Dispatch: Home for the Holidays

During our whirlwind tour of Spain I took pains to avoid the news, preferring instead to live in the moment and focus on Spain’s rich heritage. Although Violet occasionally read the news online or watched BBC, the see no evil, hear no evil approach enabled us to take advantage of adventure, planned excursions, tasty food and complex wine.

For instance, we were unaware that our president had broken a core campaign promise by capitulating on tax relief for the wealthy or that our new Speaker of the House and his Senate counterpart were prone to tearful crying jags in contemplation of their own circumstances, not those of the public that they served. My free Holiday advice to Barak, John and Mitch is simple: Man up gentlemen, it’s a long and tough road ahead and America needs real leadership, not schoolyard shenanigans! Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

Of course we knew about and toasted the recovery of kidnap victim Jean Marie Berlinghoff over plates of sumptuous paella, but with our minds still dwelling on the Iberian Peninsula and Christmas and New Years looming, we were ill prepared for immediate immersion into missing child cases.

The first one reached us the day after we returned, on December 15. A thirteen year old girl with medical issues did not return home from middle school the day before. It had been two days, her family was frantic and the local Sheriff was unresponsive, saying that it seemed a runaway. This has always proved a good excuse for law enforcement indifference as the sheer numbers of runaway children invites indifference. During a couple of consultations with the girl’s grandmother we decided to do the following things: blanket the already created missing child flyer throughout the community, including areas that a local runaway might frequent; focus upon the neighborhood where her best girlfriend and co-conspirator was thought to live, stakeout the neighborhood to see if anybody was removing the flyers and then follow that person home; and finally, continue to press the case through Facebook and other social media sites.

 The next day was problematic. She was still missing, the Sheriff couldn’t be bothered and the family was concerned about a worsening medical condition and possible gang involvement. This time it was decided that media needed to be notified in hopes of embarrassing the Sheriff into action. By December 17, she had been located and returned home.

Also on Thursday the plight of a two year old boy was brought to my attention via Facebook. His non-custodial father had not returned him to his mother. The father was in jail and most of the activity surrounding efforts to recover the child were being conducted via social networking. I told the family that they should re-format the photo essay into a missing flyer, contact local law enforcement to establish that a report had been made, and contact NCMEC to get a flyer posted on their website. The child was recovered by early Friday morning.

KlaasKids did not play a big part in any of these cases. However, we did consult the families, make pertinent suggestions, help with strategies, offer moral support and make ourselves otherwise available. Being involved in three successful recoveries in a row is kind of like the kidnap equivalent of a hat trick. It isn’t even important how the children were recovered because all were recovered alive and returned home in time for the holidays. Maybe there is a Santa Claus after all.

Dispatch: Look Down Before You Look Up!

Boy, I really stepped in it today. After breakfast we wanted to visit the Miro Foundation and the National Gallery of Art on Montjuic. I refused to take a taxi, preferring the Metro, and finally talked Violet into taking the Cable Car from the harbor which was only a mile away.  Once we got to within 50 yards of the Cable Car station we discovered that it could only be reached by walking 2 kilometer around the harbor. Not a problem, because my online travel guide directed us to another Montjuic Cable Car station half the distance away, but by the time we reached it we had already climbed to the top of Montjuic. Oh well!

We walked 1 more kilometer to the Miro Foundation, dedicated to the work of the great artist Joan Miro to find that it is closed on Monday. Not a problem, because the National Gallery of Art was only 1 more kilometer away. If I had read my travel guide more thoroughly I would have already known that this venue, too, is closed on Monday.

That is when I stepped in it. If there is one thing that Americans excel at it is picking up after our pooches. The rest of the world, most notably those who live on or near Montjuic, has a lot of catching up to do because dog shit seemed to be everywhere, most notably stuck to the bottom of my shoe: Finally, a reason for Violet to smile on an otherwise unproductive Monday afternoon.

By the time we had hiked back to the Gothic Quarter we were ready for refreshment so we grabbed a table in the Cathedral Plaza, ordered coffee and shared some Tapas’. Lined up on the bar like beautifully arranged appetizers we took what we desired and spent an hour people watching in the cool Catalan sun. Finally, the waiter counted up our toothpicks, presented our modest bill and we returned to the hotel to reevaluate our final day in beautiful Spain.

Dispatch: Back on the Grid!

Barcelona is the Iberian Manhattan. Its energy pops and sizzles off the page. It doesn’t sleep or even seem to slow down. With 1,600,000+ inhabitants and countless more visitors and tourists Barcelona surges and sways as the tide of humanity dictates. Like most modern cities Barcelona is on the grid. Roads run parallel and perpendicular to each other, providing order and restoring logic. Seville and Granada, like Barcelona’s Gothic Quarter, are out touch with the modern world. They have no logic or direction. They are reactive cities that do not possess the forethought of urban planning. Instead, these cities, or what we saw of them, have narrow roads that twist and turn as they wind their way from point A to point B, or is it point Q?  

Today, we walked and absorbed the energy of Barcelona before we visited the Picasso Museum, which exists off the grid in the Gothic Quarter and focuses upon the master’s youth. Picasso’s revolutionary vision becomes understandable when you realize that he had nailed the styles of the Spanish masters by the time he was 15-years old. Then he went off the grid and focused upon interpretations that veered away from reality as they explored new visions of artistic understanding. It was only years later when Picasso’s genius was acknowledged and much copied that he was allowed back onto the grid.

When I visited Barcelona in 1972, the great Catalan Architect Antonio Gaudi’s La Sagrada Familia (Holy Family) Church had already been under construction for 90 years.  Combining a unique vision of organic architecture with devout spirituality, Gaudi’s design was beyond anything previously envisioned. The roof was finally completed in 2000, yet it took another 10 years before La Sagrada Familia found its way onto the grid. That is when Pope Benedict visited and consecrated La Sagrada Familia as a minor basilica. When I look at pictures of the consecration I can see the Pontiff’s calculation, as the Church waited for more than 100 years, many millions of man hours and private funds before laying claim to this majestic masterpiece. I’ll bet that when the “minor basilica” is completed it will fast track into the hierarchy as one of Church’s outstanding modern achievements. Sometimes life just isn’t fair.

Then again on Saturday Jean Berlinghoff was found alive wandering the streets of San Francisco with her abductor Uncle Charlie. Charles Berlinghoff fell off the grid about a decade ago and ran up a rap sheet of sex crimes against children. When he came back onto the grid and insinuated himself back into family life, the Berlinghoff’s were unaware of his criminal past, so they did not have their guard up before he disappeared with his 15-year old niece. Without making any effort to disguise himself the fugitive predator and his victim were totally on the grid and the young girl was rescued safely, thereby proving that sometimes life is fair after all.

Dispatch: Granada

As charming and beautiful as Seville is, all of its glory exists in its past. The on and off tour, which I do not recommend, only reconfirms the fact that Seville is irrelevant in terms of 21^st Century culture, finance, banking, trade or political influence. We saw two failed 20^th Century exhibitions, the most recent being in 1992, and they are increasingly neglected: overgrown with weeds, poorly maintained and otherwise undistinguished.  

The high points of Seville included our charming hotel; cobbled together from at least 10-separate 16^th to 19^th century houses, painfully narrow roads, Tapas Bars, the Cathedral and the Royal Alcazar (Palace) de Seville. Originally a 12^th Century Moorish fort, the Royal Palace maintains a very strong Islamic influence, with most of the Christian influences on the upper floors which still serve as the official local residence for the Spanish Royal Family. We were blown away by the intricacy of the detail, the beauty of the architecture and the sublime design of the gardens.

An early morning train delivered us into Granada. Finally, the sun was shining in a bright blue sky and we were able to put away our umbrellas, galoshes and ponchos. Once we escaped the hustle of Columbus Avenue, Granada’s main thoroughfare, with its graffiti strewn shops and heavy traffic we discovered a lively and charming community of ancient buildings, stylish shops, and restaurants.

We wandered around, found a great people watching spot and spent a couple of hours judging and critiquing the locals. We decided that they are cosmopolitan, sophisticated and stylish. All in all, Granada is pretty fantastic. The one criticism that Violet and I agreed upon is that Granada seems to have surrendered to graffiti. It is everywhere from the Cathedral that houses the tomb of Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand to the smallest retail outlet. It reminded me of New York City before Chief Bratton and Mayor Giuliani cracked down on small time crime in the early 90’s.

This morning we visited the Alhambra, a Moorish monument that lords over the rest of Granada from high on the red hill of Sabika. A palace, citidal, and fortress, the Alhambra is Spain’s most popular tourist attraction. Personally, I was more impressed by Seville’s Royal Palace, but anyone visiting this part of Southern Spain needs to visit this important World Heritage site.

We had Tapas for lunch and are looking forward to suckling pig for dinner. Right now Violet is napping in our room while I sit in the courtyard of our hotel, the Palacio de Santa Paula. It exudes old world charm as water from the fountain subtly integrates into the serenely quite afternoon.

I’m so glad that Violet and I are able to share this trip together, without the nuisance of a tour. We are having a wonderful time and I am reminded again why I wanted to marry and spend the rest of my life with her. Now if I could just get her to rub my aching feet!

Dispatch: The Reaper Emerges From the Shadows

Last night my friend Barry called to tell me that he is dying. After repeated recent stays in the hospital to treat the lungs that could no longer sustain him after 30 years of chain smoking, he elected to contact Hospice so that he could die at home. The news devastated Violet and I.

I remember the day that we first met, on October 4, 1993, three days after Polly was kidnapped. Barry was the 38 year old up and coming, well connected publisher of Petaluma’s bi-weekly newspaper the Argus Courier.  He came quietly into our lives, inquiring into our well being as everyone else focused on Polly. He ensured that his newspaper treated us fairly and that local resources were made available to us. He secured a free apartment so that we wouldn’t be burdened by expenses, and then moved us into the spare bedroom of his home. Barry made sure that our spiritual and medical needs were met. He provided sage counsel and never asked for anything in return. He was instrumental in the planning of Polly’s memorial service and eventually we traveled together on vacations and business.

The years were tough on Barry, but he never complained. His wife left him on a hospital bed, after an unsuccessful back operation that left him forever hobbled. About 5-years ago he took refuge in solitude, avoiding contact, making excuses to break dinner dates, or simply refusing to answer his phone or return emails. When we finally did have lunch a couple of years ago he was outfitted with an oxygen tank and breathing apparatus. Embarrassment had driven him into a solitary existence. Afterwards, we spoke occasionally, exchanged Christmas Cards, but ultimately drifted apart.

How do you measure the love and gratitude you feel for another human being? By the tears you shed or the guilt you feel when the grim reaper emerges from the shadows? By the memories you guard, the experiences that you share or the regret that surely invades your consciousness? I think that it is all of these things and more. I know that I shake my head in sadness as I am reminded again that life is not fair, that shit happens, and that you have to deal with it.

Barry Blansett

I have experience with death. In one year I lost my daughter, my younger brother and my beloved grandmother. For a number of years I wanted to die, but that is no longer the case. Death haunts my existence and creeps into my thoughts daily. I wonder about my own death; how I will face my end and whether I can leave this world with dignity and grace. I have great admiration for the way that Barry is facing his own destiny. He does not want his life to be extended through artificial means. He wants to be at home, to be surrounded by those he loves and those who love him.

Barry has a great heart and has been a great and loyal friend. He understands that he is too young to be making these kinds of plans, but he also understands that he has no choice in the matter. He is a man of uncommon courage, of exceptional dignity and poised grace. I only hope that Violet and I get home in time to share these thoughts with Barry before his time runs out.

Dispatch: Seville

Prior to leaving on vacation friends and family warned us that Spain was nearly bankrupt, that unemployment was closing in on 25-percent, that larceny was inevitable, and that the best way to foil roaming bands of thieves and pickpockets was to arm ourselves, trust no one, and duct tape cash directly onto our thighs.

 So last night when a scruffy, hollow cheeked man wearing a ragged brown parka walked toward Violet and I on an ever narrowing cobblestone alley and yelled, “No me nucleotidasa bro!” as he reached into his pocket, I sent 50,000 volts of electricity through his body with the Taser gun I had bought to protect Violet and I on our vacation. You can imagine my embarrassment when he withdrew his twitching hand with a picture of his baby daughter instead of the semi-automatic pistol that I had imagined he was reaching for. Upon arriving back at the hotel, the bellman told me that the phrase that had caused me to react so violently, translated into, “Don’t tase me bro!”

This only goes to reinforce my suspicion that I really needed this vacation. Of course that bizarre fantasy didn’t really happen and was simply fueled by too many appearances on cable news programs discussing the latest instance of murder, mayhem, death and destruction.

In truth the Spanish people couldn’t be friendlier or more helpful. Taxi’s have driven directly to preferred destinations, hotel bellmen had indulged my tortured Spanish and responded to my inquiries in English, waiters and waitresses have thanked us in advance for our patronage and we have been greeted by smiles and friendliness at every turn.

The train to Seville was clean, timely and comfortable. As dawn broke at about 8:15 a.m., we preferred to watch green rolling hills with fingers of fog clinging to them, broken up by long dark tunnels blasted through granite mountains, rather than the lame Jennifer Aniston rom-com (Love Happens) showing on the video screen. My ears popped intermittently as we descended.

Seville is most famous for being a primary destination in a recent Tom Cruise movie. Fortunately, it’s picturesque, narrow streets, charming facades, and ancient architecture provides plenty of equally valid reasons to visit and enjoy. Portions of the ancient Cathedral, which houses the tomb of Christopher Columbus and boast the world’s largest altar, date back to the 12^th Century.

The sky exploded with thunder, and Violet fell when her boot heel caught between cobblestones at the Cathedral, but soldiered on drinking in atmosphere as the torrential storm cleansed our spirits. Right now we sit in the Piano Bar thinking Bogart and Bergman as the pianist entertains and the room fills. We are drinking red wine, sampling artisan cheeses and vaguely planning tomorrow’s itinerary.

Oh, and I’m also taking my dear friend Judy’s advice to heart. Starting now, we will partake of the siesta, eat late and assimilate into the laid back Spanish lifestyle.

Dispatch: Prisoner of History

Picasso - Guernica

We managed to acclimate pretty well. After a long and well deserved sleep inside our tiny, jewel box of a hotel room, Violet and I had breakfast in the hotel restaurant before trekking into the rain. Prosciutto and other cured meats to die for, fruit as sweet and vivid as either of us has ever had, coffee with hot milk, fresh orange juice and a vast assortment of Spanish pastries, it was easy to overlook the scrambled eggs and sausage. We lingered and marveled for more than an hour, reluctant to go forth into the rain.

At the turn of the 20^th Century Madrid, which sits 616-meters above sea level encompassed about 10-square miles. As a result of unfettered growth this sprawling metropolis of 3.3 million people had grown to cover more than 400-square miles by the beginning of the 21^st Century. Located in the geographic center of the Iberian Peninsula, Spain’s capitol city is the headquarters of its own ancient, defensive wall, historical Madrid has had to adapt in order to survive. With massive traffic jams and crowded, narrow streets Madrid is headquarters for government and financial institutions as well as the Spanish Royal Family.



Plaza Mayor



I know all of this because this morning, Violet and I jumped on the on-and-off double deck bus tour that has become so popular throughout the world’s tourist destinations. Braving cold, scattered showers throughout the day, we received a thumbnail tour and experienced some of Madrid’s awesome destinations. The Plaza Mayor

We stopped off at the Plaza Mayor in the center of historical Madrid. Popular with locals and tourists alike the Plaza has hosted bullfights, coronations, festivals and executions. This week the Plaza is focused upon coin collectors, Christmas ornament vendors, caricaturists and its ability to shoehorn more humanity into a 90 X 120 meter rectangle than anyplace we have previously visited.



Miro - House With Palm Tree



The Reina Sofia Museum contains a permanent collection of Spanish modern art and traces its history from the breakthrough realism of Francisco Goya through the Dada, Cubism and Surrealistic movements championed by 20^th Century masters Picasso, Dali, Miro, and Gris. The converted 18^th Century hospital has soaring galleries, and houses priceless sculptures, photographs and paintings culminating with Picasso’s stunning masterpiece Guernica. As impressive in its way as was the Prado, we lucked out and visited on free ticket day.

Dali - The Great Masturbator

We understand that Madrid never sleeps, that the best that the city has to offer isn’t even available until after midnight, but by 7:00 p.m. we are as exhausted as we are exhilarated. We ducked into another Tapas’ restaurant, shared a bottle of local Red and ambled back to our gorgeous little hotel amid the Christmas lights, teeming humanity and brisk air. By 8:30 p.m. we were both dead to the world.

Why then, am I wide awake, staring at my computer screen and typing a blog at 3:30 a.m.? I have no idea, but touch me for I am golden.