Tag Archives: Grand Circle Travel

Farewell to Assisi and Umbria (Lynn Kerstan)

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The long, lofty Uphill Walk to the Basilica of St. Francis, made beautiful by the pink-and-cream-colored granite.

To everyone’s relief, I’m sure, we’re nearly done with Assisi.

FYI, a number of movies have been made about the life of Saint Francis. In the evening after we returned to the hotel from visiting the town and the churches, we got to see one version. “Brother Sun, Sister Moon” was a 1972 film directed by Franco Zeffirelli, and it’s very long. The general response was, We Didn’t Like It. But there are some wonderful things in the film, including many locations of great beauty in Umbria.

A cypress tree stands like a sentinel as we look at a long-distance view.

Here’s a view of the countryside from the top of the hill. In the distance is a lake. Not many of those in Italy, and the only one I knew about was Lake Como, where George Clooney has a lovely home. I still can’t believe I was in Italy for three weeks and he never called or sent an e-mail.  Sigh.

Another scenic view, this one from the top of the Basilica.

 

Although the scenery and the gloriously beautiful landscape are amazing, I mostly loved the little, special treats that are around almost every corner. Some make no sense, some are just plain silly, and some are utterly delightful.

 

A common scene in a hill town.

 

 

 

 

Fountains like this were created whenever possible. Otherwise, water would have to be lugged up by–you guessed it–women.

 

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An artist  at work in the town of Assisi.

 

 

 

Wrought-iron art is common in the hill towns. Here, someone or something is trying to drive away a dragon.

We’re almost done with Tuscany, which was heavenly. Coming soon, we’ll head south to Sorrento and the land of Limoncello, which is utterly delicious. And to Naples, and Mount Vesuvius and Pompeii and the Isle of Capri and the Amalfi Coast. Italy is chock-full of wondrous things to see and experience.

But there are mysteries as well. This shop window in Assisi, with two piles of three rocks, escapes my understanding. Any guesses what it signifies?

The Town of Assisi (Lynn Kerstan)

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A long-distant view of the Basilica under a cloudy sky.

Last week I wrote about Saint Francis of Assisi, so today will be for pictures of the town. The Basilica and parts of the town town are perched on the side of Mount Subasio. The pink granite stone glows in the sunlight, which we were fortunate to have for the entire day. Well, almost.

As we approached the Basilica, I saw a statue that I call The Desolate Rider. It seemed a strange image to welcome people who are just arriving.

I like unusual things, the sort you’re not apt to see elsewhere or again. But on the way back to our rendezvous with the bus, I had time to study the location.

To the left of the desolate rider is a bush of some sort sculpted into a cross. Beneath it, more plants, spelling PAX. Peace. So, this bit of greenery near the entrance of town calls for peace and mourns the times when there was war instead.

I love any country that honors its great writers. Their works live forever.

Many narrow, one-lane roads in Assisi permits cars, but this is not among them.  As you know, all roads in Italy are uphill.

Nearby, I saw one of many tributes throughout Italy to it’s greatest poet, Dante Alighieri. That inspired Lonzo, who knew that I once had a cat named Dante.

Much of Assisi is dedicated to the tourists who throng there, as are many of Italy’s towns. “Dedication” means providing what they want and need, not including easy access to lavatories. But if you want a Saint Francis souvenir–mostly little wooden statues of the saint–there’s a whole industry devoted to providing them. I bought a small Christmas ornament depicting the stable and manger and Mary and Joseph and the infant Jesus. That’s because it was Francis who created the idea of Nativity Scenes. The guy was really smart and very creative. Mine will hang on my tree this year, if I can remember where I stashed it.

Lymond here, introducing an Assisi Cat. He gets to go outside! Not exactly tempting, looking at his surroundings. But St. Francis would’ve loved him. Meantime, I’m still waiting for supper.

Of course, Food is needed as well, so there was plenty of access to The Italy Big Three: Pizza, Pasta, and Gelato (ice cream). Our tour included lunch at a crowded local restaurant, and in Italy, a meal includes a glass of wine. Then we were on our own again, and I’ll provide more pictures and narrative about Assisi next week. There are are many reasons why this was my very favorite place in Italy.

Arriverderci! (meaning “Bye for Now, See You Again)

The Saint of Poverty (Lynn Kerstan)

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The Basilica in Assisi, where Saint Francis of Assisi is buried.

Of all the wondrous places I visited in Italy, the town of Assisi in Umbria is my favorite. I liked it so much that I’ll need two blogs, one about the town itself, and this one about the reason millions and millions of people go there: Saint Francis of Assisi. Recently, the new pope chose to adopt the name of Francis (Francesco in Italian), and I suspect the Saint would be amused. He himself was named Giovanni by his father, but dad, on his return from a successful business trip to France, renamed his son Francesco, which means “The Frenchman.”

Inside the Basilica. No signs of Holy Poverty here.

Born the son of a successful cloth merchant in 1181, Francis lived in comfort and behaved like most well-off young men behave (or don’t behave). He loved music. Parties. Hunting. But one day, selling his father’s goods in the marketplace, a beggar approached him and pleaded for alms. Francis gave him everything in his pockets, including the money for what he’d been selling. His father was furious.

One of several side chapels in the basilica. When I was there, glorious music was being made by a large group of students from Dallas TX, who had come to Assisi to sing a Mass. I wanted to stay there and listen, but I had to catch up with my tour group.

Later, he joined a military expedition, was captured, and was kept prisoner for a year. Back in Assisi, he rejoined his friends for good times and worked with his father, but was also plagued with a serious illness. He began to refocus on the beauty of simple things, especially nature, which is why he is honored as the Patron Saint of Animals and the Environment.

Francis tended the poor and the sick, particularly lepers. Here, he bathes a man who needs his help, and Lonzo supervises.

Legends have bloomed like the flowers Francis loved, and it’s hard to distinguish truth from wishful thinking. But some events are recorded, as when the always furious father dragged him to a public meeting with the Bishop. Francis had been helping restore a countryside church, using money from his father’s business. Ordered to return whatever had been given him by his father, he passed over everything his carried and removed all his clothes, for they had come from his father as well. Buck-nekkid, he stood in front of everyone who was anyone in Assisi, and then he returned to the countryside.

A friend joined him there, and another, and others as well. He must have had a compelling personality. They worked on the derelict churches he was rebuilding, and accompanied him to Rome where Francis and the rag-tag group of young men asked for the Church’s permission to establish a religious order. It was granted. Later, Francis helped a wealthy young woman, whose goals marched along with his, to establish a convent of cloistered nuns. The Poor Clares, they were called, and like the Franciscan order of men, they still exist today. In Spain, Pat and I saw the convents of many Poor Clares communities.

Where Francis slept when staying at the church he was rebuilding.

Francis died when he was in his mid-forties, and centuries later, the Franciscan Order continues to thrive. At the core of it’s mission lies this goal: “To follow the teachings of Our Lord Jesus Christ and to walk in his footsteps.” There is a strong commitment to poverty, respect for all of God’s creations, and care for those in need. He was canonized as saint two years after his death, and at that time, the pope laid the cornerstone for his basilica.

 

This poem has been put to music many times. You can find several of them on YouTube

Let’s give the last words to Francis himself:

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love; Where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; Where there is despair, hope; Where there is darkness, light; Where there is sadness, joy.

Oh Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console; to be understood, as to understand, to be loved, as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive. It is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S631tbfalF8

 


 

 

 

 

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Visit to a Tuscan Winery (Lynn Kerstan)

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Scores of barrels, many larger than these, were stacked in the centuries-old building.

As Pat will testify, I am fond of wine. Not a connoisseur, to be sure, because I’m happy with just about any sort of wine. Which meant that I couldn’t fully appreciate (although I greatly enjoyed) the visit to Fattoria del Colle, where truly fine wine is produced. What makes the winery even more special is this: It’s owned and managed by a woman, and so is the sommelier,  the taster who decides when a wine is ready to be bottled and sold. Pretty much unheard of in Italy and fine-wine circles, until Donatella Cinelli Colombina took charge. She decided to specialize in upscale wine, specifically Brunello. I’d never heard of it.

I wish I could remember the story attached to the picture. It’s based in the history of the estate many centuries ago. Clearly, someone is being rescued.

The first person to live on the property, centuries ago, was a hermit. Later, soldiers came to defend the 13th-century tower, now part of the structure. Much later, the Grand Duke of Tuscany used it as a secret romantic hideaway. A few centuries after that, an ancestor of the present owner built the estate in much its present form. Nowadays there’s a swimming pool, accommodations for weekend stays, cooking lessons, tastings of wine and olive oil, archery and weddings. Tour groups like ours are always welcome.

Another story I don’t know. Sorry. If someone else on the tour remembers it well enough, I’ll provide an update.

Two stories, probably legends, from the history of the estate are represented in a pair of fascinating paintings. I wound up standing in the back, where I could scarcely hear Donatella’s explanations, but she later assured me that they capture true stories passed down from the Middle Ages.

Everywhere we went, I saw fields of odd-looking supports for grapevines that will be attached as the season for growing grapes gets underway.

I was astounded by the many enormous, beautiful, polished barrels in which the wines were stored for aging. I was equally astonished by the field of odd-looking branches (?) which I had seen elsewhere as we drove through Tuscany. We were there in early March, and it was too soon for the vines to be planted and supported by the branch-thingies. No sign of a grape.

 

 

Our group enjoys a light lunch of bread, olive oil, cheese, and wine. Emphasis on the wine. I remember very little that happened after that.

After touring the main buildings, we settled in for wine tasting and a light meal of crusty bread topped with olive oil and three varieties of aged pecorino cheese to match the three glasses of wine. Everything was utterly delicious.

The Wall of Honor (for women only)

But alas, the excursion was coming to a close. We all staggered outside and saw metallic vats that probably had something to do with wine or, maybe, something else Fattoria del Colle’s was up to. I expected our bus would be drawn up and waited, but we were led to a wall with embossed tiles.

To honor women of achievement , Donatella established an award and presents it each year to the chosen winner. Each tile describes the reason the winner was chosen. Donatella and her business partner understand the barriers women too often face in business, politics, and life in general. Her own  success is testament that women can overcome obstacles and . When they do, everyone benefits. It’s a lesson most countries and people have yet to learn.

Lonzo and Lynn Head South (Lynn Kerstan)

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Lonzo makes sure the tour bus is going the right direction.

Although I am reluctant to leave Venice behind—I’ll be setting parts of Dangerous Betrayals there—Lonzo has been studying the map and wishes this virtual tour to venture south. It was a long bus ride to Cianchiano, where we checked into the hotel that would be our home base for a week. No constant packing and unpacking. Each day after breakfast, we’d climb onto the bus and enjoy the glorious scenery of

Cianchiano Terme, a spa town, centrally located.

A row of Tuscany’s landmark cedar trees lining a road that leads to a large residence.

Tuscany on our way to wonderful places. Here’s how things looked on a mild, overcast day. Many of the elegant homes are up for sale, the upkeep being more than the owners can manage. Some are converting a portion of the house to B&B accommodations.

Here’s a picture of an especially steep picture Tuscan hill town, Radicofani, with roads unwelcoming to a bus. Nearly every prominence is topped with a hill town. Much safer to be perched up high, where lookouts can spot enemies or robbers. And alert the locals when a bus filled with tourists is approaching so that the shops and eateries can prepare for a welcome invasion.

Radicofani, looking from a distance like a chocolate birthday cake with one candle.

The view, looking over the city wall. Those little pale-leaved trees are olive trees. There are groves of them all over Italy.

As you can imagine, the views from these hill towns are breathtaking, especially on a clear, sunny day. We had lots of those and enjoyed each and every one. The town of Pienza was especially beautiful and interesting, in part because several centuries ago, a pope chose it as a summer escape from hot, humid Rome. He was specific about the design of Pienza’s church, and we happened to be there on a Sunday. So I decided to attend Mass and was able to experience a typical Sunday morning in company with most of the town’s resident. A good choir, too, with lots of adults and children singing like angels.

But the day was far from over. We were on our way to an upscale winery owned and run by women! More about that next week.

Home Again (Lynn Kerstan)

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Thank You, Thea, for taking care of me. If nothing else, I learned the meaning of “Dolce fa niente.” My Italian spelling is probably wrong, but cats know the true meaning of “Sweet it is to do nothing.”

So here I am, back from three weeks in Italy. I brought with me a lot of pictures, a small amount of retained information I found interesting and quickly forgot, and gazillions of memories. In the next few weeks, with pictures and information at the ready, I’ll take you on the trip with me. Meantime, I’ve got the worst and longest cold I ever had. Those Italian cold germs are powerful critters. I still haven’t unpacked, and if I don’t do laundry very soon (which requires a trip to the laundromat), I shall be the Nekkid  Traveler.

Here are a few things I know for sure: All Italian Drivers are crazy. Doesn’t matter what they drive. Car, truck, motorcycle, bicycle, or bus can be equally terrifying. There are many cliffs with hairpin curves that scared the devil outa me, but our bus drivers were very good. For some reason, they all seemed to be named Pepe or Bepe. I presume they were trying to maintain anonymity, in case they drove off a hairpin.

Hills on top of hills in Tuscany, a place of surpassing beauty with a lovely grove of olive trees.

In Italy, all hills (there are many of them) go Up. I expect they go down as well, but after climbing to those high Tuscan hill towns and exploring them, the only thought in my head was “Please send me a water-slide.”

It rains in Italy. Probably because I prayed for a water-slide. My collapsible umbrella collapsed altogether the first time I used it. But the large, inexpensive Italian brolly did just fine. In the time I was there, it rained  four or five days, but that didn’t stop us from going where we were intended to go.

It is possible to eat large portions of pizza, pasta, and gelato for three weeks without gaining weight. The up-hill phenomenon is probably responsible.

Another hill town. From early times, people sought the high ground to protect themselves.

I fell in love with a cordial called Limoncella, which is not for wimps. Some locals provided a recipe, and I intend to try my hand at brewing some. It sounds easy: only four ingredients, one of which is water. Will share it with you if my first batch turns out okay.

Monsieur le Comte de Sevigny was suitably glad to see me when I arrived home, but not before startling me with a primal yowl that expressed his opinion of me leaving him Home Alone for so long. Mind you, Thea took excellent care of him as she always does, with plenty of petting and combing, so all is well at Chez Lymond.

Until next Friday, Arrivederci!

 

 

 

When in Rome (Lynn Kerstan)

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The springtime countryside in Tuscany.

I can’t help it. Travel has been my obsession for nearly all my life, and on my upcoming trip, I’ll be visiting a place I last saw in the late ’60s. I’d applied for and received a grad student scholarship to study Shakespeare for a month in Stratford-upon-Avon.  Yippee! The deal included a B&B room and dinner as well, but I had to buy my own plane ticket. A neighbor I hardly knew loaned me $300 (a lot of money back then) so I booked a cheap flight on Icelandic Airlines and off I went.

England was great, but things got even better when a fellow student asked if I wanted to join him and his friend on a driving trip in Europe. Of course I did. Free transportation and good company, although they stayed at Hilton hotels while I bunked in at youth hostels. Ever since, I have longed to explore Tuscany in northern Italy.  We drove straight through it to Rome, and it was gloriously beautiful. I resolved that I would come back someday, because it had captured my heart. On the third of March, many decades later, my promise to myself will be fulfilled.

The Roman forum, what remains of it.

Rome was the driver’s final destination, so he dropped me off in a neighborhood that had a lot of cheap pensions and I never saw him or his friend again. Alone in Rome, I bought a map and wandered the streets and explored the major sights. Colosseum, check. Fountains (three  coins deposited there, of course). It was in the Roman forum that a pleasant-faced, good-looking young man struck up a conversation. I didn’t understand Italian, so he tried French, which I didn’t understand, either. At first, I assumed he was trying to pick me up. I don’t remember his name, and to this day, I don’t know what he really had in mind when he first approached me. But he spent the next three days congenially showing me the sights. That included a double feature of Italian western movies, very popular at the time, because he assumed I’d enjoy them

The staircase inside the dome. Round and round we go.

He was equally happy to escort me to Vatican City and insisted that we climb the dome of St. Peter’s Cathedral. That incident is permanently engraved on my memory. From a distance, it didn’t seem terribly large, and there was a primitive elevator to grind its way to the place where the actual Dome began. Oh, my heavens. Round and round we went on a narrow, seeming endless staircase. There was a parallel staircase winding the other direction for our descent. I was a trouper back them, game for almost anything, so I made the Very Long Climb. “You can see almost all of Rome from the balcony,” someone had told me when I started up the stairs.

The dome of St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City

Those who know me are aware of my primal fear of edges. Not height itself, but a scary place where I could possibly fall off. Like, for instance, a curb. Circling the Dome of St. Peter’s was a small balcony about two feet wide, with a wrought-iron decorative fence about a foot high. The moment I exited the staircase, I knew I was not meant to be on that balcony. I leaned back, spreadeagled, against the dome itself, eyes squeezed shut and heart beating like the hooves of horses in an Italian Western movie.

“All Rome at our feet,” said a British woman in an awestruck voice. I wouldn’t know. I glimpsed the Papal Gardens directly below us, mustered some courage, and risked a glimpse of the horizon. Sure enough, that brief view of the smoggy brown city remains imprinted on my memory.

A view of the Vatican Museum from the Dome

My sister, who is traveling with me for most of the upcoming trip, has signed on to spend five days there at the end. Not I. Been there, done that. And I will have one day in that very special city, which will bring back good memories of practically having the Vatican Museum and the Sistine Chapel all to myself one afternoon, and the sweetness of a lovely young Italian man who introduced me to his beloved Rome.

 

 

Luncheon in Tangier (Lynn Kerstan)

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Lonzo plays captain as the hydrofoil speeds away from the dock.

No way I'm getting aboard this mildewed camel. I think it's playing dead to avoid having to lumber upright.

Mostly pictures today, with a glimpse of a most unusual city in North Africa. To get there required several hours on a bus and an hour-long ride on the hydrofoil ferry. It was Sunday. We first went to the usual tourist destination, where a couple of bored,  moth-eaten camels and several gewgaw salesmen waited to rid us of out money. If you remember Pat’s blog about “riding” the camel, you know they found at least one sucker.

The colors are so vibrant there. Nearly all the women wore hats.

On Sundays, farmers from nearby villages come to the city to sell their wares. We were told not to look closely at the women’s faces or take pictures without permission. The villagers, unlike the city residents, are very traditional. In Morocco, women have the vote and can run for office, where some have achieved important positions.

 

 

If it can be eaten, it can be found in the market. The merchants take great pride in their displays.

What it looks like to be strung up like a chicken. All the meat-market booths were fascinating. No styrofoam packaging, no artificial coloring. Just fresh meat.

After a bus tour of this remarkably beautiful city, we were taken to an indoor city market. There were many flower booths with beautiful displays, and our local guide told us flowers were never provided for funerals or deeply sad events. They were for celebration and love. Consolation was delivered in person, not by a florist or delivery service. It was being there that mattered to sufferers and mourners.

The table was set like one in the finest Parisian restaurants. We had the room to ourselves, along with a musician playing Moroccan melodies on a stringed instrument. The wine flowed freely.

The next pictures take us to lunch, which was held in a lovely old building right in the heart of the old city with its narrow cobbled, winding, hilly streets, many of them lined with tourist shops. Street sellers glommed onto us straightaway, some of them young boys, trying to sell us tacky souvenirs. Pat, of course, bought a small metal camel of some sort because a young boy was desperately trying to sell it to her.

 

A few of the appetizers. At least fifteen of them, and I never knew what any of them were. Something scrumptious in every case, and I'm a burger/onion rings kinda gal.

Here are images of a portion of our meal, which lasted for nearly two hours. Did I mention that the wine flowed freely? It’s a wonder any of us made it back to the bus and the ferry. The poor musician played the entire time, without wine, so I made sure to drop by with a good-sized tip as we staggered to the stairs.

The natural, inevitable main dish for a celebr atory meal in Morocco: Couscous. I don't know what all was in there, but it was really good. Maybe because more wine showed up on the table.

 

I will bypass the tour and sales pitch at a Moroccan carpet store. It did offer comfortable seats and lovely mint tea, but after travels in China, India, and Turkey, I’ve been a captive at waaayyy too many carpet stores. The guide had assured us that wouldn’t happen on this trip, but he was over-ruled by management.

The local guide, wearing the traditional hooded djellaba of Moroccan men, bids farewell to Lonzo the Leopard. The guide said he only wore the djellaba when conducting tours.

I doubt they sold many, if any carpets, but Pat was having trouble resisting because they were truly beautiful. She finally remembered that every square foot of her house is covered by carpets and rugs, and often, rugs on top of the carpets. Somewhere along the way she did buy a lovely little silver teapot for her niece, but lacking room in her LARGE suitcases, she persuaded me to stash it in my luggage. If she hadn’t given me the carry-on I was using, she might never have seen that silver teapot again. She is such a soft touch and so goodhearted and so easily exploited. You cannot help loving Pat Potter.

The Arabic name for this contested bit of land is Jabal Tariq. Spain wants it back.

On the bus trip back to our beachfront hotel in Torremolinos, our tour leader took us to a spot where we got a good, if not close-up, view of the Rock of Gibraltar. It’s Crown property of the UK, transferred over in the early 18th Century for reasons I cannot recall.

 

 

 

 

I’m Baaaack! (Lynn Kerstan)

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At the Alhambra in Spain, Lonzo the Leopard learns he is not the Alpha Cat. More like a Snack.

As I write this, I worry that I’m speaking too soon. But maybe, just maybe, my tech problems are in remission. The last few weeks have been a nightmare, and I profoundly hope I won’t be letting down my fellow Storybroads ever again by not being able to post.

First, some news. Monsieur le Comte de Sevigny and I were misinformed about the days for Gwen’s Ghost to be downloaded for free from Amazon. That ended on Thursday evening. If new information is correct, it can be had for a pitiful 99 cents today (Friday) and tomorrow (16 June).  Alicia Rasley and I gave away more than 11,000 copies during the promotion, hoping to introduce ourselves to new readers who might like our books. We are currently ranked as #4 on the Historical Romance list. This is good. And truly, I have to be reasonably successful as a professional writer if I’m to provide Lymond with good food, health care, and fame.

Malaga, an important port city on the Mediterranean.

For now, let’s go back to Spain. About midway through the trip, Pat and I settled into a comfortable ocean-view hotel a few steps from the beach on the Costa del Sol. Torremolinos, to be exact. Pat, who passionately loves the ocean, was in heaven. Instead of joining the rest of us for a tour of Malaga (a lovely city farther down the coast), followed by lunch hosted by local families in a small Spanish village, she decided to bask on the beach. Not always fully clad. Or even partially clad. If she hasn’t yet blogged about this sybaritic afternoon, make sure that she does!

Like all Spanish cities, Malaga preserves and cherishes its cathedral.

Not as evocative and traditional as the main tourist destinations in Spain, the older parts of Malaga are nonetheless quite beautiful. We saw a recently excavated Roman theater uncovered after many centuries of burial, and Pimpi’s, a charming watering hole that still ages wines and remains popular with the more aristocratic locals. Straight out of the 1920′s, the decor was utterly charming. The Spanish love history and beauty and preserve it whenever they can.

Lonzo examines the bullring in Malaga, glad to be a peaceful leopard made for cuddling, not fighting.

As in most important Spanish cities and many smaller ones, a large bullring squats on prominent land. While we looked at it from a hillside, our guide explained the traditions and purposes of bullfighting in a way we could understand, if not particularly approve. Despite the violence in many American sports, the players know what they’re in for. The bulls do not have a choice. Neither did lions and tigers and leopards when they were turned loose in Rome’s Colisseum to savage gladiators and Christians and criminals. It’s humans who are deliberately cruel.

A peaceable Malaga cat basks in the late-morning sun.

Happily, Malaga cats wander free, enjoying the sunshine and flowers and the occasional tourist wandering by.

The Many Faces of Madrid (Lynn Kerstan)

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Beautiful Buildings AboundIn Madrid, there is no shortage of elegant, ornate buildings. Even many new buildings are created in the style of the Spanish Renaissance, which I recognize because my own alma mater here in San Diego is modeled in that style. The artists, apparently fueled by wine, saw no need for painting clothes on some of these characters. The building is part of the Plaza Mayor.

But there are some very strange buildings as well, and they are beautiful in their own way.

The strangeness doesn’t stop with the buildings. Statues abound, honoring kings and queens and war heroes, although the odd ones are far more interesting.

He appeared to be crafted in brown cement, meant to honor the average citizens of Madrid. Pat enlightened me by dropping a coin near his feet. He waved his thanks.

Like this guy, ensconced on a park bench near the Royal Palace. Performance art is everywhere.

Lonzo wouldn't let me strip, so I settled for taking a picture of another snoozer.

 

 

In Madrid, you can see just about anything. The city is a banquet. Auntie Mame would have loved Madrid.

After a long day of touring Madrid, I decided to do a little performance art of my own. It was a warm afternoon, and I needed a nap, but I got sidetracked by a chef who set up his business near a popular tourist stop. We weren’t there long enough to sample his wares, but it looked good.

Lonzo insists that next Friday, he will present his own commentary on Madrid. I hope he hasn't learned sarcasm from Monsieur lle Comte de Sevigny.

Yes, Lonzo the Leopard was with me, not that he had much choice. I made sure he had a good view.