enjoy!

Death and its Day

We’re rapidly approaching November, and with it, the Catholic feasts of All Saints and All Souls, which are better known locally as Dia de Muertos. No doubt you’ve seen the iconic imagery of Mexican culture: catrinas, calaveras, ofrendas, family picnics in the cemetery featuring foods the dearly departed enjoyed while in this earthly life, and of course cempasuchil petals everywhere.

A catrina, from a Diego Rivera mural

To the outsider, all this can appear a little, well, ghoulish. But it reflects a deep-seated Mexican (and Catholic) view of the world that I would suggest is something of a corrective to the one most Americans hold. Permit me to explain.

Colorful calaveras

First off, let’s do away with the growing, anhistorical proposition that the practices of Dia de Muertos reflects ancient Mexica (you know them as Aztec) beliefs. This was first posited during the 1930s as part of the indigenismo movement, accentuating Mexica themes in local culture. The socialist government of Mexican President Lázaro Cárdenas promoted these efforts as a counterweight to the Catholic Church’s power. It’s true the “Aztecs” performed ancestor-worship and believed human remains, especially bones, had magic powers. They often built racks of skulls of those sacrificed to demonstrate their power. And they had not one, but eight solemn days of remembrance, including two full months. None of which coincided with Dia de Muertos. I hesitate to consider what an Azteca Dia de Muertos celebration might include, but all other such celebrations involved live human sacrifice!

An ofrenda (altar) with pan de muerto

What did coincide with the dates, as well as the parties, dances, costumes, altars, etc. were the Catholic feasts of All Saints and All Souls. You don’t need to be an anthropologist to understand this; just travel to any Catholic country in the Mediterranean (not the least, España!) and you’ll see many festivals directly mirroring what goes on in Mexico. I’ve witnessed this false history phenomenon many times: with respect to Easter, Christmas and its trees, even the Camino de Santiago. Yes, some pagans in antiquity walked to Finisterre, as it was known as land’s end (or the end of the world). That hardly makes the Camino Frances a pagan tradition. Anyway . . .

What does Dia de Muertos tell us about Mexican culture, and why do I think it’s a lesson worth learning? Dia de Muertos rejects the notion that the dead are gone. They may not be here, among us in ways we can see, but they are somewhere; they still exist. They enjoy watching us, they appreciate it when we remember them, they take comfort in our successes and feel sad in our sorrows. This is a deeply comforting notion, not the least of which when joined with the notion that someday we will be reunited.

You can never have too many Marigolds (cempasuchil)

None of this whitewashes the truth of the deceased’s lives. They are remembered, warts and all, in the hope they have made it to heaven and eternal joy. It is incumbent on Christian believers to hope in the resurrection of the just, even for the worst of all sinners, as that portends well for our own souls!

This emphasis on a hereafter could lead to a certain fatalism, and I have heard gringos opine as much about Mexican culture. It’s true that Mexicans can get less upset about things that would enrage most folks from NOB. If you believe this life is all there is, you will both fear death and try to seize every moment of the life you have. This might lead one to fight every injustice, be more charitable, and seek to be a positive change. It might also lead to constant competition, thrill-seeking, and a winner-take-all mentality. I’ll let my good friends decide which they think is more prevalent today in America.

Mexican culture clearly feels differently. They don’t fear death, as the candy skulls and skeletal face-painting clearly attest. No tragedy in the world is off-limits to Mexican jokes, as a simple search on the internet will show. I won’t give an example, just to avoid upsetting any of my friends, but it’s very Mexican to laugh at misfortune, even deadly misfortune. Mexicans didn’t invent the slogan “stuff happens” (safe-for-family version), but they certainly live by it. The catrinas you see today began as a nineteenth century literary tradition, where living famous people were given a short, rhymed poem announcing the clever or ironic way they died. Think of a corrupt politician whose safe full of ill-gotten gains falls on him, or a glutton who chokes on a large bite of sausage.

The concept of life and its aftermath pervades all aspects of Mexican culture. See the legions of roadside shrines, carefully maintained by families and road crews alike, attesting to the death of a pedestrian. Stroll among the families sharing time together at the cemetery, remembering past generations. Watch the faithful crawl on bloodied knees across the pavement outside the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City, praying for the repose of a loved one’s soul. It’s very real and very important to them.

Gringos ask things like, “Why don’t they do something to improve the safety of the pedestrian crossings?” “Why don’t they spend that money on educating their children instead of flowers for an ofrenda?” “Why do they still believe in such superstitions?” Hearing such things, most Mexicans would simply nod and smile, because by asking the questions, you show you don’t get it. There can be no answer, if you think this is all there is.

Mexicans, even those who no longer practice Catholicism, believe differently. And they live according to those beliefs. They are less acquisitive, less competitive (except with respect to futbol!), more likely to accept bad outcomes rather than rage at them. It’s not fatalism, because it doesn’t signify giving up, just accepting reality. What’s funny is, much of western therapeutic practice tells those who undergo trauma the first thing you have to do is learn to accept it. Mexican culture has that built-in: cheaper, quicker, happier.

While Disney has lately made a hash of its great tradition, I strongly recommend the animated movie “Coco” which even my Mexican friends cite as a fantastically good and true depiction of this aspect of Mexican culture. Warning: I’ve seen it about six times, and I have yet to get through the movie without tearing up. Just sayin’!

So before you go out and buy that Barbie & Ken-themed Halloween outfit, take a moment to remember those you might have forgotten. And for Dia de Muertos this year, pull Coco up and enjoy!

Thanks. Giving.

I know I’ve mentioned before my family’s peculiar habit of moving holidays to suit our needs. Thanksgiving is the big get-together for Judy and I, our kids, their spouses, and the grand-kids. Several years back, we tried moving our celebration of it up two weeks, to coincide with the Veterans’ Day Holiday in the States. It was magnificent! Not only did we have easy flights and easy time off from work, the weather was about the same. Of course once we broke through the notion that Thanksgiving had to be the fourth Thursday in November, inevitably it led to it being a truly movable feast.

This year, our daughter and family from Italy were coming back to the States for a wedding in October, so of course we moved Thanksgiving all the way up to then. Just so happens, Canada beat us to it: in case you didn’t know, Canada celebrates Thanksgiving, much the same as the States do, but on the second Monday in October. We insisted on a Thursday, so our combined family from the USA, Italy and Mexico celebrated almost-Canadian Thanksgiving in October. In Cincinnati, Ohio. Of course.

The trip began well enough. That first morning, Gramps (that’s me) and all the grand-kids got up at the crack of dawn for a ride out into the Ohio countryside to visit Holtman’s Donut Shop, a local legend. We had a list of desired donuts, totaling two per person per day. The entire operation was run with military precision: it is amazing what children will do when properly motivated by a maple-bacon cruller, or an Oreo Cro-nut. Reinforced with all that sugar, the day truly began.

There were a few hiccups. I contacted every local butcher shop, but none had fresh turkeys. Even a local turkey farm said “no bueno.” Judy pre-ordered groceries for delivery, so we would have all the necessary fixings. Except the Meijer grocery store decided not to deliver the frozen turkey. And the cranberries. And the Brussels sprouts. And the gravy. And what they did deliver arrived at ten pm, after saying they would deliver before nine. An unplanned scavenger hunt at local grocery stores the next morning replaced everything except the turkey, and as it was too late for defrosting anyway, we subbed-in smoked beef ribs and pulled pork.

Always take the family pic BEFORE the game, in case of traumatic injury!

While we were shopping, we decided we all wanted to get flu shots (the family that gets stuck together, sticks together, right?), so we asked for them at the Kroger minute clinic, which was advertising “walk-in convenience.” Apparently that means something other than literally what it says, as the flustered clinician told us it couldn’t be done for several hours. He couldn’t explain why, but that was that. We went to another Kroger and did get them done, but it took a good hour and a half.

The weather cooperated fully, and the leaves were starting to turn in southern Ohio, with crisp mornings and bright sunny days. On the day of our movable feast, we walked the kids around some local parks, just to burn off the donuts. By mid-afternoon, we were past the sugar high and ready to feast! And what a feast: the aforementioned ribs and pulled pork, corn and breaded cauliflower and Brussels sprouts and sweet potato casserole, Judy’s famous stuffing (with sausage, chestnuts, onions and bread), cranberry relish, fruit salad, crescent rolls and Outback Steakhouse bread (and yes, a bloomin’ onion, just because), washed down with wine and beer. If it sounds like an odd mix, that’s because Judy insists everybody gets to choose one item for the menu. There’s some horse-trading about the staples, then some one-off selections. And way too much food.

Bounty!

Then with full bellies we settled in for a nap!

In the huddle.
At the snap!

No, just kidding. We hadn’t played the annual Turkey Bowl yet, so after just enough time for the food to be moved safely into our lower digestive tract, we walked over to the high school football field. The local team was practicing on their turf, but there was a flag football field helpfully marked off nearby on the grass, and the game was on. A bruising (mostly me, as I insisted on diving for a catch) battle ensued, ending with Team Gramps kicking a go-ahead field goal (3-0). The other team was given one last chance to win (sudden death rules), but their fourth down pass in the end zone fell incomplete.

Mad moves by the grand-kids
Notice the human-like goal posts! and “It’s good!”

Post-game celebrations included banana pudding, pecan pie, apple cobbler, and ice cream. Leftover donuts and pie were on the breakfast menu the next day, with ice cream, of course!

The grand-kids conducting in-person connectivity online. ‘cuz that’s what they do.

As we like to say in my family, a get-together with no police visits, emergency room visits, or familial brawls is a success. I wish y’all a Happy Thanksgiving, whenever you get around to celebrating it (here’s to you, Canada!). And if you find yourself stuck in bad weather or crowded airports, remember a better way for next year!

Malta

Continuing our tour of obscure European locales which merit your traveling attention, we bring you: Malta.

Valletta is all ups-n-downs (note the famous enclosed Maltese balconies)

Again you’re thinking: “wait, I know this one! It’s an island. It’s small. It played some role in World War II. It has knights.” All true, and although the knights are all gone, their effect is lasting.

Located midway between Sicily and Libya at a narrow point in the Mediterranean, and also midway between Egypt and Gibraltar, Malta is the epitome of strategic location, whether in the age of knights, corsairs, or U-boats. The island boasts amazing weather, reminiscent of lakeside: sunny, warm, with a rainy season primarily in the winter, although it doesn’t get very cold here. Befitting its history, Malta is an odd mix of cultures, languages, and traditions. It has some of the oldest standing archaeological structures in existence, an amazing port, oodles (a technical term) of history, beaches and resorts. There is something for everyone here, and plenty of sunny weather to go and do it.

Cuisine is a mix of Italian and north African, with a dollop of recent English on top. The language is unique: it is Semitic, heavily influenced by Italian and French. It reminds me of Italian written by someone on a keyboard with the letter “x” stuck. But since the English grabbed Malta after Napoleon briefly had it, everybody understands English, although the locals all speak Maltese, too. They’re part of the EU, so travel is easy and the Euro is the currency.

Three of the embattled forts overlooking the Grand Harbor
St. Paul’s wrist on the left, part of the pillar where he was beheaded right

For thousands of years, Malta was a simple place most famous as a refuge for ships in its grand harbor. During the Roman Empire, Saint Paul was shipwrecked here on his way to Rome. He converted the locals, and other than that, it was a cozy, sleepy island in the sun. When the Ottoman Empire eyed the White Sea (their term for the Mediterranean) and Rome, Malta became contested territory. This led to Suleiman the Magnificent’s Great Siege of Malta in 1565 (Muchas Gracias to my friends who recommended the book Empire of the Sea!), an epic land battle where a few thousand Knights Hospitaller (formerly Knights of Saint John, later Knights of Malta) and Maltese militias held off tens-of-thousands of Muslim Janissaries, Sipahis (cavalry), cannons and ships. The land battle preceded the great naval battle of Lepanto which left the Ottoman Empire in control of only the east and south, with various Christian rulers in the north and west of the Mediterranean. The Knights built a new city/fortress in honor of their victorious commander, Jean de Valette, and Valletta was born.

Malta resumed its quiet history until World War II broke out, then it played a vital role preventing Axis’ domination of the Mediterranean. A German-Italian blockade brought the island and garrison within two weeks of surrender due to starvation, but it held out, and later was the headquarters for Eisenhower’s largest amphibious operation, Operation Husky, the invasion of Sicily. (Great bar trivia bet: Husky was indeed larger–more troops, larger landing zones– than Overlord!).

Saw an open Church door, went in, found this stunner

But enough of all that history! Malta today is a thriving, independent nation. It is a very Catholic (literally) place: the only city where we saw as many churches as Valletta was Venice, and here the churches aren’t museums or art galleries, they’re active parishes! We stayed primarily in Valletta so we could walk around and take in the sights slowly. The challenge of driving a stick with the wrong hand on the wrong side of the road (apologies to my British friends) seemed unrelaxing, what?

The most surprising structure in Valletta is the co-Cathedral of St. John’s, the Knights’ own headquarters. From the outside, it is just another sandstone building, but when you enter, you’re confronted by a degree of baroque extravagance that is hard to fathom. The church was initially rather plain, befitting a military order full of men who took a vow of poverty. But as the Knights accrued wealth in their military campaigns, they donated it to the order, which kept adding to the opulence in their headquarters. This was the result:

The many side chapels belong to the national groupings and were decorated by them. The entire floor of the chapel comprises Knights’ burial plaques :

Finally, I can’t depart without showing Caravaggio’s Beheading of John the Baptist, a legendary work of chiaroscuro located in the Oratory:

Malta’s other military endeavor is also well represented by the Lascaris War Rooms, a series of underground bunkers which the Allied forces used to manage the defense of Malta and later the Sicily invasion. Like Churchill’s War Rooms in London, the facility has been restored to its original setting and is an impressive still-frame of history before the age of computers, satellites, and instant communications.

Belying the notion there is nothing new to see, we chanced upon a monastery housing a group of cloistered nuns who opened their original rooms for tours. . . for the first time in 400 years. Still no interactions with the Sisters, but we got to see how they lived and dedicated themselves for those centuries:

We took advantage of the English heritage to access some cuisine lacking at times back in Mexico: Chinese and Middle Eastern. But we also indulged local flavors:

The nation of Malta includes three primary islands: Malta, Comino, and Gozo. Gozo is the less developed little brother with just as much scenery and history. We took a jeep (no really, a jeep, not a Jeep Wrangler) tour that left me with flashbacks from my Army days, but some stunning shots, too:

There were too many museums, forts, churches, and cafes to list. We enjoyed Fort St. Elmo and rabbit, the grandkids liked the Malta 5D experience with moving seats, wind gusts, and water spray.

The saluting battery, still used twice daily, this time set up for a wedding

We didn’t hit the resorts or beaches, but there were numerous ones to visit. I think water sports in general are a big thing here, and there are many small boat/sail tours which provide a day of sun, swim, and snorkel. We did enjoy the sights and tastes including rabbit, which comes close to being the national meat of choice:

Many happy memories!

Slovenia

Shhhhhhh. I’m going to let you in on a secret, but you have to promise not to tell ANYONE, OK? Covid is gone, or should I say, we’ve stopped caring about it, and travel is back with a vengeance. And that means the crowds are back: the tourist buses, the cruise crowds, the extended families in matching outfits traipsing through the museum. Add in social influencers taking selfies as if the whole world is their stage (“isn’t it?”) and digital nomads turning any neighborhood into an Air BnB wasteland, and well, you get the picture. The only thing missing at this point is the mega-tours of Chinese travelers, but wait another six months and they’ll be back, too.

The secret? Oh, that. You don’t have to deal with all of these travel annoyances. And you don’t have to be rich to avoid them. You just have to know where to go, and where NOT to go. The throngs tend to, well, “throng” at the same places at the same time. They don’t do their research, don’t consider their options. They travel as much to say they’ve been there as to experience anything in particular. If they visit a place no one else recognizes, it defeats the whole purpose for them. But this presents an opportunity for the savvy traveler.

A prime example is Slovenia. No, not Slovakia. You know, that little country directly east of Italy up by the Alps? Yes, that one!

It was a small but prosperous part of Yugoslavia until that country broke apart in 1991. It was ethnically distinct (Slavic and Catholic) and geographically compact, so after a brief ten-day “war” Yugoslavia let it go independent. Which was a real blessing, as Slovenia escaped all the bloodshed and turmoil witnessed by Croatia, Bosnia, Serbia, et al. Slovenes instead busied themselves joining the EU and NATO, trading freely and building up their infrastructure.

What does Slovenia offer?

First off, convenience. It is centrally located in Europe and easy to get to. It’s small with an excellent road system: you can drive across the country in three hours. It uses the Euro, and because the education system incorporated mandatory English language classes, nearly everybody speaks English. Yes, the place names and Slovenian language are a challenge, but the Slovenes we met were happy with a “hvala” and “prosim” (thank you and please).

Second, it’s beautiful on multiple counts. Like rolling farms with vineyards and meadows? Check. Alpine hiking and views? Check. Pristine streams and lakes? Check. Hiking trails, ski resorts, caves? Triple-check. Quaint villages and local diners? Check. If you like your travel to include amazing landscapes, Slovenia has one specifically to take your breath away.

Third, it’s interesting. The cuisine is a mix of influences: Balkan, Austrian, Hungarian, Italian. The ingredients are very natural and organic: locals are interested in making and having the best of their produce, not labeling it, marketing it, and selling it elsewhere. Its history is Europe’s history. There are Roman, Venetian, even Byzantine ruins, little known World War I battlefields, baroque architecture recalling Vienna, and pieces of Yugoslav Communist kitsch.

Fourth, Slovenia is small-town friendly. There are only about two million Slovenes. Theirs is a developed nation with a rich history, but they don’t care to crow too much about it. Furthermore, they haven’t been inundated with tourists yet, so we’re still welcome here.

Fifth and finally, Slovenia is on sale. Being off the beaten path, undiscovered on TikTok, means prices are still reasonable. How so? Farm-stay bed-and-breakfast with huge breakfast buffet: 80 Euros a night. Dinner for two with apps and drinks: 60 Euros.

We stayed in the karst region, with all the caves, for three nights at the already-mentioned farm. It made for a leisurely pace to visit the massive caves at Postonja and the impressive castle at Predjama, which are only about ten kilometers apart. Postonja Jama (cave) is touristy in a good way: easy to get to, easy to park at, with a dual track mini-train doing the hard work of getting you deep into the system, and back out again, and solid audioguides to explain what you’re seeing. But as with any natural wonder, perhaps it’s better just to sit back and take in the beauty. No “turn out the lights” tricks or claims about ghosts, pirates or aliens; just a pretty, large, natural wonder.

Wheeeeeee. I enjoyed the train ride best.

Predjama castle bills itself as the “world’s largest cave castle”: who knew that was even a thing? It is an impressive structure with (of course) a medieval legend about a Robin Hood-esque knight. The tour highlights how the castle, built over and into the mouth of a cave system, provided safety above all else. But it also emphasized how ingenious the builders had been to make the place as livable as possible.

We did a day trip to Lake Bled, which may be the photo op extraordinaire of Slovenia. No doubt you’ve seen the pictures, even if you’ve never visited! The day was overcast with some light rain. We took the traditional pletna boat (rowed out to the island). There is no color/warmth editing in these photos:

You could easily walk around the lake in a few hours. . . you could, we didn’t, as the occasional rain told us to find a restaurant with this on serve:

Foreground: my pork filet over polenta. Background: Judy’s Slovenian style pizza, always with Union unfiltered dark beer!
free mini-bus

It only took us thirty minutes to drive from Lake Bled to Ljubljana, the capital of Slovenia. The old city is small and nestles around the river under a cliff-top castle. While the city has modern neighborhoods that sprawl out from there, the center is very walkable with good transportation options, including a free mini-bus even in the pedestrian zone. The influence of centuries under the Hapsburgs shows in numerous cafes and pocket parks. There are also interesting elements of baroque architecture (especially the Cathedral of St. Nicolas), art nouveau, and even brutalist buildings from Tito’s reign.

Sadly, the steady rain followed us from Lake Bled, so we spent the next few days dashing about under umbrellas and rain jackets. Happily, there are many (many) cafes and bars to duck into for a forced cappuccino or Aperol Spritz!

The old town area is achingly cute. You can barely turn a corner without seeing something quaint: a museum, a restaurant, a curio shop.

Slovene cuisine tends toward meat (especially sausage and game) and potatoes, although I did find a restaurant with pizza rolls in the menu, a sure sign of highly refined culinary culture!

There are a number of good museums covering music, art, natural history, national history and the like.

Ljubljana was a real winner in our book. Good food, great scenery, and a walkable environment. We met service staff that were very friendly, and others who were bored with their jobs. Tipping is minimal here, so perhaps that plays a role. Three days is a good visit, and that leaves you time to visit the natural beauty of the coast, the vineyards, the lakes, and of course the mountains.

But go soon, as Slovenia keeps popping up on travel sites as one of the next big things!

Tuscany

Most travelers either have gone, or someday plan to go, to Italy for the Big Three: Roma, Firenze (Florence), and Venezia (Venice). We’ve done it, and highly recommend it, staying at least three days in Rome, two in Florence, and one night in Venice. Such a visit is fairly easy to accomplish, with easy access to either end from international airports, and excellent train connections between them. And of course all three welcome tourists, although Venice has become a little more circumspect of late. It is well worth it, and each city presents unique and complementary aspects.

But I’m blogging today on a different kind of Italy visit: getting off the well-trod path of the Big Three and seeing the Italian countryside in a more personal, less touristy way. You can pick almost any region of Italy to do this kind of visit, but we’re staying in Tuscany, so that’s the example I will use.

Under the Tuscan clouds is none too shabby, either

What makes this kind of slow, local travel more interesting? First off, it’s the absence of the checklist effect. You know, the Rome? Colosseum: check. Vatican museum: check. Forum: check. And so on until you can’t remember what-you-saw-where or what-you-ate-when. The funny thing about staying in a small village or region is that there will still be nice museums, great restaurants, amazing views, friendly locals, cozy enotecas (wine bars) and pizzerias. You might not be at the one everybody else is doing TikTok videos from, but the one you’re at will be (1) less crowded, (2) less expensive, and (3) just as good.

Your typical, little ol’ village

The interesting thing about staying local in Italy is nearly every region, every village, has something interesting to do and very good places to eat. Italians take pride in how they live, and that extends to all aspects: a bad restaurant is an affront to the village, not just the owner. And as any Stanley Tucci fan knows, every region has unique local cuisine that must be tried and enjoyed. So don’t fret about staying in an out of the way place: it will be great!

What’s with the lion? I dunno, he just seemed to demand my attention

But where to stay, if you’re not in a tourist-friendly hotel chain near the center of a big city? I’d recommend choosing either a castle-stay or an agriturismo. Many entrepreneurs have renovated castles, keeps, or watchtowers into boutique hotels in Italy, and they are comfortable and available. They might be a little on the expensive side: you’re paying extra for the experience. And you might have to carry your bags across the moat. But then again, you’ll be able to complain about having to carry your bags across a moat. Who gets to do that?

Castello di Tornano in Chianti

As to agriturismos, these are government-regulated farm stays. To qualify for the government funding, the property must be an active farm which provides some measure of room and board. There are such farms which welcome you to join in the chores, and many more with a bed-n-breakfast(+) design. You’ll get farm-fresh meals, cozy accommodations, and a chance to meet real locals. While there are a wide range of prices, they can be very affordable.

Once you’ve selected a region and settled on a home base, now comes the fun part. Ask for local recommendations for things to do and places to eat, and limit how far you’re willing to drive. Did I mention driving? Many caution against driving in Italy, and I fully understand why. But that prohibition stands mostly for the big cities. Italian drivers are aggressive (not dangerous, just not defensive), city streets are narrow, parking is limited, gas is expensive, and there are ZTLs (Zona a Traffico Limitato): places where only registered locals can drive, where you as a tourist can get a big fine. But to get around the countryside, driving is fine. Here in Tuscany, the local roads are wind-y, narrow, and full of cyclists. Car trips take time, and the driver doesn’t get to enjoy the beautiful scenery as he/she dodges italianos bent on breaking a personal best on their Colnagos. Remember, the town, castle, or restaurant two hours away is probably no better (just different from) the one five minutes away. Stay at home and visit, and limit the driving.

Now go back to the same places at different times. In a week, you can become a veritable local at the village osteria! Or work your way down the village square hitting every local establishment. Ask for different gelato flavors every day at the nearby gelateria. You can drive yourself (literally) crazy chasing after the next-better wine tasting in Italy, since wines like Chianti Classico and Montepulciano d’Abruzzo aren’t that far apart. And that’s just the DOCs: don’t even try to compare vintners within each DOC: your liver will never make it! (I know, I tried).

We’ve stayed local in Tuscany twice now, and it’s been very rewarding. There are those little hang-ups which make the trip more memorable. Ever have a multi-hundred Euro heating bill at the Hilton? Of course not, but if you heat your castle room with propane, you might! But you forgot to bring your servants and firewood to the castle, now didn’t you?

My dear wife has made it her life’s work to eat Ribollita, the hearty (almost a stew) Tuscan vegetable-and-bread soup at nearly every restaurant; she can even discern the differences in which vegetables and bread are used! For my part, in smaller villages, I’ve found it possible to dress up a little bit and not have everybody automatically think I’m an American. . . of course, the minute I open my mouth . . .

You can still day-trip into those more famous places, experiencing those crowds and selfie-stick hordes, secure in the knowledge that when you’re fed up with it, you can hop back in your Fiat, motor off into the countryside and breathe!

Ever wish they would let the horses loose randomly, in the middle of the day?