Without Reservations

Images of Negril, Jamaica

We felt somewhat hemmed in, but I can think of worse places in which one might feel "stuck."

Blue Cave Castle Hotel in Negril

The honeymoon suite was on the top floor, naturally.


if I didn't burn like whole wheat toast, I'd have enjoyed my Blue Mountain Coffee out here each morning, and not in the room.


This moss-backed turtle would swim our way (expecting food) whenever we paused in front of his pond.


Lift the chain, walk down the stairs, and you'll find yourself in a peaceful, secluded grotto.


Each night after sunset, we'd watch the clouds and lightning put on a spectactular display through this window


The door to our balcony

Jamaica

Jamaica was rough.

I know; you're looking at the photos and wondering what would be rough about that idyllic setting. And you're right about the Blue Cave Castle. The manager, Petrona Clarke, was wonderful. The rooms were spacious and comfortable, and since the hotel was built on a cliff, the ocean was right down a flight of stairs. Walter said he had a good feeling about Petrona, and, as usual, he was right.

The problems came whenever we left the hotel. We knew we were going to a poor country, and we knew we'd be only two of countless comparatively rich tourists coming to the island that year.

Still. Yipes. We couldn't walk farther than three steps without being accosted by someone who had:

• Something to sell (souvenirs, ganja, hand-woven rasta bracelets)
• A cab ride to somewhere. Anywhere.
• Something they wanted us to buy for them: soda, Comtrex(?), etc.
• A flat-out request for a gift (cash, a t-shirt.... or in my case, a kiss or a hug)

We were having trouble comprehending the manic energy of our street, until we walked into town (Negril) one day. Once we were clear of that particular stretch of beach, we got into a conversation with a bar owner who wanted us to stop and have a beer. We explained that we were cash-free, and in fact walking to the bank. He asked us where we were staying, and we told him.

"Oh, that place. That's a crack lane. Down here we only smoke the good ganja." (Followed by an offer of sale. We politely demurred and were on our way.)

Some things fell into place then. The extreme thinness of the denizens of our stretch of beach. The hyperactive fast-talking patter of the local guys. (As opposed to the slower, more laid-back persistence of the freelance salesmen down the road.) The presence of several skeletally thin women in a country where most women I saw had healthy curves.

Walter had a harder time of things in Jamaica than I did, I think. The worst hassle for me was getting hit on whenever I went out alone. Nothing exceptionally aggressive, and nothing worse than I got when I was young. Annoying, but bearable.

For Walter, I think shared ethnicity provided just one more "in" for a person with an eye towards getting into his wallet. And every way in meant that much more of a headache for us. The standard patter went something like this:

I can see that you're a good man. You're a good man, and a black man. A good man, a black man, and a friend.

So now you will.... buy this tourist geegaw, give me five dollars, buy me a soda, buy this used magazine in German ...

... or (why not?) all of the above.

It was a hard pitch, and it never stopped. After a while, our sense of adventure seemed to have gone the way of the money in our wallets. We contented ourselves with lounging in or near the room, and snorkeling and swimming around the caves under our hotel (literally under the hotel -- with bats and everything!). We noticed that other guests of the hotel tended to stay close to home as well. We don't blame them.

We did meet some friendly people (locals and fellow tourists), and met a few locals without aggressive agendas (Devon, the owner of the "Kool Brown" cafe and souvenir shop across the street, comes to mind). And the country is absolutely beautiful.

Walter also treated me to an outstanding birthday dinner the night after we arrived. Lobster and umbrella drinks at a fantastic restaurant away from the hectic street. It was perfect.

Honduras has been pretty amazing so far. I'll let Walter tell you all about it.

Photos: New York

No photos of Michael, Judy, and the other members of my NYC posse -- we were in a dark bar, and I don't think a flash would have enhanced the atmosphere anyway. Luckily, we did get some snaps in -- a tip of the mouse to Abby for forwarding a couple of photos our way.

It was excellent to see all of you, and I hope to do it again soon.

Walter, Liz, Abby, Aaron and Elena. Good times!

Elena and Aaron in our room


Elena strikes a demure pose for Abby (amidst L&W's shopping bags)


Walter sez: "I can't believe I've known these people for half my life."


Looking up 42nd St. from 8th Ave.

Gotham.

As a matter of fact, New York is a helluva town.

I grew up on Long Island about an hour outside Manhattan. Going into The City was always a big deal, whether it was a fourth-grade field trip to the Museum of Natural History, or a jaunt into The Village to meet a friend for lunch and do some hanging out.

I might walk and talk fast, but I don't really consider myself a New Yorker. I'm not as fluent with the five boroughs as I should be; I have a vague recollection of which subway lines will take me to various friends' neighborhoods, and I know not to pay more than $45 + tip for a ride in from the airport, but that's about it.

The ride in from JFK was pretty quiet -- cab drivers in other parts of the world are far chattier than the reticent souls behind the wheel in NYC. Getting in, I immediately noticed (and was thankful) that they've done away with those annoying recorded greetings from New Yorkers of Note:

Heya -- this is Curtis Sliwa -- I might be crazy enough to wear a silly red beret on my vigilante street patrols and I've got into some beefs with the Gotti crime family, but I'm not so crazy that I don't wear a seat belt! Buckle up, youse!"

The ones by Dr. Ruth and Larry King were enough to make you want to ride the subway, trust me.

We arrived at our hotel with just two backpacks. I can't imagine what they thought of us at the check-in desk, and I wasn't all that interested. I'd planned to spend our three days in New York catching up with old friends and visiting family; instead, I was facing a marathon of shopping to replace items that were, for all I knew, still enjoying the fine views and fresh air at Zurich International. Thanks to the events of the previous 24, I had acquired the "I don't give a ..." attitude affected by so many Gothamites.

I called family to check in and let them know that we were back in America, however briefly. I also fielded (tardily) emails from good friends Michael and Elena, letting them know that I was indeed alive and in town so we could firm up some plans. And bonus -- Abby and Aaron -- who'd moved to Boston just days earlier from Tennessee, were driving down to spend some time with us.

I didn't shake the lost luggage blues, but our hotel was at 42nd and 8th, which meant there was a big, shiny Duane Reed drugstore down the block and open at every hour to meet any craving. That's something we didn't see in Europe or Asia -- open-all-night Everything Stores. Need some AAA batteries at 0345? No problem. Cordless electric clippers? Sure thing. How about some cashews, ibuprofen and maybe a magazine? Done.

I haven't spent much time in New York since Rudy G. decided that Times Square should be no edgier than Branson, MO. Don't get me wrong -- I appreciate family-friendly spots like Vegas for what they are, but 42nd St. feels more like the New York-New York Hotel & Casino than its old self. It's been "mallified," and with a vengeance.

I guess that's an improvement over the block made famous in films like "Midnight Cowboy" and "Taxi Driver," but one could scarcely hear the beat of dancing feet over the racket emanating from the ESPN Zone Sports Bar. Also, I think it's just plain wrong that they've closed the Howard Johnson restaurant, but hey, money talks.

The morning after we arrived, I rinsed out my shirt and headed out to meet Elena for lunch. Liz eyed me quizzically when I put on the still-soggy shirt, but as I said, "If a black guy in a wet shirt is the most interesting sight on 8th Avenue today, this city has changed a lot more than I thought."

I was dry by the time I'd walked the nine blocks from my hotel to the restaurant. Elena and I had a fine lunch (thanks again, E!), and then it was back to the hotel so we could issue a BOLO to American Airlines regarding our luggage -- and take care of some shopping.

That evening, we met Michael and his wife Judy (she's great) for dinner at a fantastic Cuban joint downtown before heading over to a quiet bar where Michael has some pull. Once there, we took over the back room, joined by a slew of college friends. This is why I love going to NYC -- to see people. At Michael's wedding last summer, he put me at a table with this crew, and I'm still grateful.

Other than my family, my college friends are the folks who've known me the longest -- about half my life at this point. It's good to check in with them from time to time; they can see how I have (and haven't) changed, and vice versa. The many mojitos I ingested that evening have since worn off, so I can say this without sounding maudlin: I love my New York friends.

(They're cool Easterners, so they don't express sentiments like that, but I've been living in California for 10 years, and we Golden Staters aren't afraid to gush every now and then.)

It was a Thursday, so things broke up before too late. We're all getting older -- spouses, kids and morning meetings are entirely valid reasons to cut short an evening in your mid-thirties. I was very glad to receive a personal invitation to Reed and Meredith's wedding next June. Mazel tov, kids!

Michael walked us over to an affiliated bar, Milk & Honey, my favorite watering hole in North America. It has rules of conduct for patrons and bartenders I'm not embarrassed to call "mixologists." These guys are expert at what they do, and emanate authentic charm and wit without being obsequious.

Walking between bars, I noticed the shafts of light that soar where the World Trade Center once loomed, lit to mark the anniversary of the disaster. We said our goodbyes to Michael in the early hours. I hope to see him and Judy again soon.

Abby and Aaron rolled into Brooklyn late that night and crashed at Elena's -- we met up with them the next afternoon in the midst of the retail equivalent of an Ironman triathlon to ensure we'd have clothes for Jamaica and Honduras. I'd gone to a Sprint store to get a new SIM card for the Treo, so we were able to direct A, A, and E to meet us at an Old Navy store in midtown.

They were sucked into our retail vortex as we swirled around midtown, all the time offering suggestions and cracking jokes that lightened my mood and took the hassle out of our hustle. The five of us had an excellent time, ending up in our hotel room, where Liz and I opened a bottle of duty-free port.

I left them upstairs to go meet my brother Vincent in the lobby for a few drinks before he returned to home and hearth in Westchester. Unfortunately, my sister-in-law Jennifer had her hands full at home, so she wasn't able to join us. I'm looking forward to coming back soon so I can see her and my nephews.

Liz, Elena, Abby and Aaron fled the hotel room while I shared some brotherly time with Vin. I met up with them before we headed to a Mexican place in Brooklyn, where I annoyed a borough-born waitress with my caveman Spanish. Afterwards, we decamped for a small get-together at Leif & Uma's, a lovely couple Elena introduced me to last year.

We stayed there until quite late, long enough to sing "Happy Birthday" to a certain beautiful woman with green eyes and a well-stamped passport. Echoing the previous evening, we hugged and were hugged in return before scoring a cab back to Times Square.

The only upside I see from having your luggage misplaced is that packing is not nearly as time-consuming. When all you have is a sports duffle with two T-shirts, some boxer briefs, and a pair of khaki shorts, you can get out of a hotel room with celerity.

I don't think we slept, as we had an early flight to Montego Bay. In the cab on the way to the airport, my mind went where it usually goes when I'm leaving New York: why don't I live there? I do love the city, I enjoy my friends very much, and it'd be as good a place as any to pursue my long-term goals (i.e., writing for dollars).

One day, I'll put that conflict to rest. Until then, I will always look forward to visiting my New York friends and family, and I'll learn to deal with the ambivalence that attends each departure.

LIS -> ZRH -> LHR -> JFK

Here's how it was supposed to work:

We were to board a TAP Air Portugal flight to Zurich, where we'd transfer to an American Airlines flight for JFK, arriving in time for dinner.

Liz and I arrived 90 minutes before our plane's scheduled take off. We checked our bags, got our passes, and went to our gate to wait for our flight.

It was delayed by two hours and change -- an identical interval as our layover in Zurich. We sat and sighed and stared at the arrivals/departures board as if we could conjure an Airbus and flight crew through sheer force of will.

As I've said elsewhere, I'm not religious, but there's been more than once instance on this journey where I recalled the first paragraph of Niebuhr's Serenity Prayer.

Which is slightly at odds with the credo of another philosopher I respect, who once wrote, "I don't know karate, but I know ka-razy."

Apparently, I'm not the only person in the world who'd like to give TAP ground/flight crews some, er, help. One clearinghouse gives TAP a 4.54 rating (out of 10) for its on-time departures and a 4.03 for service.

The plane and flight crew finally arrived; we left Lisbon about two and a half hours after our scheduled departure time.

Buckled in, we asked a flight attendant about the delay, conveying our fears about missing our connection.

"Oh, we sent a telex to Zurich, so they know we'll be late." And that was pretty much it, as far as allaying our concerns. I wasn't expecting her to tell the pilot to make the Lisbon-Zurich run at full throttle, but I was hoping for more than her disaffected response. Extra peanuts. A condescending pat on the shoulder. Something.

We landed in Zurich and were directed across the terminal to the AA flight for JFK, only to be told that they'd just closed the doors. We were then steered to a service counter where we stood for more than an hour waiting for service.

Another myth exploded: Switzerland is highly efficient. I won't be purchasing any cuckoo clocks anytime soon, and I'm newly skeptical about the quality of their chocolate. Their army knives are still okay, I suppose.

After a 75-minute sojourn at the SwissLink "help" desk, we received new tags and boarding passes for a flight to London Heathrow. We made a beeline for a lounge so we could catch up with email and let family and friends know of the change in plans.

I hope to return to London under better auspices. Coming in for a landing, I picked out several familiar landmarks: Tower Bridge, the Millennium Wheel, Big Ben, and St. Paul's Cathedral, for starters. The elevated, verdant expanse of Hyde Park looked like a fine place for a picnic. Another day.

At Heathrow, I saw many of the faces we'd seen in Lisbon and Zurich, now more thin-lipped and subdued. Most seemed resigned to their fate, but others bitched openly. For the most part, I kept quiet. Corralled into a waiting area, we boarded a people mover that took us to our AA flight to JFK. As we cruised around the airport, Liz pointed to a gaggle of striking Gate Gourmet workers waving signs and shouting at passing cars.

Once aloft, we did our best to relax over the Atlantic. The flight crew looked after us quite well, and I even managed to eke out a few hours of rest. Drifting in and out of, I kept an sleepy eye on the LCD screen that plotted our progress between London and New York. I was good and awake by the time we neared Nova Scotia, no longer stressed and very much looking forward to landing in New York and seeing friends and family.

After our arrival, I double-timed it to baggage claim to wait for our Victorinox backpacks. Liz seemed less than optimistic that they'd appear, but I was ever hopeful, and staked out a spot near the frayed rubber flaps where bags emerged.

Hope evaporated quickly once it became clear that there were far more passengers than bags to go around. Even though TAP had more than a few hours in Zurich to transfer the bags from the late Lisbon plane, they'd "slept it," as the vernacular goes. Our bags -- as well as those of many other passengers with whom we'd traveled all day -- were nowhere to be seen.

Liz stayed by the carousel just in case, while I popped into the American Airlines baggage services office. It was a small room, so the slow-moving staff wouldn't be required to deal with more than two anxious/angry travelers at a time. They didn't need to worry about me: on the short walk from the carousel, I'd already gone through four of the five stages of grief: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance.

We filled out some paperwork and took a cab into the city. Liz had repacked many of her essentials into her daypack; I was carrying only my computer, camera and MP3 player -- and the clothes on my back.

I won't deny some residual bitterness. We've flown tens of thousands of miles in the last five months or so; to lose our stuff as we were returning to the US was a real kick in the head.

This was all on September 7, and we've called American Airlines from New York, Miami, Jamaica and Honduras to see if we can resolve the situation. I'm a little more philosophical about it now than I was two weeks ago:

After all, I didn't lose Liz. All of our flights have taken off and landed safely. The technology we've used to document our journey is intact, and in my possession.

But I'll miss the custom shirt from Hong Kong I'd planned to wear on the upcoming wedding cruise, as well as the other excellent travel clothing that served me so well. The sarong I bargained for in Phnom Penh was such excellent hot-weather loungewear, and the sachet of Herbes de Provence that was to season myriad dishes prepared for family and friends.

According to our last contact with American Airlines, our bags were scanned at Heathrow Airport. They still can't find them, but they were scanned. Cold comfort.

(I sorely wish I could banish the image of a British Airways baggage handler with his feet up on his coffee table, watching football -- bedecked in my sarong while his wife prepares a roast with some aromatic seasonings from Arles.)

I'll fill out the claim forms and submit them when we arrive in LAX, natch. But part of me holds out hope that these items will manifest themselves someday, sometime soon. Just looking at the numbers, most checked bags don't get lost; only a small subset of those that are mislaid are never retrieved.

As one of my favorite people reminds me from time to time, when given a choice, you're better off picking hope over fear.

Photos: Évora, Portugal

We were well within the old stone walls when I turned on my camera and realized that the battery had completely run down. Luckily, Liz had the handy Treo, so we were able to snap some pics of this gorgeous town...

Dusk: a turret in the Roman wall that surrounds Évora

Évora's town square (abstract marble sculpture on the right)


We spotted this abstract piece through a fence in someone's courtyard


The Corinthian columns of la Templo de Diana


Another angle on the temple (Thanks, Treo!)


One end of the Palace of the Dukes of Cadaval


The Cathedral of Évora


Interesting, incongruous graffito on rear of cathedral


Palm-fringed window on a back street


House address with tile representation of Saint Zita


We explored many streets like these


A representation of Christ in the Church of St. Francis


The Capela dos Ossos (Chapel of Bones) adjoins St. Francis


Five thousand skulls and skeletons adorn this house of worship. Creepy.

Lisboa -> Évora -> Lisboa

We arrived in Lisbon early in the morning, as well rested as two people who'd slept on a train might be expected to be. We were still in the thrall of CNN International, where it was all Katrina, all the time.

I felt a need to bear witness -- I know how the spin machine works, and I refuse to let my memory be collectivized and sanitized by Comrade Rove.

Traveling through Asia, we'd seen people struggling as a result of societal breakdowns and natural disasters; India, Cambodia and Thailand come to mind. Sitting in our comfortable hotel room on an extended vacation seemed, I dunno... Self-centered? An avoidance of reality? Writing seemed positively inane, hence the flurry of recent posts.

Our Eurail passes were played out, so we stared at our Lonely Planet: Europe guide and train timetables, employing a specific brand of game theory to see if we could make it to Morocco within time and budget constraints. As it turned out, the answer was "no." A disappointment, but considering all we've seen, not a crushing blow.

We took the advice of a friend who'd commented on our blog, pressed the "OFF" button on the TV remote, and sought out a new destination. I knew wherever we landed, there'd still be CNN, but stress and grief were sapping our momentum. We needed to get moving.

The loathsome LP:E included a small town called Évora in central Portugal. The UNESCO World Heritage Site designation caught my eye, and it wasn't a hard sell to convince Liz to make the trip, just a few hours by train.

The next morning, we left the room in which we'd hermetically sealed ourselves with Wolf Blitzer and his acolytes. On our way to Entrecampos Station, we glimpsed the city -- a blend of the very old and the very new. Ancient apartments with tiled facades and wrought iron balconies, modern office buildings, broad boulevards punctuated by great men on equestrian statues.

Our driver spoke fluent English, so there was some conversation about America; he expressed sympathy regarding the New Orleans disaster, as well as the slow-motion car wreck that is the Bush administration.

He spoke of his distaste for our elected leaders, noting that Bush's policies had led to an increase in terrorism, to say nothing (well, quite a lot, actually) about the bite higher gas prices had taken from his earnings. This led to a digression in which he railed against the European Union and the inflation a common currency had wrought on his country.

"The prices go up overnight. Also, the immigration -- it hurts Portugal economy," he sighed. "People come here, they take jobs from Portuguese. Africans, easterners, you know."

His eyes met mine in the rear view mirror. "My sister is married to a black man," he added defensively. "A good man. I like him, but you know -- you know, I don't care about race, but --"

"Everyone needs to work. Everyone wants to make a living," I said, shrugging.

He started to speak, but cut himself short. "Yes, we all must work." His eyes were back on the road.

By this point, we were close to the station, so additional conversation on geopolitics and race was cut short.

Évora is a couple hundred kilometers from Lisbon in Portugal's interior. We left Lisbon around 0930 and reached our transfer point, Casa Branca, a dusty, sun-baked flyspeck around noon. We stepped off the train and waited in the tiny station, wondering where we'd find our spur connection to Evora.

Our train pulled away to reveal a single car on an opposite platform. The stationmaster herded us across the tracks, and fifteen of us boarded the near-empty conveyance, a diesel-powered carriage with less get-up-and-go than my dearly departed '91 VW Golf. Save the sky, the landscape was various shades of brown, thanks to the drought currently plaguing the region.

Tan meadows, auburn hills, beige vineyards, desiccated olive trees with only a hint of green in their crowns -- even the rocks seemed drier. Liz and I watched the countryside roll past, our iPods tuning out the asthmatic diesel engine and the chatter of the other sightseers; a British couple in their twenties, a few elderly folks, and some Portuguese marrieds on a day trip.

I marked our speed by counting how fast we passed telephone poles along the line. Before long, I stopped asessing our velocity, captivated instead by the giant stick-and-twig nests that topped so many poles. I wondered briefly which birds had fashioned these homes until I saw several raptors riding updrafts over the parched fields.

I tried to envision the prey they sought in the stubby grass below. I'm no naturalist, but I had an idea that field mice and other falcon fast food would have sense enough to stay out of the midday heat. Wrong again; fair or unfair, nature favors predators. I spied one bird in its nest tearing into a furry little meal with talons and beak, practically glowering at us as we rolled past.

I don't like people watching me while I eat, either.

We passed a few small towns, notable for the big-box home stores and car dealerships visible from the train tracks. I began to wonder whether Évora was really the sleepy backwater we'd hoped for, or just another suburban enclave. As it turned out, it was a mixture of both; a medium-sized town built around an old city framed by an impressive stone wall left behind by the Romans.

Our hotel was at the southwest corner of the wall, affording us easy access to the ancient town center. We spent two days exploring what the town had to offer two tourists burned out on hurricane coverage and an unfavorable exchange rate.

No offense to its inhabitants, but a person could probably soak in Évora's essence in a single day. We had two days, so we perambulated inside the Roman walls, using our map to find points of interest, but just as often prowling the back streets with no particular aim.

Returning to the hotel one day, we passed a tobacconist displaying European newspapers. A few years of Latin and my rudimentary French was more than enough to give me the gist: "New Orleans Devastated," "Thousands in Peril," and "Relief Efforts Not Forthcoming -- Why?"

Évora is a gorgeous town, as our photos attest. Expansive cobblestone plazas, Roman and medieval architecture, and friendly people, despite our lack of Portuguese. As Liz observed, "it sounds like Spanish -- as if spoken by cats."

You can see the highlights of our visit to Évora in the photo gallery -- I'm still a little weirded out by the Chapel of Bones -- the dank annex of a larger Catholic church that's decorated with the skulls and skeletons of 5000 individuals.

Apparently, some priests in the 15th century got it into their heads that the best way to get people to come to Jesus was to remind them that life is finite and fragile. I think they were way off base -- standing in a dimly lit room stacked floor to ceiling with mandibles and femurs made this sinner long for some wine, women and song.

Well, wine and song, anyway.

Our last day, we checked our bags at the front desk and planned to do some self-service laundry. The desk clerk gave us directions to a laundromat, and we bought some wi-fi time in the lobby before popping out. As it happened, I had messages from home that required a timely response, so Liz graciously took on the washing duties.

I was still handling email when she reappeared in half an hour. Apparently, the laundry wasn't self-serve and required 24 hours for turnaround. We repacked our dirty clothes and wandered around town again before heading back to the station. Much to our surprise, we were instructed to wait for a bus, not a train to take us to Casa Branca.

The bus was late, but our driver made up for the delay by speeding around blind curves and through intersections so we could make the connection to Lisbon. We arrived one minute before the scheduled departure and found our seats. Once back in the capital, we returned to the hotel where we'd previously stayed.

Determined to see some of Lisbon, we woke up the next morning and picked out a few points of interest before leaving our final European destination. The subway brought us into the city's center, where we caught a tram that brought us around the famed harbor. I'd have photos to share, but the memory card I'd been using in my camera crapped out; a harbinger of things to come.

I can't prove it, but we did visit the Museo do Design, a fantastic array of twentieth-century stuff that includes everything from Art Deco armoires to Eames chairs and Sony's first portable TV.

It's an extremely well-curated collection, and an excellent mirror of the times; pushbutton postwar gadgets for the Atomic Age, candy-colored objets inspired by sixties counterculture. By the 1970s, the preponderance of items were plastic and aesthetically starved. And in the 1980s, devices and furniture seemed less focused on utility and more concerned with reflecting the consumer's purchasing power.

Call me overly dramatic, but I had the distinct impression that I was bearing witness to the decline of Western culture.

We didn't get much sleep our last night in Europe. We sorted clean and dirty clothes, rinsed out some things and got a few hours' shuteye. By that point, I'd lost my taste for cable news; Bush had made his heroic photo-op tour of the devastated Gulf states, and the talking heads who'd angrily called for accountability in previous days reverted to being mouthpieces for his administration's talking points.

Liz bopped across the street to a late-night cafe and brought back a glass of port -- in a plastic cup. My bags were packed for the early morning flight, and I was hurriedly jotting notes for this blog entry.

We were to arrive in America in less than 24 hours, and I wasn't feeling anticipation, but apprehension.

I stared out the window into an airshaft, taking minute sips of wine and rolling it over my tongue to savor the sweet, smoky flavor. Trying to make it last, just a little bit longer.

Nueve horas en Madrid.

We had less than a day in Madrid, and we burned off our first few hours at the train station, confirming our onward passage to Lisbon that evening, and seeking out food.

Who needs a hotel reservation when you're in town for nine hours? We stored our packs in a locker and headed over to the Museo del Prado. We were ill-rested and not in the best shape to be wandering a foreign capital; Liz pulled a calf muscle in Barcelona, and I felt like a leaf caught in a tide of whirlwind travel after three cities in as many days.

The Prado contains one of the world's largest collections of European art.

Most of it's not really my taste, but I enjoyed their Hieronymous Bosch collection. El Bosco's allegorical studies are detailed and fantastic visions of Earth, Heaven and Hell. He was obsessed with sin and its consequences, a topic that makes for very poor conversation, but excellent art. Most painters of his era paid the rent with portraiture for wealthy patrons -- man with horse and dogs, man with musket and dogs, man with -- well, you get the idea.

Bosch is Salvador Dali meets Jack Chick -- I give him extra points for preceding them both by about five hundred years.

The Prado has a vast collection, but more is not always better. Besides, I favor post-Renaissance art that was created for the eyes of more than a privileged few. The majority of the paintings I saw on display at the Prado were commissioned works, and it shows:

Red-nosed peasants, singing, dancing and working in a generally idyllic manner. Canvas after canvas depicting scenes from Greek mythology or The Bible. A score of crucifixions; countless Madonnas with child.

I was glad to have seen the Bosch stuff and a few works by El Greco, but by visit's end, I was regretting not having gone to the Reina Sofía Art Center -- home to Picasso's "Guernica" and other works by modern and contemporary artists. (Cleansing my visual palette with something by Kandinsky or Dali after wandering through a museum crammed with lovingly rendered hearths, haystacks and bowls of fruit would've been nice.)

Next time.

After the Prado, we ambled to a cafe for small plates and sangria. The restaurant was crowded with a leisurely-looking group -- many still in office clothes, others looking tanned and relaxed, as if they'd never seen the inside of a cubicle.

Liz and I laughed about some of the cornball pieces featured at the Prado, and resolved to do better (art-wise) in our next visit to Madrid. We also people-watched extensively: I took note of a middle-aged couple necking like teenagers a few tables over; Liz steered my attention to a woman in a pair of jeans that had been hip-huggers until they migrated further south.

We made it back to the train station and retrieved our bags so we could relax in the lounge in comfort. Our overnight ride to Lisbon was the last trip on our 21-day Eurail pass, and was one of my favorites. The porter took our tickets and informed us that the dining car would be serving dinner after the train was underway. When we returned to the compartment, full of sparkling wine and decent food, our beds had been turned down.

Liz's calf was still troubling her, so I flipped the script and took the top bunk for the first time. I wasn't sure how well I'd adapt to sleeping on a padded shelf five feet above the floor, but I awoke refreshed the next morning, my book still open beside me.

Granada Photos: The Alhambra

Walls are clad in carved marble and bathed in light

These stone foundations mark the spot where soldiers' barracks once stood


Walkway to the Alcazaba (military garrison) that takes up much of the Alhambra


View of the garrison through a palace window


Arabesque! Or, if you prefer, "geometricized vegetal ornament."


Decorative tiles dress up a brick floor


Windows reveal the detail of the intricately carved ceiling


I love this room. I waited five minutes to get this shot between noisy tour groups


A shady corner in the royal palace for -- a guard? A handmaiden? A Spanish king or nobleman?


Ceiling with carved wood, gilt and inlay


Pietra dura in the arabesque style


Makes me wish I could read Arabic.


More geometricized vegetal ornaments for your consideration


I didn't even want to climb the stairs; I just wanted to stare at the doorway.


Tourist queue for la Casa Real, as viewed through a 600-year-old door


Another mesmerizing portal


View from the palace into Patio de los Leones (Court of the Lions)


Liz sez: "let's touch history!"


La Palacio de Generalife (the Garden of the Architect) has a commanding view of Granada and the Sierra Nevada mountains


I believe this is the Hall of the Abencerrages


The Patio de la Alberca (Court of the Pond) with the Casa Real in the b.g.


I think this is the Sala de las dos Hermanas (Hall of the Two Sisters), but I lost my guidebook.


Liz would like to make this topiary her summer home.


Forbidden fruit! Does UNESCO even have a produce police squad? I bet I could have gotten away with it.


Heading out of the Alcazaba

The Red Castle of Granada

We left Barcelona for Granada, arriving late in the evening.

The next morning, we woke up to tour the Alhambra -- the fortress/castle complex built by Moorish invaders in the 13th and 14th centuries. The Spanish reclaimed the area after expelling the Moors, but they lacked the resources (or the heart) to conquer North African aesthetics.

I can imagine a meeting of the Alhambra Planning Commission, circa 1450:

INT. -- ALHAMBRA ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICE -- DAY

A bright, airy room overlooking a fortified wall that lazily climbs a steep hill. A strong breeze sweeps through carved marble screens, ruffling the hair and clothes of the well-fed officials who ring the intricately inlaid conference table. Attendees pay scant attention to the proceedings; several tilt their heads back to stare at the carved wood ceiling, while others use their fingers to trace delicate shapes set into the tiled wall.

No, no -- we gotta rip out the hillside palace with the reflecting pools and natural air-conditioning. (pointing) No, not that one, the other building -- the one with the scented gardens and terraced fruit trees. Come on -- I enjoy pomegranates as much as the next guy, but our landscaping budget's entirely out of hand, and -- look, I don't care if there's a gravity-fed irrigation system, it's just not how we do things in Spain!

According to the maven with whom I spent the afternoon, Islamic art doesn't permit the depiction of human or animal forms. As a result, artists packed the place with bright tile murals and flamboyant wood and stone inlays. There's color and texture poured into every inch of the Alhambra. After the Moors' eviction, small touches were added to balance their choices; fountains with lions, eagle's head horse hitches, etc. The end result is very "me, too!"

We spent about four hours walking the grounds before the heat caught up with us. I'd burned off my continental breakfast, so the fat, ripe fruit dripping off the garden trees was looking more and more attractive. If not for the note in our official map warning us away from poaching, I'd be describing the taste of an Alhambran plum, fig or pomegranate for you right now. I should have grabbed something -- I doubt they'd still cut off my hand if they caught me noshing naturally at a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Rather than wait for a bus to take us back to our hotel, we walked downhill into Granada proper. We searched for a viable restaurant, but each place was more touristy than the next, so we just straggled back to the room. Why we eschew such joints, I don't know. I mean -- we're tourists. Still, it's no fun to push open a restaurant's door and realize before your eyes even have a chance to adjust to the light that you're about to pay more than you should for entirely unremarkable food.

As I recall, the evening ended with pizza and beer -- along with more hurricane coverage. I finished one of my pulpy train purchases after Liz fell asleep and picked up a book I still haven't finished; "Globalization and its Discontents," by Joseph Stiglitz.

The next morning, we got up early for a train to Madrid.

A couple of hours with Joan Miro

"Everyone is mad at you."

Having delivered her line, the woman stalked back to a table and sat down. She was sitting with another couple, as I recall.

The object of her ire rolled his shoulders and sniffed before pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. He impatiently drummed his fingers on the snack bar's counter. All I know is, he wasn't in line with the rest of us.

I didn't find her hit-and-run communication style generally constructive. Then again, he struck me as the "my-way-or-the-highway" sort; perhaps some drama was in order.

I recognized a young woman to my left who'd been ushered out of the Miro museum at closing time, just as we had been. She wore a T-shirt with a provocative, profane slogan. She held her family's place in the service line while her parents took turns in the W.C.

She looked bored, as if the shirt wasn't getting her a desirable reaction. I wanted to tell her that it was working fine -- that I felt uncomfortable and preoccupied with it at the same time. I wondered how her parents felt about the shirt, replacing the thought a moment later with, "This is Barcelona."

Three hours before, we'd rushed out of the hotel to make sure we had enough time at the Miro museum before it closed at 1430. We were all the way down to the platform when I remembered that I'd left my camera up in the room. Meh.

Other than the ticket stub, the only evidence that we viewed the place are Liz's phonepics. I think Miro might have liked the notion of a telephone that can capture and distribute images. Whether he would have enjoyed the jarring ringtones that echo throughout his permanent collection, I cannot speculate.

Keeping up.

I'm disappointed in myself for not maintaining my daily writing routine. For a while, I was getting into a rhythm, but it sort of fell apart the week Hurricane Katrina hit the Gulf States.

It wasn't happening to "me and mine," but it was hard to watch, as I've already made clear here and here. As a result, I fell into a despondent state that persisted for several days.

It's not as though we never left the room during our week on the Iberian peninsula, but these observations are retrospective, less clear than most of the other entries. I think of it like film left in a disposable camera forgotten in a kitchen drawer. Something you might have developed out of curiosity -- the images would be there, but they're not as sharp or clear as they might have been.

In any event: I'd like to thank everyone who's read and/or commented thus far. It means a lot that there are folks I know (and some I don't) who've been engaged enough by our text and photos to join us, however vicariously.

Last Barcelona Pix: Joan Miro

We had about two hours to wander the Fundacio Joan Miro on a Sunday afternoon. As I stated in an earlier post, we were in such a rush that I left my camera in our hotel room.

These images were captured with a Treo 600, a neat device that's also quite good for making phone calls.





One of the first sculptures we encountered in the permanent collection.

A surrealist whose career spanned the 1920s - 1980s, Miro is one of Liz's favorite artists.


He worked in every medium you can imagine.


And then some....


Ginormous tapestry -- that smudge at lower left is a person! Miro designed the tapestry specifically for this space.


Viewer (reflected) echoes the painted figure's stance.


More amazing sculpture

Calder's incredible Mercury Fountain is behind glass in a courtyard. Yes, that's mercury splashing about. When it was first displayed, Picasso's Guernica was on the other side of the room.


Ah, surrealism.


We've renamed this piece "Sculpture with Tourist's Arm".


Same piece, different angle.


Lost in contemplation.


What Walter saw.

Where we are [a Liz-entry for a change]

We're in Miami for one night. Tomorrow we fly to Honduras. Here's the lowdown on what's been happening with us:

• We're still catching up on Europe's backlog (not much 'net access in Jamaica, and not much time in New York), and have photos and stories from Granada (Spain), Evora (Portugal) and Lisbon to share with you all.
  
• We've got photos and stories from three crazy days in New York, and six sorta-crazy days in Jamaica, coming soon.
  
• Our bags are, officially, lost. It's been nine days and American Airlines has no news. We're bummed about that.
  
• We're healthy, happy, and only kinda sunburned.
  
• I celebrated my birthday by enjoying lobster and fruity umbrella drinks by the beach with a handsome man. Life could definitely be worse.
  

More Photos: Gaudi in Barcelona

Exterior of Casa Mila (La Pedrera) -- Gaudi's last major architectural work (completed, anyhow)

Looking down to the courtyard


Close-up


Rooftop detail


More insane swooping rooftop


Chimney vents, or centurions?


More of the same, with bits of glass and Gaudi's Park Guell in b.g.


Another tourist, admiring the view


Sagrada Familia in the distance


Rooftop vertigo


Peering through the ornate metalwork onto Barcelona streets


Now into the apartment designed by Gaudi


Check out these floors


Vintage kitchen


Organic textures abound -- even in the linoleum


Park Guell at the edge of town


Every detail echoes something in nature


Crazy colorful tile everywhere


Musician under jaw-dropping stone columns


Locals come to stroll the spiraling paths of the Park


Visitors enjoying the view


Whole familes wait to pose by this tiled fountain

Photos: Sagrada Familia

When completed, La Temple de la Sagrada Familia willl look like this...

Looking up at the Facade of the Nativity


There's a whole lot going on up there...


Construction should be wrapped up by 2082 or so.


This way to the spectacle!


My kingdom for a wide-angle lens!


Many of the stone figures were first cast in plaster and replaced later.


The Temple's interior is just as ornate as its facade.


Liz captures our ascent on her Treo while I battle nausea and sweaty palms. Also -- a century of graffiti.


The other side of this tower features a flock of doves with olive branches. About 80 metres up, mind you.


Completed bell towers with cranes


Mosaic detail atop tower


More mosaics hovering above Barcelona


Interior of the uncompleted cathedral


Cemento natural por la temple natural


Fresh mosaics ready for mounting


A few more decorative pieces...


View of bell tower through open roof of the cathedral


Carved wooden door beneath the Facade of the Passion


"Magic square" mounted on door; each row/column adds up to 33


"I don't think I've ever seen buttresses flying like that."


The detailed Passion facade culminates with the small gold figure at the top, just off to the right side. Symbolism abounds.


Artist's rendering of completed cathedral


I know someone who likes lizard images, hence the pic.


Extreme zoom action from five blocks away

Gaudi Patter

We slept in late our first day in Barcelona. I opened the curtains to see the vista from our fifth-floor window. The cafes across the street were bustling, the pizza joint had a regular cycle of kids on scooters in and out with pies, and then -- my eyes were involuntarily drawn up and the to left.

Several massive cranes were looking down on one of the strangest things I -- and likely most people reading this -- will be likely to see in this lifetime: the still-under-construction cathedral known as La Sagrada Familia.

Crazy, crazy towers that lack the perfection and symmetry one associates with a cathedral were all I could glimpse over the terra cotta rooftops. It looked like something that had started to grow of its own accord -- entirely unlike anything a rational person would sit down and carefully design, engineer and construct.

Yet, that's exactly what Antoni Gaudi did. Gaudi, a Barcelona-born architect, was a crazy person -- the best kind of crazy. His early work more or less conformed to other ideas of the time -- well-adorned structures that demonstrated the clients' standing in the community.

But then (and this is all based on what I've seen of his work, not an in-depth study of his career), he appears to have lost his fool mind, taking it upon himself to integrate organic forms into brick and mortar, steel and stone.

He left his mark on the city. His "broken eye" (if I may channel a pretentious art student's voice for a moment) provided an entirely distinctive POV that became highly desirable among the upper crust who could afford his services. In North America, I don't think he'd have been celebrated -- I think he'd have been committed to a sanitarium. I'm not a architectural expert, but my eyes tell me Gaudi's style gave every Barcelona architect "permission" to be a little weird.

Not only did he get progressively bolder in his desire to meld nature with architecture, he was given a grand commission -- the construction of a major cathedral. Work began in 1882, and some sources indicate that they don't expect to complete it for another 50 years. (We've seen at least one cathedral on our trip where ground was consecrated 400 years before the structure was officially deemed finished, so they're making good time.)

As we walked the five blocks to Temple de la Sagrada Familia, the building more or less disappeared behind apartment blocks. And then, we turned a corner on Calle de Sardenya and were smacked full in the face with what film directors call "the dramatic reveal."

Eight of twelve 100-meter high bell towers are already completed -- they're covered in mosaics depicting anything and everything -- holy words, names of the apostles, fruit that can be found in each of the four seasons, animals that made it aboard Noah's Ark ...

Pardon the run-on sentence, but it's simply staggering. I know I'll lose some cool points by admitting this, but when we turned the corner, my eyes went up, and my jaw literally dropped open. If you go to Spain, go straight to Barcelona so you'll understand what I'm trying to convey. Otherwise, I'll just sound like a crazy person.

We paid our admission fee (the ongoing work is funded entirely by private donations) and stood in line to enter, admiring the ornate carvings that combine to create the Facade of the Nativity. I followed Liz into a long line of people queuing up to see the inside -- apparently, we were waiting for a chance to ascend the bell towers.

Had I known this, I might have had some discussion with her on the topic. I have no shame in admitting that I'm, er, somewhat agraphobic. A broad condition, but in my case, it means I get the sweats when more than a safe jumping distance from the Earth's surface. I just don't like heights.

But we were already in line, and bugging out would have revealed a lack of character. I won't go into detail to describe the ascent/descent, but suffice to say, I perspired away the previous night's sangria, and then some. All the shoving from behind in the narrow spiral corridor at the hands of French tourists didn't ease my mind, either.

Back on the ground, I inhaled a bottle of water inside the cathedral's main structure. An odd feeling, walking through a massive chapel still under construction. Crossbeams and struts cris-cross the enormous open space; the unfinished roof and walls admit natural light and provide glimpses of the bell towers 90 meters above where we'd clambered about for the better part of an hour.

Liz placed her hand on a sack of cement that will be used to create a wall, column or floor in this majestic structure. I imagined the worshippers who might fill this space after I'm dead, barely aware of the brusque sightseers rushing past, many holding conversations in less-than-reverential tones. At the beginning of the trip, they would have annoyed me far more, but by now, I've grown used to tourists with no sense of place or propriety. Well, almost.

Let me just say this: Americans abroad don't hold a monopoly on being abrasive or vexatious. In the name of fairness, I think they should come up with a new phrase to replace "Ugly American" -- many people simply have no manners.

We exited the nave on the other side, casting our eyes heavenward to admire the craftsmanship of the Facade of the Passion. In stone and tile, two generations of sculptors are depicting the story of the crucifixion and resurrection. Whether you're a believer or not, you'd need a heart hewn from the same stone as the archways not to be moved by the artistry.

Standing there in the setting sun, I tapped Liz on the shoulder.

"I don't think I've ever seen seen butresses flying like that."

Her eyes followed my outstretched hand to regard the supports that bear the load of the cathedral walls. They resemble gnarled, upturned trees with a stout trunk that descends and elaborates into branches that take root in the foundation.

Enough from me: look at the gallery of images we captured that day. I kept wishing I had a wide-angle lens, but I'm not so certain it would have helped. The building is in constant, fluid motion, and even after the last brick is laid, it will never be at rest.

Barcelona

Leaving Arles was hard.

The weather was kind, Provence was gorgeous, and as it turned out, I speak more French than I thought I did. By the end, I was conducting conversations and transactions without pre-fabbing each phrase. There were times early in our visit to France where I was certain I looked slightly deranged, moving my lips silently as I prepared a sentence for later use.

Favorite French Flub: me, trying to keep an insistent Housekeeping manager at bay through our hotel room door: "Merci, non -- nous somme serviettes!" ("No thanks, we are towels!")

Unlike Liz, I've never taken a Spanish class. No matter; the woman with whom I'm traveling has sufficient skills to make sure we always ended up with palatable food and comfortable lodging.

We took a day train from France and arrived late in the evening. The Spanish train was a bit tatty -- after we arrived in Barcelona, Liz and I discovered fresh flea bites on our ankles.

We checked in late and wondered how much trouble we'd have finding dinner. No fear; there were three restaurants and an active pizza parlor on the block facing our hotel. I never saw them closed.

Spain is a fine country for night-owls like ourselves. The urban Catalonians fill the small hours with spirits and song; many clubs don't even open until 0200 and only roll down the shutters when rush hour begins.

Before we arrived, a travel commentator on BBC instructed us on Barcelona's social mores. To paraphrase, he instructed that one's final beverage should always be ordered as "la penultima,": the second-to-last drink of the evening. Calling it the final drink would be poor manners, a reminder to anyone within earshot that the night was about to end. I don't know the Spanish for "buzzkill."

We found a cafe down the block and ordered differing versions of paella. Mine wasn't particularly flavorful, but it was filling. Liz marveled at the number of people still out at that hour, many pushing strollers with sleeping kids. Other children were as alert as their parents, well past midnight. Start 'em young, I guess.

One evening, we dutifully followed our guidebook's advice and strolled down La Ramblas, the boulevard in the city center. It's a broad street with up-market shops and a freeway-sized pedestrian mall down the middle; narrow lanes run alongside to funnel the speeding cabs.

The zone was a dense pack of tourists crammed into cafe tables or clustered around street performers. We weaved through the crush, keeping our eyes peeled for an ATM. (Following my bank statements while traveling has been very amusing -- I can see exactly where I've been, and even a notation like "CHECK CRD PURCHASE 07/28 DYMOCKS BOOKSELLERS-ST HONG KONG HK" evokes a specific memory.)

Liz kept her purse well-tucked in the frothy crowd. We stepped quickly around human statues in gold body paint, men on stilts, guys offering shoe shines and more than one game of three-card monte. We kept a brisk pace, sensitive to the constant admonitions that Barcelona is a pickpocket's paradise.

(Years ago, I was awakened at 0530 in San Francisco by a friend who was traveling in Spain. He profusely apologized for the disruption, but he'd just been robbed of his backpack and camera after asking the wrong people for directions. He knew I had a high-speed Web connection, so I was able to give him the phone number for the US consulate quickly.)

"Who plays that?" I asked, nodding at some rubes who were absorbed in a round of thimblerig. "I mean, that hustle's described in the Old Testament!"

She shook her head, and we kept walking slightly downhill to the harbor. There's a column with a large statue of Cristoforo Colombo standing at the Ramblas' end, gazing off toward the New World with a sense of purpose. Someone should erect a statue on a corresponding heading in Haiti that captures the essence of the first native who met the explorer.

Walking is good, even through the cheesy tourist areas in which we sometimes find ourselves. We made a left at the highly developed harbor and sniffed out a tapas restaurant where we fortified ourselves with small plates and sangria. It was across the street from the waterfront, so we expected that the food would be comparable -- but about 25% cheaper.

Correct on both counts, a testament to our fine traveling skills. Our plan was to walk further east to a park that had live jazz. Our cheery waiter confirmed our directions, pointing to the speck of green I'd circled on our tourist map.

"Live jazz in the park?" he said. "I've lived here my whole life, I've never heard jazz in the park!" He seemed genuinely excited about the prospect, then lamented the six hours left on his shift. It was around 9:15 p.m.

After the meal and wine, we took a more leisurely pace. The park was another half mile, next to the zoo. There wasn't much pedestrian traffic, so I kept an eye peeled for weird things in the shadows. Not much to see, just tourists like us and some skateboarders annoyed with the old people taking up all the sidewalk.

We walked past the metro stop closest to jazz in the park. The lights were brighter, illuminating a neighborhood that had yet to be rewritten by gentrification. Two women stood under a bus shelter across the street, one using it as a dressing room, the other staring off into the middle distance. Based on the clothes #1 was putting on -- correction: not putting on -- I realized that she was probably going to work, and that we were in their office. Also, I wasn't hearing any music.

I pointed this out to Liz, so we walked up a long ramp that led to the park, a floodlit concrete plaza that overlooks train yards, the zoo barely visible in the darkness beyond. No jazz combo, no crowd. The only people in range were two English-speaking women in their twenties, their chunky heels slapping concrete as they clunk-clunked across the plaza and consulted a tourist map identical to ours. They didn't look at ease.

Liz and I exchanged shrugs before heading back down the ramp. There were a few more hookers across the street now, and I caught a guy in his sixties gaze at them wistfully as he got off the "up" escalator. So did his wife.

Our hotel was across the street from a Metro stop, so we made it back quickly. After brushing my teeth, I turned on the TV to see news of an improbably large hurricane headed for the Gulf of Mexico. The satellite image seemed entirely out of proportion, even accounting for the slight height of the CNN reporter we've taken to calling "The Weather Pixie."

I fell asleep with the television on.

SMS Update - 17:39:46 PST

News from our mobile:
In Miami tonight. Tons of updates coming your way by dawn...

SMS Update - 03:35:47 PST

News from our mobile:
Abby, Aaron, Michael, Elena, and so many others made our NYC stop awesome. Now on to Jamaica.

Note on New Orleans

Crescent City is not on our itinerary, but we've spent the better part of two days in our Lisbon hotel room soaking in the horrific images and accounts over CNN International and our tenuous wi-fi connection.

I've only been to New Orleans once -- I stayed in a lovely, quiet hotel in the French Quarter and enjoyed the city's unique blend of history, merriment and hospitality. As I recall, it was one of the most beautiful parts of any American city I've seen before or since.

Like most tourist destinations, there's a sizable buffer between the famed attractions and pockets of poverty.

I have no words to convey my sorrow for the people who've lost loved ones and/or homes, but it seems callow to ignore the suffering we're watching from half a world away.

As soon as I woke up this morning, I reached for the laptop to see if there were any new developments. I wasn't expecting anything to have improved while we slept, but I didn't think things would get worse.

This line from a NYT article was particularly cringe-inducing:

Hoda Kotb, an NBC reporter, sounded bewildered as she described a sea of stranded victims, including a woman with a 10-day-old baby. "It's a scene out of another country," she said.

At times, the scenes on television were so woeful they looked as if they could have been filmed in a former Soviet republic or Haiti. And that was how television correspondents put it. "This is not Iraq, this is not Somalia," said Martin Savidge of NBC. "This is home."

Both reporters are correct: these images evoke disasters in countries most Americans couldn't find on a globe with 5-minute head start and a magnifying glass.

In our travels, we've observed human beings hanging on to some of the lowest rungs on the ladder. People who sleep on sidewalks and traffic medians, suffer from preventable diseases, or are rebuilding lives after enduring disasters -- both natural and man-made.

I've seen kids pick through trash to find something of use, and I've had women tug at my clothing and beg me to buy milk for their children. I've put money in the palm of someone suffering from leprosy.

But nothing we've seen has prepared me for what's going on right now, in America.

Liz and I have talked about what we've seen, trying to make sense out of the heart-rending images and the lack of any coordinated, timely response by the federal government. We reached some pretty basic conclusions that have the ring of truth, and though I believe them to be accurate, I'm hesitant to voice them here.

There's enough ugliness out there; I don't need to pile on.

If you're in a position to help, please do.

Distracted

We're in lovely Lisboa, but we can't seem to stray far from CNN at the moment. How is this happening? Four DAYS and Bush still hasn't accepted offers of international aid? Nobody can get it together to airdrop some water and, oh, say, a few crackers onto New Orleans?

It's Horrible. Shameful. So, so wrong.

Our hotel staff know we're Americans and they haven't given us so much as a funny look as we stay holed up in our room, glued to the news. Housekeeping didn't even bother to knock today.

We've seen very little of the city so far, and even though we have tons to share about Barcelona, Granada, and Madrid, it's not on our minds at the moment. We still have time to see more of Portugal before we leave. And I know we will. Just not today.

Photos of Arles

Sorry for the delay in posting these, but Internet access is rare and expensive in European hotels. We're in Lisbon, siphoning off someone else's wireless network -- if that's wrong, then I don't want to be right.

We'll catch you up with what we've done and where we've been soon, but I wanted to post these pics before they got too stale:


Mosaic on Rue Cavalarie, near Place Voltaire.

All sturdy Provencal homes have shutters like these to keep out the fierce winds of le mistral.


These streets were built for carriages, not minivans, so keep an eye on traffic.


The arena. Van Gogh once lived across the street...


... and you can pay to see his garret. We just took a snap and moved on.


Another angle on the arena, still under renovation.


Two of sixty arches that fringe this petit coliseum.


The annual rice festival each September gives graduates
of the local bullfighting school a chance to strut their stuff.


This band prowls the cafes that ring the arena. They're standing in front of a motorized
tourist train that connects some of Arles' notable sights.


If you find yourself in Arles, you must stay at the Hotel Regence. An excellent
value, and the friendliest staff you'll ever meet in France.


Two lions stand guard at the west anchorage of the Roman bridge across the Rhone.
Two thousand years ago, you might have crossed this bridge on your way from Italy to Spain.


Looking south down the Rhone


This camphone photo offers a bit of Van Gogh-like perspective.