Monday, December 12. The Iberia Lounge Madrid Airport.

Madrid 4 days then Toledo, Granada, Alhambra, Costa del Sol, Mijas, Gibraltar, Ronda, Seville, Cordoba, Madrid.

Whew!

The tour made sure I got my money’s worth.

There are a couple of hours until the flight, so I transposed some words I had scratched out while at the bar of the Palace Hotel yesterday. Being trapped in the airport forces me to write the words again.

But let me begin with yesterday. Sunday. I left the tour’s hotel for an extra day in Madrid. I went to the Canopy Hilton because it was free using points.

The Bolt (a European version of Uber) driver had some difficulty finding the place. There were road blockages and construction and one-way streets. He passed an enormous structure which was under construction.

“Bernabeu?” I asked.

“Si.”

The Santiago Bernabeu Stadium! The Mecca of soccer!

It is enormous. Cranes tower over it for renovations.

When I got to the hotel, I was permitted to check in early. I checked on my phone and saw they were still giving tours of the Real Madrid stadium. It is only a few minutes’ walk away. I booked a tour for 10:30 and headed out. The stadium under heavy renovations is surrounded by fencing. Canvas signs hung on them read—”Real Madrid Tour”—followed by an arrow pointing the way. I had to walk around half of the enormous building to get to the entrance.

There was a short line. My phone was scanned. Cement steps lead down into the bowels of the edifice. Rainwater drips along the walls. Then a museum opens up before me. Glazed cases laden with silver cups and trophies, artifacts of the world’s most successful sports team. Galleries and video screens. I pass through quickly and the route leads out into the stadium proper. Green grass and 81,044 blue seats.

It is an awesome sight.

Maybe one day I will go to a game there.

There’s equipment all over the soccer pitch. I look closely and suppose they are grow lights on wheels keeping the grass perfect in the covered building. The tour ends with a long winding path through the vast shop with shirts and jerseys and hoodies and… Real Madrid stuff. (“Real” means royal.) I had to hurry because early in the morning I’d booked tickets for the Prado at 11:30.

Out to the street, I summon a Bolt with my phone. Bolt is a European Uber. The car pulls up in a couple of minutes.

“Prado, por favor.”

The driver is chatty and speaks excellent English.

“I must take you to the rear. They close the Paseo del Prado on Sundays.”

I wanted to go back for a leisurely visit. The guided tour exactly a week before had been kind of rushed. The guide led us to the high spots of Spanish painting and told us backstories and secrets and histories of some of the world’s finest masterpieces. When I was there a week ago, there was a long line for the public. Today, I descend the steps in front of the ancient church above and behind the museum and there was no one there. Just a couple of guards standing in the doorways. Did I do something wrong?

I extend my phone in my right hand.

“Beep.”

I am waved through.

There are a few people in the lobby. I pass through the scanner and go for an audioguide.

Then into the galleries.

Where to start?

My feet will find their own way.

Three hours in the Prado. 83 galleries. Many doubled into two rooms. A & B. Plus spaces changeable for temporary exhibitions. Shops, atriums, hallways. Acres of canvas. Tons of marble. Thousands of footsteps. Did I enter every room? Pass every canvas? Senses filled with color and shape. The hands of genius are everywhere I look. Then I am sated. Filled. I leave to seek the Palace. A hotel that “Papa” loved. I seek directions. The phone warns, “Closed Permanently.” Indeed, its facade, shuttered on the circle, has empty dead windows staring over Paseo del Prado. But I walk round searching. A polished granite entry shines on the back corner. Wrought iron screens, black and gold, guard its flanks. Am I presentable? Still in casual travel weeds—jeans and a black slicker. I have enough in my pocket to be here, but am I “worthy”? Up the carpeted lobby steps an ancient tapestry faces me. To the left, I spy the lounge.

Plush leather chairs—two per low round table. The worst would be refusal. “I am sorry, sir…” Forgotten by them in a minute. Remembered by me forever. The bar at the far end—unpopulated—glows warmly, invitingly. I point to a stool. “Ok?” Approval nodded. “Gin martini shaken?” I pantomime the shaker. She nods. She performs the ritual but stirred in a small pitcher packed with ice, the long metal spoon rattling against the glass and cubes. A stemmed glass frosted in ice is set before me. She tips the pitcher. The crystal liquid slowly fills the cone. The icy frosting slowly melts away. No vegetation detracts from the crystal clarity.

We rode in a taxi down to the Palace Hotel, … and went into the bar of the hotel for a cocktail. We sat on high stools at the bar while the barman shook the Martinis in a large nickelled shaker.

“It’s funny what a wonderful gentility you get in the bar of a big hotel,” I said.

“Barmen and jockeys are the only people who are polite any more.”

“No matter how vulgar a hotel is, the bar is always nice.”

“It’s odd.”

“Bartenders have always been fine.”

“You know,” Brett said, “it’s quite true. …”

We touched the two glasses as they stood side by side on the bar. They were coldly beaded. Outside the curtained window was the summer heat of Madrid.

“I like an olive in a Martini,” I said to the barman.

“Right you are, sir. There you are.”

“Thanks.”

“I should have asked, you know.”

The barman went far enough up the bar so that he would not hear our conversation. Brett had sipped from the Martini as it stood, on the wood. Then she picked it up. Her hand was steady enough to lift it after that first sip.

“It’s good. Isn’t it a nice bar?”

“They’re all nice bars.”

“You know I didn’t believe it at first. …”

…

“We’ll have two more Martinis.”

“As they were before, sir?”

“They were very good.” Brett smiled at him.

Thus ends The Sun Also Rises.

The final scene.

A photo of Hemingway hovers above my left shoulder. Framed, sepia toned, he stretches across a bed, a phone’s black handset pressed to his ear. It is wired to the wall a couple of feet away.

The djinn from the bottle transports me. Near a century ago he was in this Palace. A few years later, wars would rage. Far different deaths in afternoons than a bull or a man.

I scratch these words upon hotel notepaper. The smooth cold black stone bar a perfect writing surface.

I sip in the same building where he drank two lifetimes ago.

He could not know the future. I know a bit of the past.

I am here.

Now.

Trying as best I can.

That is all I can do.

(The original version was written as a “poem”—such as it is. I feel it is unfair to impose that on you. I’d likely lose you. So the verse version is appended at the end. The section in quotes is from the last scene of The Sun Also Rises with a few bits deleted.)

From there, I walked around the city. The rain had drizzled away to nothing.

I walked and walked. Just to look and live. Breathe. My head and feet take me where they choose. I make no conscious decisions. No plans. I just go.

Then I find I’m near Retiro Park and Alcala Gate.

I recalled the James Joyce Pub was nearby. Cabs had whisked me past a couple of times. I’d wanted to stop in, but it was never near enough at the proper time.

The afternoon was aging. I turned inside and sat in the calm dim light at the bar.

A silent big screen was up and to my left. Rugby. Ulster versus Manchester. Brutes brutally bashing one another. A head snaps back, and the man falls supine on the turf. Unmoving.

I turn away.

The Guinness is awful. Flat. Bitter. I pucker at it. A dozen or so stained glass Irish authors peer down at me.

The pub phone rings often. The bartenders answer, “James Joyce.”

After a few of these, I get the joke.

I would likely laugh and say, “Is it really you?!”

Time to rise and go.

The hotel was a couple of miles off, but there was no reason to hurry back. I take a long leisurely walk up the broad boulevard. It changes names a couple of times from Paseo del Prado.

It is good just to breathe the air of this foreign land. See the edifices. Try to decipher the signs.

So many restaurants. Each trying to outdo the next with an exotic name. “Papua”, “Ximenes”…

I imagine the exotic offerings in them. Tastes never passing my palate before.

I recall I purchased a 4 pack of Waterloo beer last night. Mostly because at Christmas time many producers give away a free glass as a gift.

Waterloo… I’d like to go there some day. This visit got me interested in the Peninsular War again. Long ago, I read all the Sharpe books by Bernard Cornwell. This week, I started watching the miniseries again.

I must find a bottle opener. I’ve seen hundreds in souvenir shops the whole trip. Some with names upon them like “Carlos.” Some “Madrid.” Some “Espana.” Many magnetized to affix to the fridge. It will be an easy exercise to find a cheap one.

I look and look as I walk. Nothing close. No wine shop. No grocery.

A Christmas Market glows in the faded afternoon. I pass through. So much exotic fare, but I resist.

El Corte Ingles—the enormous department store chain. Think Nordstrom only better. Its facade bedecked in red and lights.

They have a sprawling grocery below ground. So many colors and shapes and temptations. Thousands of wines and beers lined up on shelves like soldiers. No sign of the tool I seek.

I leave and explore the commercial neighborhood. No kitchen supply store. Nothing but fascinating shops and restaurants lining both sides of the street.

I come upon the back entrance of El Corte Ingles. How many floors is it? Nothing tells me from the outside. 6, 7, 8 stories with blank lightless windows. I go inside. A gourmet food section. No result.

I’ll buy anything now. It is a quest. I’ll spend… whatever I need to. It will be a reminder of the foolish but memorable end to the final day. Plus, it is getting dark, and I’m ready to put my feet up.

There’s no directory, just a sign at the escalator, but it only states what is one floor below and the floor I am on.

The escalator takes me down. Women’s clothes. Back up. Then up. Then up again. 5, 6 trips on moving stairs.

The escalator rises once more, and I see over its horizon pots and pans. It must be here. Indeed, a selection of three, maybe four. Nothing exciting. But one has an olive wood handle. So similar to my favorite at home. The box names it in Spanish. In English, it reads, “The Bartender’s Friend.”

I pick it up and decide to look around. Shop. Why? It was so anticlimactic. I wander past bins of knives and forks. Glasses. Plates…

Wait! What is that?

Little Prince Cutlery?! Heavy steel for children? “You’ll cut your finger off!” And, oh, the price! German made.

Still, it is The Little Prince and something I’ll never see again.

Something memorable to add to my St. Exupery collection.

---

The plane is flying toward St John’s at the far eastern point of the Maritimes. My golfing buddies and I were booked to go there in the summer. 2020. One friend died. Another permanently injured; his golfing days ended. COVID canceled the last foursome trip we would ever do. No one knew it then. But that summer’s end spelled the end of our wonderful annual golf outings.

Will I ever get to the Maritimes? I’m not that interested without something to do. I don’t think the scenery would be worth the investment in time. That precious commodity—more and more precious each year. Each month, I tally the time now.

We are arcing south along America’s east coast.

Damn you, time!

A vision of sand falling in an hourglass.

So much I want to do.

So much I have to do.

Why do I “have” to? Self respect. A mission I must try to fulfill.

My raison d’être.

We will land in Philadelphia in a couple of hours.

Then, if all goes well, a couple of hours to drive home. Light a fire. Turn the water on. Sleep in my own bed.

Peace.

I had three bottles of Waterloo last night. Two relaxing in bed before heading down the Canopy Hilton’s brilliantly colored bar in a vast high-ceilinged lobby with hundreds of books on shelves and set on tables in the lobby.

Beautiful.

Designers can do amazing things.

Crema de patata y trufa con setas de temporada y huevo poche.

A light meal but exotic tastes never experienced before. A kind of mashed potato “soup” with a soft poached egg atop it. Hard to explain but lusciously rich. Served in a lidded glass pot. I’ve never seen anything its like before.

Luscious.

A Rioja wine. And a second glass. “Compliments.”

Back up to my room. I check the football scores across the ocean out of boredom. One more Waterloo. I could not drink a fourth. I’ll carry one beer and one bottle of gin back to the states. Spanking Roger gin made in Gibraltar of all things. It’s named after Major General Roger Aytoun. He would “recruit” soldiers in Manchester pubs, “Fight me. Out drink me. Or sign up.”

I’ll ditch the heavy DK Guidebooks. I’ll be returning with pretty much the same weight.

That last day in Spain was a dream. After a week of hectic guiding and working hard in the free time to discover everything in places I’ll likely never return to, I could just walk serendipitously.

---

Tuesday, I got up early and went out to plant bulbs in the dark.

When I got back to work, there was a lot to catch up on, but I wasn’t hopelessly behind.

That afternoon, I went home and planted bulbs until well after dark.

Wednesday morning the same. Wednesday evening the same.

I had my phone out with me on Wednesday night. It was set on a stone, playing Ralph Vaughan Williams on Pandora.

I noticed one of the netting bags I was pulling bulbs from said that variety was named Delibes.

I entered Delibes onto Pandora, and I was immediately listening to Delibes while planting Delibes.

In a forest. On a mountain. The nearest neighbor a half mile away.

Technology is amazing.

It is Thursday morning. It has been raining ice for the last few hours. I’m trapped until the temperature rises. Maybe late morning. The phone says heavy snow in the valley. I can’t tell. There’s a gray wall of “weather” blocking my view. But the trees are all beautifully frosted.

I’ll just lie in for a while and write and relax.

I brought something back from Spain with me. (A cold or something. I ache a bit all over. I have a slight cough now and then. A bit if wheezing. No fever.)

No. Not that. I just tested negative again. (The test kit is made by “Acon Biotech. Hangzhou, P. R. China.” It says so on the slip lain in the test kit: “Certificate of Quality.”) I need to see if it gets to the tipping point of calling the doctor… when I can get down the mountain.

Maybe I caught it on the plane. There was a child behind me screaming for much of the flight. I finally put the earpieces in and watched The Hobbit. All three of them. I recall how disappointed I was in them when they first came out. Cartoonish…

So I made some tea to drink, looking out at the ice falling.

The Hobbit tea I purchased when the Morgan Library had a Tolkien exhibition 4 or 5 years ago.

There are advantages to being trapped. Not feeling good adds to the forced helplessness.

I don’t feel up to chores, even though the house is in chaos right now. It was pretty good in October when I prepared it for guests. But then, stuff kept coming in or being set out to go through. Trying to put my old life in order. So many boxes of papers that I thought I should save for the future—so long ago.

The future has arrived.

There’s no question of going out to plant bulbs… LOL.

There are still so many left to put in.

Maybe tonight when the rain stops.

No. It is not going to stop. Rain til 4 a.m. Friday.

Sigh.

There are about 8 species of birds on the porch roof outside the bedroom window right now. I tossed a scoop of seeds out earlier. It is amusing to watch them glide in, grab a sunflower seed, then flit out onto a nearby tree and crack it open.

The reporter contacted me this week for some final fact checking. She says the story might run next Monday. It sounds pretty exciting. I have no idea how we will be featured.

I hope we look ok. It was so much fun speaking with her. She asked great questions that brought things to mind I haven’t thought about for a long time.

The last World Cup semifinal was yesterday. France overcame Morocco. That first African nation to ever reach a semifinal had surprised the soccer world by advancing this far. I was on the Costa del Sol when they beat Spain. The tour had taken us to the mountain town of white-washed buildings—Mijas. It has stunning views of the Mediterranean Sea in the distance. All the cafes were packed with people watching the match. Many businesses were closed. I assume to watch the match. It was exciting being there. That morning, many of us went to Gibraltar, and you could see the mountains of Morocco across the strait. Morocco was a colony of Spain and France not that long ago. When we got back down to the coast, there were a few hundred young Moroccan fans celebrating in the street in front of a Moroccan teahouse.

Coincidences…

Oh! I’m going to Morocco next year! Casablanca, Marrakesh, Fez…

The final will be an exciting match (if you like soccer.) Argentina versus France on Sunday. Lionel Messi, one of the greatest players of all time, will face the team that won the Cup four years ago.

It has been a month of games. First at home. Then in Spain. Now just one more here.

---

So many carts are now backed up for me to work on.

I have had a lot of non-book duties to catch up on.

And I have just not been feeling up to going through the dusty old things. It would make me cough.

There were some nice finds I came across though.

Ralph Steadman.

I like him.

I have a few signed limited edition prints of his. One from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. One a giant portrait of a leering Shakespeare.

The story goes that long ago, he agreed to create drawings for the labels of Flying Dog beers. They were a smaller brewery in Colorado then. The deal was a penny per label printed. Steadman thought it would be chump change. But the brewery grew and grew. They are located in Frederick now and sell millions and millions of bottles in many varieties. Each with a different Steadman illustration for the label. That’s a story from an old friend who knows Steadman. It may be apocryphal, but it’s a fun story.

This enormous bifolium (four pages) is from a Bible printed no later than 1480. It is nicely rubricated (that hand-drawn colored letters.) There are three type sizes. Imagine the complexity of putting a page of this together. When the printed word was still in its infancy.

Amazing…

I hope this week’s story isn’t vague. My head certainly feels “vague” right now.

Next week on to Christmas. And then 2023.

Strange year.

I think (and hope) we are out of COVID. But the world and the people I know certainly haven’t returned to the way things were in 2019. I remember 2019 being a pretty wonderful year.

Well, there’s no going back.

---

12/11/22

Palace Hotel

Three hours in the Prado
83 galleries
Many doubled into two rooms
A & B
Plus spaces changeable
for temporary exhibitions
Shops, atriums, hallways
Acres of canvas
Tons of marble
Thousands of steps
Did I enter every room?
Pass every canvas?
Senses filled
with color and shape
The hands of genius
are everywhere I look.
Then I am sated. Filled.
I have as much as I can take in.
I leave to seek the Palace
A hotel that Papa loved
I seek directions
The phone warns, “Closed
Permanently.”
Indeed, its facade,
shuttered on the circle,
has empty dead windows
staring over Paseo del Prado
But I walk round
A polished granite entry
shines on that corner
Wrought iron screens,
black and gold,
guard its flanks
Am I presentable?
Still in casual travel weeds
Jeans and a black slicker
I have enough,
in my pocket,
to be here
but am I “worthy”?
Up the lush carpeted lobby steps
an ancient tapestry faces me
To the left I spy the lounge
Plush leather chairs
—two per low round table
The worst would be refusal
“I am sorry, sir…”
Forgotten by them in a minute
Remembered by me forever
The bar at the far end
—unpopulated—
glows warmly, invitingly
I point to a stool
“Ok?”
Approval nodded
“Gin martini shaken?”
I pantomime the shaker
She performs the ritual
but stirring in a small pitcher
packed with ice
The long metal spoon
rattling against the glass and cubes
A stemmed glass
frosted in ice
is set before me
She tips the pitcher
the crystal liquid slowly fills the cone
The icy frosting melts away
No vegetation detracts
from that pure clarity

We rode in a taxi down to the Palace Hotel,
and went into the bar of the hotel for a cocktail.
We sat on high stools at the bar
the barman shook the Martinis in a large nickelled shaker.
“It’s funny what a wonderful gentility you get in the bar of a big hotel,” I said.
“Barmen and jockeys are the only people who are polite any more.”
“No matter how vulgar a hotel is, the bar is always nice.”
“It’s odd.”
“Bartenders have always been fine.”
“You know,” Brett said, “it’s quite true.”
We touched the two glasses as they stood side by side on the bar.
They were coldly beaded.
“I like an olive in a Martini,” I said to the barman.
“Right you are, sir. There you are.”
“Thanks.”
“I should have asked, you know.”
The barman went far enough up the bar so that he would not hear our conversation.
Brett had sipped from the Martini as it stood, on the wood.
Then she picked it up. Her hand was steady enough to lift it after that first sip.
“It’s good. Isn’t it a nice bar?”
“They’re all nice bars.”
“You know I didn’t believe it at first.
“We’ll have two more Martinis.”
“As they were before, sir?”
“They were very good.” Brett smiled at him.
Thus ends The Sun Also Rises

A photo of the man
hovers above my left shoulder
Framed, sepia toned,
he stretches across a bed
a phone’s handset pressed to his ear
it is wired to the wall a couple feet away
The djinn from the bottle transports me
Near a century ago he was in this Palace
A few years later wars would rage
Far different deaths in afternoons
than a bull or a man
I scratch these words upon the black stone bar
I sip in the same building where he drank
two lifetimes ago
He could not know the future
I know a bit of the past
I am here.
Now.
Trying as best I can
That is all I can do.