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.