 The famous Montparnasse derailment of 1895 is a good reminder that no matter how bad things are now, they can always get worse. It’s not often you get to introduce someone to America for the very first time, and in the beginning I thought it all went rather well. Our teenaged goddaughter Ana arrived from Europe after an East Coast stopover, and she seemed gobsmacked to discover the West Coast is so . . . Western. We took her to Nicasio, an old rancher’s roadhouse among the dairy farms and cattle pastures, where a live band belted out rhythm & blues. We had to explain everything from the jackalope head above the bar to what Billie Joe MacAllister threw off the Tallahatchie Bridge. Her eyes were like saucers. Doubling down on the Western theme, we went to Rich’s sister’s ranch, where Ana saw longhorn cattle, met the family horses, and rode the ranch cart around wide open spaces. There was even a brief encounter with a cowboy — Stetson, spurs, silver belt buckle, the whole megillah. You’d have thought we’d introduced her to a Martian. “A real cowboy,” she said in awe. “I didn’t think they existed.”  This curious longhorn wanted to get a good look at us, so she moseyed over to the trough and pretended to drink. Turns out there wasn't any water in the trough at all. It was about this time that I began to get just a teeny bit concerned about my tickly throat. I always assume it’s just allergies, and it usually is, but just to be on the safe side, I’d taken a Covid home test before heading to Rich’s sister’s ranch. Negative. Whew! And yet after we got home, I started to feel kind of funky. Next morning I tested again. I think you can all guess where this is heading.  Uh-oh. After two years and two months of keeping this particular wolf at bay, it finally bit me. Damn. Of course, testing positive now, after double vaxxing and double boosting, doesn’t hold the same terrors it would have two years ago, or even last summer. I counted myself lucky. Yes, I was sick, but it was no worse than many a respiratory infection from my past, with the addition of the muzzy-headedness known as Covid fog. I decided to reconfirm with an official test, available at the pop-up hut around the corner. All I had to do was make an appointment online. Easier said than done! The form took forever: symptoms, insurance, credit card, photos of Medicare card, how many of my library books were currently overdue … OK, maybe not that last one, but just about everything else they could imagine. I filled it out five times, and it kept kicking back, insisting I couldn’t pay for the rapid test I wanted because I had Medicare. “This makes no sense. Must be my Covid fog,” I told Rich. “Let me try.” Two minutes later he was back. “You have an appointment in two hours.” “How did you do it?” “I lied. I told them you didn’t have Medicare.” The man’s a genius.  I masked up, shuffled around the corner, and presented myself at the hut. I was coughing and sneezing so badly I could tell the medical technician was thinking, “Why bother, honey? I can tell from here how this is going to come out.” But we went through the ritual and reconfirmed my positive status. My husband and house guest sensibly decided it was time for a road trip. In an excess of caution they wore masks and kept the car windows open as they rolled across the Golden Gate Bridge and meandered around San Francisco, giving Ana her first glimpse of the city. Rich navigated Lombard Street, “the crookedest street in the world,” and showed off such famous landmarks as Fisherman’s Wharf, Chinatown, and Alcatraz before stopping at a taco truck for lunch.  Lombard Street is not for the faint of stomach. “What did Ana think of San Francisco?” I asked him later. “She was excited and enthusiastic about everything. Kept shouting ‘Wahoo!’” Ana may have loved her San Francisco tour, but she wasn’t keen to spend more time at our place — or as we were beginning to refer to it, the Plague House. By a stroke of enormous good fortune, she had friends in the area who, learning of her plight, offered her safe haven. She took off, and who could blame her? Meanwhile, I began taking the antiviral Paxlovid, said to reduce Covid’s severity and duration. Did it help? Who can really tell? All I know is I’m getting better. The main side effect is a strange, persistent, metallic taste in my mouth. After rigorous yet totally unscientific testing, I’ve determined that that the best way to offset the yucky taste, if only briefly, is by eating graham crackers. I pass it along for what it’s worth.  And then Rich tested positive. As deeply sorry as I was to hear it, my life perked up considerably. Rich and I no longer had to mask up around each other or sleep in separate rooms, and instead of being banished to the bedroom, I now had free run of the house and garden. My germs could do no further harm to him or anyone else. As we’d notified everyone in our orbit of my illness, nobody was coming within a mile of us. After a few miserable days, Rich felt somewhat better. His biggest complaints? A sore throat, for which he is taking copious amounts of lemon sorbet, and the metallic taste caused by the Paxlovid, for which he takes yet more lemon sorbet. It’s a tough regimen, but he’s bearing up manfully.  Rich believes ice cream cures just about everything. Here he's enjoying gelato in Parma, Italy, during our 2019 Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour. Rich also had some Covid fog, which is why I was a bit worried when he decided we ought to use this time productively and fill out our absentee ballots for the upcoming election. They’d just arrived by email, and we opened them up and did our best to make sense of them. It took us hours to study the list of candidates, find the candidate statements online, read them, read them again because we’d already lost the thread, and then go over them once more. We studied the photos, made snarky remarks, read the candidate statements a final time, and picked someone. Then we’d move on to the candidates for the next public office. At the end I said, “So, we’ve voted for Obama for president and Nixon for dog catcher. I think that went rather well.” Two days ago we started feeling strong enough to go for short, slow walks around the neighborhood, heavily masked and taking good care not to get within thirty feet of anyone. “Shouldn’t we be ringing a bell and shouting, ‘Unclean! Unclean!’ — you know, like medieval lepers?” I asked. “Not with my sore throat.”  I'm thinking of ordering this from Etsy and hanging it on the front door. Rich and I are slowly getting better, but this morning’s home tests confirmed that neither of us is out of the woods yet. Ana is off on her next adventure — an internship on an organic farm. It’s not far away, but I don’t think we’ll be seeing her or anyone else any time soon. For now, we’re puttering around the house and garden, reading, trying to find something on Netflix we haven’t seen three times, and waiting it out. So that’s the story of my week. How was yours? Well, that was fun! Want more?
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 Some classic cars bring back an era so vividly you can almost smell the pot smoke. “What a week!” a neighbor once told me. “Yesterday I pulled up at the curb by my favorite restaurant and hit the brake. Only it wasn’t the brake, it was the accelerator, and I shot forward — right through the wall of the kitchen. The owner, who’s a friend of mine, stuck his head out the opening and said, ‘I take it you want this order to go?’” Some of life’s best and worst moments happen in cars. Contrary to what we see in the movies, not many of us — fewer than eight in 10,000 — are actually born in them. (And that’s a good thing; just ask Jia-Rui Cook who gave birth in the cramped front seat of a Prius.) For the rest of us, vehicles start looming large in our personal narratives the day we come home from the hospital. Like so many of my generation, getting a driver’s license was my most meaningful coming-of-age ritual. Buying my first car made me feel like a real grownup. And as for early romantic adventures — no, I’m sorry, those records are permanently sealed. A 2019 study showed Americans averaged more than eight hours a week behind the wheel and — here’s the worrying part — 64% actually consider their car a friend. Almost half reported crying when saying goodbye to a vehicle and 15% said they’d rather break a bone in their own body than see their car suffer a breakdown. Two thirds service their car more often than they go to the dentist. Science has a name for this type of obsession: objectophilia. Here in California, it’s so common we scarcely notice it any more.  Beverly Hills socialite Sandra West (1939 - 1977) asked to be buried inside her blue Ferrari “with the seat slanted comfortably." Because that would make such a difference in the afterlife. LA-based automotive journalist Robert Ross says it all started a hundred years ago. “The automobile stood for more than freedom of movement and “Westward Ho!” exploration, of course, and still does. It was never merely a matter of arriving at Point B from Point A — one had to get there in style, whether cruising the boulevard or driving a getaway car… The motorcar has —over the course of a century — become the accessory that defines its driver.” So how did the cars of earlier eras define us? Going by last weekend’s May Madness Classic Car Show in nearby San Rafael, those vintage vehicles were glorious technicolor statements to the world that we were bold, exciting people ready to go places and look life in the eye. Nowadays, it’s easy to criticize these old gas guzzlers as the villains that helped destroy the planet. But modern cars have a lot to answer for as well. “Considering the constant fatalities, rampant pollution, and exorbitant costs of ownership,” says The Atlantic, “there is no better word to characterize the car’s dominance than insane.” Vehicle pollution is damaging the environment and accounts for the premature deaths of 53,000 Americans a year. And then there’s the economic cost. “More than 80 cents of every dollar spent on gasoline is squandered by the inherent inefficiencies of the modern internal combustion engine.” Morgan Stanley calls it the “world’s most underutilized asset,” because it sits idle 92% of the time.  Dangerous, costly, inefficient ... remind me again why Americans are in love with their cars? “This ‘love affair’ thesis is,” says historian Peter Norton, “one of the biggest public relations coups of all time. It’s always treated as folk wisdom, as an organic growth from society. One of the signs of its success is that everyone forgets it was invented as a public relations campaign.” That campaign's voice was (drum roll, please) Groucho Marks, who launched it during a 1961 TV show sponsored by DuPont, which was heavily invested in General Motors. At the time, Americans were in an uproar over the expansive new interstate highway system destroying and disrupting neighborhoods — pushing “white men’s roads thru black men’s homes,” as some put it. Groucho framed the story more romantically. The driver was the man, the car — he called her “Lizzie” — was the new girl in town, and their “burning love affair” was wedded bliss, albeit with a few challenges. “We don’t always know how to get along with her, but you certainly can’t get along without her. And if that isn’t marriage, I don’t know what is,” said the comedian, who was married and divorced three times.  A young Groucho Marx with with his 1930 Model 740 convertible coupe Groucho’s broadcast “successfully helped seed two ideas that have been entrenched ever since: that we’re bound to cars by something stronger than need, and that people who challenge that bond are just turning up their noses at their fellow Americans,” said the Washington Post. That’s why our cities are friendlier to car traffic than foot traffic. And why, with the help of the auto industry, the new crime of jaywalking was invented, redefining pedestrians, rather than cars, as the menace to society.  Hester Street, New York City, in 1914, when the streets belonged to humans Except for dense urban areas like New York City, surviving without a car is really tough. Public transit is woefully inadequate. Studies appear to suggest Americans love automotive travel, but in reality, says historian Peter Norton, we put up with it because we have no other practical choice. “If you locked me in a 7-Eleven for a week, and then after the end of the week unlocked the door and you studied my diet over the previous seven days, then concluded that I prefer highly processed, packaged foods to fresh fruits and vegetables, I would say your study is flawed.” Some 69% of Americans say they like to drive, but compared to what? Walking the 25 miles to work? Driving has lost much of its glamor and excitement. A 2019 survey showed 77% of our cars are white, black, or grey/silver. As one VW exec put it, “If you drove down an American street and looked only at the new vehicles, you might be forgiven for thinking you’re in a black-and-white movie.” Paint colors dimmed in response to the Great Depression and the 1970s fuel shortages, too. In sobering times, flashy cars go out of fashion; nobody wants to stand out.  Henry Ford famously sold cars in "any color so long as it was black." He'd feel right at home today. Rich and I are bucking the trend. Twelve years ago we bought a flaming red second-hand VW, and I’m convinced it's bright enough to be visible from outer space. In crowded parking lots it’s like a homing beacon; to date it’s saved me approximately 279,456 hours of tramping around muttering “Now where did I leave that darn thing?” Last week, the VW had a tune-up that revealed some worrying developments, and this morning Rich drove it to a specialist for a more extensive, three-day treatment. Unlike those who would rather suffer a broken bone in their own body than see their car undergoing repairs, I’m actually looking forward to the time apart. In Seville I live vehicle-free and find I prefer the slower pace. But in case Rich starts feeling any separation anxiety, I’m keeping this card handy. I’m not sure whether it refers to him or to our ailing car; but then, does it matter?  Inside it says: "But will see you in the fast lane soon." How are you and your car getting along these days? Let me know in the comments below. FYI: I have a house guest coming soon, so my schedule is uncertain and I may have to skip posting this week. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY Well, that was fun! Want more? Sign up to receive notices when I publish new stuff. LEARN HOW TO GET FREE UPDATES HERE I do my best with technology, but occasionally readers report snags when signing up for the blog or stop getting notices each week, usually due to spam filters. If that happens, send me an email and I'll fix it. enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com  In San Francisco's downtown shopping area, will these fully automated, human-free taxis soon be a common sight? Photo: Cruise. It’s official: fully driverless taxis, with no human on board as backup, are hitting the streets. Self-driving fleets have been approved in China and are under consideration in San Francisco and other US cities. So we have to ask ourselves: did the world just get better or worse? Don’t get me wrong, I love the idea of driverless cars. Who doesn’t find it tedious and annoying to navigate crowded freeways and hunt for urban parking? Much better simply to tell the car where to go and let it find its own way. As for taxis, Uber has automated much of the process already, so shifting gears to fully driverless cabs should be a no brainer, one of the count-your-blessings inventions of the modern era, like cell phones with GPS. And yet, I keep remembering the old saying, “To err is human, to really foul things up requires a computer.”  After decades of development and billions in investment, the European Heavy-Lift Rocket Ariane 5 explodes 39 seconds into its inaugural flight, thanks to a small software bug. History is littered with the charred remains of small computer errors with big consequences. Take the $8 billion Ariane 5 rocket project. A tiny piece of software that tried to slip a 64-bit number into a 16-bit space caused the unmanned rocket to explode thirty-nine seconds into its initial launch. Oops! Then there was Knight Capital Group, whose new, high-priced trading software ran amok in a thirty-minute buying spree that cost the company $440 million, leading to its demise. But hey, stuff happens. Just ask Chris Reynolds, whose PayPal account was accidentally credited $92,233,720,368,547,800 (that’s $92 quadrillion, in case you’re wondering). Sadly, he didn’t get to keep the money, although PayPal made a nice donation in his name to the charity of his choice, as their way of saying “Thank you for not making this worse by throwing a social media hissy fit.” Tech glitches are a fact of contemporary life. Which raises the question: could I trust a computer to make sure I get home safely after a night on the town (that would be my night on the town, not the computer’s)? History says, “Yes, probably, at least most of the time.” So maybe the real question is whether I feel lucky when it comes to technology. Right now I‘d have to say not so much, given my latest run-in with the world’s most powerful online retailer, which bungled a simple canned tunafish delivery. I’ll get to the tuna story in a moment, but in order to fully appreciate it, you'll want the bigger picture of my latest series of shopping debacles.  Looking for a replacement frying pan at Target, I found mostly empty shelves. As my regular readers know, I spend half the year in Seville, where I do all my purchasing in person, on foot, as if it were the nineteenth century. Having returned to my native California for the summer, I am doing my best to keep e-commerce to a minimum. I’m old fashioned enough to want to feel a sweater before I buy it. The packaging waste makes me cringe. And returning unwanted merchandise is the worst, knowing 25% of all newly returned goods wind up in landfills because it’s too expensive to repackage and resell them. Nearly six billion pounds of returned merchandise go into America’s trash heaps every year; I don’t want to add one more sweater or can of tuna to the pile. So why don’t I just buy what I need at actual stores in California? If only. My attempts at in-person retail shopping have proven dismal and demoralizing. Look what happened when my old Melita pour-over coffee maker broke, as they tend to do every ten years or so. Could I find another? Nope! I drove to four stores and finally gave up and settled for a Chemex knock-off, a sort of glass beaker with a metal mesh filter. It was a horrible choice. The beaker was so fat it required an awkward two-handed lift. Cleaning the metal mesh wasted amounts of water that were shocking in a state suffering through the worst drought in 1200 years, so I had to add ill-fitting paper filters. I began to loathe the wretched thing and found myself snarling at it every morning. That’s when I realized I either had to replace it or give up drinking coffee altogether. Two weeks ago, I ordered a Melita online. Shortly after it arrived, I drove the despised off-brand coffee maker to Goodwill, trying not to think of how much of our planet’s precious resources had just been squandered.  In 2018, Burberry admitted destroying £90 million worth of clothing and accessories to avoid discounting that would dilute the brand. Most were burned; Burberry said the energy was captured, making it "environmentally friendly." Burberry has since revised their environmental policies. The Melita purchase left me feeling a bit more kindly towards online retail, so I placed an order for a number of small, difficult-to-find household items plus an eight-pack of tuna to restock our Apocalypse Chow emergency food locker. (Californians are urged to keep two weeks’ supply of food on hand to prepare for the next earthquake, fire, flood, or tsunami.) The online seller offered to deliver the stuff — for free! — by ten o’clock that night. But as a climate-conscious consumer, I opted for consolidated delivery the following Monday with fewer boxes. Monday came and the stuff didn’t. On Tuesday I was notified it had been returned as “undeliverable.” Really? Why? Had my address changed when I wasn’t looking? I re-ordered, and everything showed up but the tuna. “Supposedly it’s coming soon,” I told Rich at breakfast. “But now the website says that tuna eight-pack takes two months to deliver. I’ll just keep my fingers crossed the apocalypse doesn’t hit while we’re waiting.”  Rich spent the summer of 2020 building our Apocalypse Chow emergency food locker, which is kept stuffed with non-perishable food and emergency supplies. Online or in-person, it seems shoppers just can’t win. Last week at a pharmacy I watched a guy get into a fight with a self-checkout machine. He was frowning at the screen, muttering curses, furiously tapping keys, listening to automated beeps, stomping his feet, and tapping harder (because that always works). Finally he grabbed his purchases and stomped out without paying the $13.26 he owed. That’ll teach the darn machine! Despite optimistic articles about new stores opening, it’s pretty clear who’s winning the battle between online shopping and brick-and-mortar retail. A giant mall near me is being converted to housing. Sears and JC Penny filed for bankruptcy. Macy’s closed 131 stores. Bed Bath and Beyond shuttered 237 locations. CVS terminated 900. And have you been to a department store lately? Empty shelves, shabby dressing rooms, broken escalators, dispirited staff … it’s like a nature documentary where the hippo gets mired in quicksand while buzzards circle overhead and jackals lick their lips. Everyone knows this won’t end well for the hippo.  A shopper at Macy's in Corte Madera walks up a broken escalator. In my more optimistic moments, I don’t see this as a battle of human vs. machine but rather our species’ cleverness at sticking robots with the dangerous and boring jobs we don’t want to do, like toll collecting, bomb disposal, coping with rush hour traffic, and tracking down stray cans of tuna. However we feel about automation, machines are clearly going to be taking over more and more of our lives, and we have to make the best of it. “If you can’t change it,” Maya Angelou said, “change your attitude.” So I’m determined to make friends with with the microprocessors in my life, including the new human-free taxis. And if there’s a glitch and I wind up someplace unexpected, I’ll follow this wise advice I found online: “When something goes wrong in your life, just yell ‘Plot Twist’ and move on.” Well, that was fun! Want more? Sign up to receive notices when I publish more free stuff on the blog. LEARN MORE HERE Recently a reader reported trying to sign up but "it didn't take." In the unlikely event that ever happens to you, please let me know at enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com and I'll put you on the list.  YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY 
Toby is a Puerto Vallarta bar hound who loves stories that begin, "A dog walks into a bar..."
A dog and a man walk into a bar. Bartender says, “You can’t bring animals in here.” The man says, “But he’s no ordinary dog. He talks.” The man turns to his dog and says, “What’s on top of a house?” The dog says, “Roof!” The man says, “What’s on the outside of a tree?” The dog says, “Bark!” The man says, “Who’s the greatest baseball player of all time?” “Ruth!” The bartender throws them out. As soon as they’re on the street, the dog says, “Do you think I should have said DiMaggio?” People have been telling “A dog walks into a bar” stories since the dawn of time. Historical records from the University of Oxford include this 5000-year-old Sumerian joke: “A dog walked into a tavern and said, “I can’t see a thing. I’ll open this one.” Apparently that was a real thigh-slapper back in BC, but modern scholars continue to scratch their heads, and social media is full of half-baked explanations like, “It’s obvious the dog had his eyes closed,” or “There’s a pun in there somewhere, if only we spoke ancient Sumerian,” or “Must be a bawdy joke because they were wearing togas.” Huh? 
The Sumerians, who dominated ancient Mesopotamia, are believed to have been the first to domesticate dogs and invent the collar and leash.
My point is: dogs have been hanging out in bars with humans ever since alcohol was invented 9000 years ago. Twentieth century laws banned Bowser from the boozer on the basis of health and safety, but experts now say that's unnecessary. Healthy, vaccinated, well-behaved dogs, says veterinarian Eva Evens, “pose an extremely low risk to human health.” Today, thanks to California’s 2014 “canine dining law,” dogs are allowed in outdoor eating areas and some indoor settings, depending on the proprietor’s preferences and your pet’s ability to stay out of trouble. This is great news, because painting the town red can be a lot more fun when you bring along your best friend. And that goes double when you’re headed to a roadhouse. On Sunday, as part of my selfless research on behalf of my readers, I went to 7 Mile House, an 1858 roadhouse that has won the Best Dog-Friendly Restaurant award for the past five years in a row. There Rich and I met up with — oh wait, let me set this up properly. My brother, his wife, and their dog walk into a bar … and we all had lunch on the terrace, surrounded by other dogs and their human companions. I was having so much fun meeting dogs that it was hard to settle down and concentrate on the food. When I did, it was clear why this place was famous for such Filipino specialties as adobo (marinated pork) and lumpia (crisp-fried spring roll). My brother Mike briefly considered the Cow Palace burger, an entire pound of Angus beef plus bacon and a staggering list of other trimmings, but he was put off by the menu’s warning, “Dare to eat this only if you’re so hungry you could eat a cow!” He wisely opted for the half-pounder instead. No one was surprised that Deb and Mike’s French poodle, Django, barely nibbled at the beef patty from the dog menu; advanced years and missing teeth make him a notoriously delicate eater. So you can imagine our amazement when Django sniffed the doggie lumpia then leapt on it like a wolf, gobbling three rolls and making sure his humans took the rest home for later. The conversation turned to what makes a proper roadhouse. We agreed these roadside eateries are distinguished by stellar food — far better than you’d find at a typical diner or bar — and a dog-friendly attitude. I would also add a hint of danger from a slightly disreputable past (or present). The 7 Mile House began innocently enough as a toll house where drivers paid a toll and watered the horses. With the addition of a barroom and bedrooms, word went around it had become a brothel. An illegal poolroom in the 1890s launched its career as a gambling den, and I think we can all guess what kind of hijinks went on during Prohibition. In the 1970s the owner was arrested by the FBI for being the top bagman under Ron “The Cigar” Sacco, the most successful bookmaker in history. It goes on and on. I couldn’t make this stuff up. 
7 Mile House in the 1940s
The 7 Mile House was a biker gang hangout when Vanessa Garcia took over in 2004, and with the help of her family she’s now made the place downright upright. But in the early days the cops were called out to restore order so often that she got to know them well. How well? She's marrying one of them later this year. Not all taverns can boast that much colorful history, but Pengrove’s Twin Oaks Roadhouse scores points for longevity (it's nearing the century mark) and maintaining the Western rancher atmosphere. When I walk in, I’m always vaguely surprised not to find saloon doors swinging at the entry and a juke box playing the theme from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Here the standing joke is: A three-legged dog walks into a saloon. He says to the bartender, “I’m lookin’ fer the man who shot my paw.” Twin Oaks is a great place for lunch; the food is excellent, the service cheerful, and the atmosphere so sleepy it’s practically a siesta. Happy Hour starts at 2 pm (!), so about the time I'm heading out the serious barflies are trickling in. I’ve heard the place can get rowdy at night; last summer there was a fracas in the parking lot ending in a broken nose and lots of conflicting testimony. But so far I’ve missed all the action. Rich and I visited another fabulous roadside eatery this week but regretfully decided Rudy’s Can’t Fail Café is not technically a roadhouse. Good food? Check. Dog-friendly? Check. Seedy barroom atmosphere? Decidedly lacking. Still, this quirky, engaging spot is well worth a visit. These days lots of taverns and roadhouses feature Yappy Hour with "puptails" such as Barkaritas, CharDOGnay, and Bow Wow Bubbly. Some provide off-leash runs overseen by a “wooferee.” Temptations include desserts like the Poochini, a peanut butter sundae with dog biscuits. Yes, it’s all silly indulgence, but why not, once in a while? Dogs never turn down a chance to party. Their joy is contagious and if we’re lucky we’ll catch it again and again. Animal behaviorist Patricia B. McConnell says, “That is what dogs and their emotions give us — a connection. A connection to life on earth, to all that binds and cradles us, lest we begin to feel too alone. Dogs are our bridge — our connection to who we really are, and most tellingly, who we want to be.” She adds, “I invite all of you to show our own species the same patience and compassion that we show dogs. After all, dogs seem to like us a lot, and I have the utmost respect for their opinion.” 
Well, that was fun! Want more?
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Thinking of heading to Spain this year?
Here's my new book full of insider tips to help you plan your stay.  Japan’s Seiryu Miharashi station can only be accessed by rail; you cannot leave the platform and there are no roads or footpaths leading to it. Just when I though travel couldn’t get any weirder, I learned the Japanese built a train platform in the middle of nowhere with no entrance or exit, no amenities, and no grand vistas. Obviously, you’ll be asking “Why?” And, “No really, why?” And finally, “Is this a joke or some kind of esoteric performance art?” Burrowing into the online research like a badger, I unearthed clues suggesting you’re supposed to get off the train and simply stand on the bare platform for an hour or so until the next train comes along. (Obviously you want to be very, very sure of the schedule so you don't miss the last run of the day.) Apparently people are traveling hundreds of miles just to experience this unique way of creating a little pause in the headlong rush of their lives.  There are 7.753 billion people on the planet, most of them in a hurry to get somewhere else. I must say I prefer a few more creature comforts in the way stations on the journey through life. Give me shelter, food, a glass of cheer, good music, and congenial company. Not to mention a bathroom. Unique as it is, Japan’s Seiryu Miharashi train station is not making my short list of potential travel destinations — or my long list, for that matter. My tastes run more to hospitable old roadhouses that have been comforting weary travelers for generations. I visited one such establishment last Friday: Giaco’s Valley Roadhouse in San Geronimo, California. I approached the visit with some trepidation. I’d known the roadhouse in its previous 40-year incarnation as Two Bird Café, which started its career as a motor inn and morphed into a popular roadside restaurant with three rooms for overnight guests. It has now passed into the hands of the Giacomini family and chef Alejandro Cano, and I was a bit worried they might have yielded to the temptation to stage a trendy makeover. As you can imagine, I was enormously relieved to see the same sturdy wooden furniture standing its ground. “We kept it pretty much the same,” Andrew Giacomini reassured me. “We changed the name — Giaco is my nickname, so we’re calling it Giaco’s Valley Roadhouse — and updated a bit, but kept the atmosphere.” Whew! With that worry out of the way, I could get to grips with an even more critical question. “What is the secret of this Chicken Marsala? It’s extraordinary.” “I keep asking Alejandro, but he won’t tell me,” he said, laughing. “It’s his closely guarded secret.”  Andrea, Susi and Andrew Giacomini are making Giaco's a family business. In his youth Andrew worked in Italian eateries. His wife Susi is indulging his mid-life dream of owning a restaurant. Over dinner at Giaco’s, I told Rich, "I just read, on another roadhouse's website, the quote, 'We believe behind every favorite song there is an untold story.' You think that's true?” He nodded, too busy ravaging the Chicken Marsala to speak. Of course, I’ve known for ages his favorite song is Ben E. King’s 1961 classic “Stand by Me.” King incorporated words from an old gospel hymn drawn from Psalm 46: "will not we fear, though the Earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea." He tried to sell the song to the Drifters, but they turned him down (a move they no doubt came to regret) so he recorded it himself. The rest is megahit history. By now it’s been recorded by everyone from Otis Redding to John Lennon to Tracy Chapman to the 2015 lineup of the Drifters (better late than never).  In 2015, King's original version of "Stand by Me" was inducted into the National Recording Registry of music deemed "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant" by the Library of Congress. “So why is it your favorite?” I asked Rich. But just then more wine arrived, and somehow the moment passed. We didn’t get around to discussing “Stand by Me” until two days later, during Sunday lunch in our garden. “I’d always liked the song,” he said. “Then when I saw the movie, back in 1986, it became my all-time favorite. These boys go out on an adventure, and it took me right back to my childhood."  When you're a kid, every excursion is an epic journey. Photo: from the 1986 movie "Stand by Me" "When I was nine or ten," Rich said, "I started being allowed out on my own, without being under anyone’s watchful eye. My friend Bruce and I heard about this swamp in another part of town. It was supposed to have snakes and be dark and mysterious. So we decided we’d ride our bikes over there and have an adventure. "We left our bikes at the edge of the swamp and walked in. It was very muddy, and we found a stream running under an old iron train trestle with graffiti all over it. We climbed on the train trestle and started inching our way out over the stream. It seemed so dangerous, but looking back, if we’d fallen, it was probably only fifteen feet. We kept looking for snakes; never found any. But it didn’t make any difference. It was my first big adventure. I felt like a free spirit. It was perfect.”  Rich, the summer he went to the swamp "Bruce and I made a pact to keep the place our secret. And I haven't really ever talked about it ... until now." He smiled at the memory and added, “It gave me a taste for adventure, for being spontaneous, and is probably the reason I travel the way I do today.” Rich is never happier than when he’s setting off into the unknown, with minimal (if any) luggage and no fixed route or timeline, prepared to make frequent detours and follow whims to their illogical but fascinating conclusions. So far, he’s never invited me to shimmy along a train trestle, but we’ve done plenty of other chancy things; some of our exploits in Albania and the Peruvian Amazon come to mind. Not knowing what’s next adds to the fun; we’ve learned that too much advance planning can dull the edge of excitement and turn the whole enterprise into a mind-numbing exercise in dotting i’s and crossing t’s. “A journey is like marriage,” John Steinbeck once said. “The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it.”  On our honeymoon in Costa Rica in 1986, we were stranded in a broken motorboat on a remote, crocodile-infested river at sundown. Good times... Maybe that’s why I’m not so keen on the Seiryu Miharashi train station. When it comes to control, that bare platform clearly has the upper hand. I sometimes imagine travelers stepping off a train there, feeling interested and hopeful for about five minutes, walking from one end of the platform to the other and taking the usual selfies from this angle and that. And then, inevitably, they must realize they’ve plumbed the possibilities, and the next train won’t be along for 55 eternal minutes. Perhaps author PG Wodehouse describes that feeling best: “I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled.” Or, as he writes of another character, “He had the look of one who had drunk from the cup of life and found a dead beetle at the bottom.” In my view, travel should not evoke dead beetles but rather the intoxicating sense of freedom we felt for the first time as kids — and, if we’re lucky, have kept on cultivating ever since. “We travel, in essence, to become young fools again,” says essayist Pico Iyer. “To slow time down and get taken in, and to fall in love once more.” Travel reminds us of the thrill of mystery and the half-forgotten truth that every destination is standing by, ready to offer itself as our partner in whatever adventure lies ahead. Do you have favorite song? Did you have adventures as kid? I'd love to hear about them in the comments below. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY Well, that was fun! Want more? Sign up to receive notices when I publish more free stuff on the blog. LEARN MORE HERE One reader reported trying to sign up but "it didn't take." In the unlikely event that ever happens to you, please let me know at enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com and I'll put you on the list.  “I’d kiss a frog," said Cameron Diaz, "even if there was no promise of a Prince Charming popping out of it. I love frogs." “Have you seen the ads for Toad Jam?” Rich asked excitedly. “It looks great!” For one hideous moment I thought he was talking about some sort of marmalade made with mashed-up amphibious creatures, and I felt I had to draw the line. Oh sure, I’d eaten frogs legs a few times, and once fried flies in Thailand, but this seemed more worrying. More ... slimy. “Look,” he added. “There’s the poster.”  Oh thank God, I thought. It’s a jamboree. “Do you think there will be actual toads playing music?” I asked hopefully. “Or singing?”  “No, but apparently the amphibians get to keep the money being raised.” "Fair enough," I said. "They are going to need it." Countless toads, frogs, and newts are singing the blues these days, as the coastal marshes they once called home are disappearing under the rising sea. This is bad news for California’s human habitats, too. Wetlands protect us against storm surges; without them draining the overflow, hurricanes and rainstorms can — as New Orleans learned to its cost — become catastrophic floods. Marshes also absorb carbon, and heaven knows we don’t need any more of that roaming free to pollute the atmosphere. Local high school senior Aidan O’Reilly decided to do something to help protect the wetlands, our amphibian-American neighbors, and incidentally all of us.  Aidan O'Reilly, a senior at Archie Williams High School in San Anselmo, organized Toad Jam in the neighboring town of Fairfax. In an exclusive interview, Aidan told me the concert was the result of an assignment by his environmental science teacher. “He basically tasked all of us in the class to go out and find an environmental issue that we could plausibly solve or help. And I thought to myself, I really like music and I really like frogs so I should do something with that.” He took the idea to a town hall meeting, got other high school musicians involved, and last Saturday, Toad Jam had its day. I liked the backstory, but to be honest, wasn’t expecting to enjoy the event itself. I find I’m not always in tune with the musical tastes of high school bands these days. But as it turned out, the music was heavenly: rich in harmony, spiced with sass, and at one point featuring Aiden on stage with a band that included his 70-year-old dad. The rapt crowd included high school students, gray-haired oldsters in tie-dyed shirts, families, little kids racing around, and dogs somehow snoozing through the uproar. It was my kind of party. Best of all, listening to that music under those redwoods gave me a powerful upsurge in something that’s been in short supply lately: hope. In my frustration at the way world leaders are squandering the dwindling opportunities to keep our planet habitable, I sometimes forget just how many people and communities are dedicated to the idea that since humans are changing the planet, it might as well be for the better. Environmental protection projects — some brilliant, some risky, some on the far side of fringe — are springing up worldwide. My home town of Menlo Park was the first city in America to commit itself to becoming carbon neutral by 2030. (Way to go, Menlo!) The Dutch city of Rotterdam has constructed the world’s largest floating office building, with 48,500 square feet of workspace riding on pontoons that will rise with sea levels. In other news, whale feces are being eyed as a resource for boosting the population of CO2-eating phytoplankton. Whatever it takes! And then, of course, there’s Katy Ayers and her canoe made of mushrooms.  Katy Ayers says it took 90 days to grow the mushrooms on the boat's framework. After drying in the sun, the boat weighs 100 pounds. "Since I’m from Nebraska," she says, "I love to fish. I’ve always wanted a boat. Why not just grow it?” “Mushrooms are here to help us — they’re a gift,” says the Nebraska college student. “They’re our biggest ally for helping the environment.” If you think mushrooms’ greatest contribution to human happiness occurs on top of pizza, think again. Fungi are now biofuels, building materials, furniture, textiles, and more. Ford is using them to make compostable car parts. Ikea has devised mushroom-based packaging that will decompose in weeks, replacing polystyrene that lingers in landfills for centuries. But don’t worry, despite their newfound popularity, good old-fashioned edible mushrooms are still plentiful and still one of America’s favorite pizza toppings, second only to pepperoni. Which brings us to the subject of meat. As you may have heard, eating less red meat is better for you, for the planet, and of course, for all those animals who are at home right now praying for an upswing in vegetarianism.  I was a vegetarian for years but gave it up as impractical when I moved to ham-loving Seville. Although it’s easier when I’m here in California, a 100% plant-based diet is no longer for me. When I’m researching a diner, dive bar, or road house, I don’t really feel I’m getting the full experience if I restrict myself to French fries or a cardboard veggie burger that’s been languishing in the depths of their freezer since the 1980s. But I am reducing my meat intake — and that of my carnivore husband. Rich, who has patiently adapted to my various food crazes, is willing to be seduced into meatless Mondays if the food is yummy enough. Here are three of his very favorites, to tempt you and yours. Afghan Vegetables with Apples and Honey Mediterranean Vegetables with Dried Apricots Avocado Pesto with Broccoli and Pasta  This dish started out as Afghan Chicken. I make a vegetarian version now, although if Rich is feeling carnivorous, I throw in a couple of chicken thighs. Hey, we're not purists! I realize that my eating more broccoli isn’t going to pull the environment back from the brink of bio-disaster. But I think it’s time for an all-hands-on-deck approach, with all of us doing what we can individually and locally, as well as agitating for large-scale solutions. We often talk about winning the battle against climate change, as if it were this generation's D-Day. But according to scientists such as UC Berkeley climate professor Kristina Hill, a quick, decisive victory is not on the horizon. “Sea level rise, for example,” she told NPR, “is now projected to happen even if we stopped every molecule of CO2 from leaving human activities and livestock today.” Most likely the West Coast will see the Pacific rise four to six feet by the end of this century. According to Hill, when it comes to war metaphors, we’re not at D-Day, we’re at Dunkirk. Our beleaguered planet is going to need a flotilla of volunteers to adapt, rescue those in danger, and buy us time to come up with long-term strategies that can turn the tide. I do believe that in the end we will prevail. Humans are very, very clever creatures. We harnessed fire, domesticated plants and animals, walked on the moon, and invented the chocolate martini. We’ll get this done eventually, too. Toad Jam wasn’t a major leap forward in saving the planet. But it was tremendous fun and left me feeling a tad more cheerful about the environment. These teens know they’re in danger, and — like the young people who fought at Dunkirk and helped with the rescue mission — they are prepared to do something about it. Thanks to Toad Jam, our endangered wetlands are a tiny bit safer today, and so are the toads, frogs, and newts who live there. And that’s one reason I have hope for the future.  "As a toad, water is my life!" Photo by Savannah Mikell, who noticed this amphibian visitor kept coming around. She brought out an old doll house and posed him for a few photos, which went viral. Toby now has his own Instagram page with 80,000 followers.  I love the way this painting — which I spotted at the Alameda flea market Sunday — captures the loony spirit of our times. “Am I hallucinating,” Rich asked, “or is that man vacuuming his lawn?” I looked over and, yes, there was a guy standing on the live grass using a shop vacuum, the kind Rich keeps by his workbench to clean up wood shavings and such. Later, an online search revealed you can now buy dozens of machines specifically designed to suck up unwanted debris from your grass. “Lawn vacuums are a thing now.” I sighed, shaking my head. “I am so out of touch.” I say this a lot whenever I return to America after a long absence. During the last six months in Spain, it was easy enough to keep up with the big stuff online, but it’s the little changes — the ones everybody else takes for granted — that I keep tripping over. Like robots lined up on the sidewalk in Silicon Valley, ready to deliver groceries.  Two Skype co-founders from Tallinn, Estonia launched Starship Technologies in 2015; today delivery robots are a common sight on Silicon Valley streets. These little guys are amazing. Each can hold 20 pounds (about three bags full) inside its boxy cargo area. After you order with your app, the robot is filled at the store then trundles along the sidewalk, crossing streets and mounting curbs to find you. So far the robots aren’t able to climb stairs, use elevators, or flag down a passing driverless car, but clearly it’s only a matter of time. According to the inventors at Starship Technology, these robots “have been embraced by the local community.” And who wouldn’t be delighted to have R2D2 bringing you a quart of milk when you run low? Speaking of beverages, I was much struck by an ad in our local paper with the headline, “Relax and Un-Wine.” It seems Napa vintners and cannabis cultivators put their heads together and created “alcohol-removed, cannabis-infused wines.” You get the civilized sensation of sipping a good chardonnay or pinot noir while buzzing like a stoner at a rock concert. “What do you think?” I asked Rich. “A match made in heaven or Frankenstein’s monster? Should we try it? You know, as a service for my readers? It costs — yikes, forty-five dollars a bottle.” Rich just rolled his eyes.  Ridiculous fad or wave of the future? That's for future historians to decide. Even without cannabis-infused chardonnay, I find California rather dizzying these days. The kaleidoscopic shifts in technology are only the beginning. I’m still re-adjusting to a world where people refer to the pandemic in the past tense and socialize as if it were 2019. “I feel like I’ve been shot out of a cannon,” a friend remarked recently, and I know what she means. After two years of hunkering down, scrupulously observing safety protocols and minimizing human contact, I am now flung headlong into the hurly burly of a society ready to party. Last year, social scientists predicted recovering from Covid — medically, economically, and socially —would take until 2024, and then we’d see another period of excess like the one that followed the 1918 flu pandemic. Looks like the New Roaring Twenties have arrived ahead of schedule.  Are we in for a New Roaring Twenties? Photo: Lightning in a Bottle (which come to think of it, would be a pretty good name for a cannabis-infused wine) “It’s a chaotic world out there,” Rich said over Sunday lunch in our garden. We’d been talking gloomily about the latest mass shooting, which had taken place only that morning in our state capital, leaving six dead, twelve wounded, and three gunmen on the run. (They've now been caught.) So far this year America has witnessed 119 such shooting sprees — more than one a day. More than we can bear. “How do we live with this?” I asked. “By creating a sanctuary, here at home,” Rich replied. “If the pandemic taught me anything, it’s that we can’t choose the world we live in, but we can choose how we cope with it.” Some of the ways Rich and I cope include strictly limiting the amount of news we watch, getting plenty of exercise, and adopting European eating habits. This means five meals a day, each modest in size but allowing us to rise from the table satisfied, yet already thinking with pleased anticipation of the next culinary delights. In a chaotic world, sometimes the only thing that makes sense is comfort food. As my long-time readers will recall, in 2019 Rich and I spent five months on the road sampling Mediterranean comfort food in ten countries, and I was about three-quarters of the way through writing a book about the trip when the pandemic struck. With travel no longer possible, the book no longer felt relevant; worse, it seemed a painful reminder of what we were all missing. Many of you wrote to ask if I was ever planning to revive the project, and I’m pleased to report that I am now back at work on it. And it's been a tremendous hoot; I’d actually forgotten a lot of the zany stuff we did and weird dishes we tried. Of course, I’ll still be blogging, too. California never fails to provide gobs of material, what with all the hair-raising natural disasters, kookie cultural happenings, and great food. In the past I’ve sought out diners and dive bars, and this summer I’m thinking of exploring old-fashioned road houses. For those unfamiliar with the term, a road house is a small eatery on or near a main road in a sparsely populated area, a place to pause and regroup en route to somewhere else. Roadside diners are similar in providing meals, but a road house is a bit more like an old coaching inn, a place where back in the day you could water your horses, slake your own thirst, enjoy a meal, and overnight in an upstairs room. Nowadays fewer of them still offer lodgings, but the tradition of hospitality remains. “Road houses,” notes Wikipedia, “have a slightly disreputable image, similar to honkey tonks.” I like the sound of that. Adding to the fun, I’ve learned that many road houses cater cheerfully — almost excessively — for the traveling dog. For instance, 7 Mile House not only offers a complete canine menu (angus beef, grilled chicken, pig ears) but gives Fido a free peanut butter biscuit during Yappy Hour, and sells Doggie Cigars (don’t worry, they’re tobacco-free beef jerky) and Bowser Beer (it’s actually broth). You’re invited to bring your dog down for a Pawty to celebrate beneath the banner that reads, “It’s my birthday, bitches!” And they of course mean that literally. Celebrations finish up with Ben and Jerry’s Doggie Ice Cream.  "Oh waiter, what wine goes with pig's ears?" Rich has selflessly volunteered to help with taste-testing all road house food, but only from the human part of the menu. Although he seemed rather intrigued by the canine Ben and Jerry’s. Whenever I return to California, I brace myself for the unexpected. My first week back, I’ve stumbled upon lawn vacuums, delivery robots, and cannabis wine, and no doubt this is just the warm-up for stranger things. I keep thinking of that scene in All About Eve when up-to-no-good Bette Davis downs a martini in a single gulp and announces, “Fasten your seatbelts; it’s going to be a bumpy night.” I don’t know what form this summer’s turbulence will take; my home state is prone to earth-shaking, bone-rattling seismic shifts — geological, social, cultural, and culinary. But at least it’s not dull, and I will never run out of stuff to write about.  YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY If you aren't already subscribed, sign up to receive weekly updates & travel tips.
LEARN MORE HERE  Breakfast at the Pancake House in Maywood, NJ, Rich's hometown. Best buttermilk flapjacks ever. Just before leaving Seville, I awoke to find the sky yellow and the city coated with muddy sand blowing up from the Sahara desert. Spain was in the grip of a sirocco, the gritty wind that can last weeks and is said to make everyone irritable and drive some to madness and mayhem. In olden times, if you murdered someone during a sirocco, you’d plead for a lesser sentence due to extenuating circumstances. So far I hadn’t noticed any homicidal impulses in Rich or myself but made a mental note to be on the alert. Online, the air quality was listed as HORRIBLE in bold red caps, followed by hair-raising warnings about dangers to your nose and lungs. I made another mental note to avoid breathing, especially outdoors.  During the sirocco, when sandy wind turned the sky yellow, Sevillanos started wearing masks again as protection against the hazardous air. Not to keep you in suspense, Rich and I managed to finish packing, walk to the train station, and arrive in Madrid without killing each other or anyone else. Whew! I didn’t even feel unusually irritated, although the same cannot be said of my respiratory system; I spent the entire flight from Madrid to JFK sneezing, coughing, and blowing my nose. As you can imagine, this was delightful for our fellow passengers and the crew, and I think it’s a tremendous credit to all of them that I wasn’t fitted with a parachute and shoved out over the Atlantic. We spent the next few days with Rich’s family in New Jersey and Connecticut, mostly telling old stories. Like the one about Rich’s sister Jane, who somewhere around third grade made an ill-advised foray into forgery. Apparently she’d gotten a poor mark on an assignment, and the teacher told her to take it home and get a parent’s signature to prove they’d seen it. Instead, Jane craftily signed it herself — only she signed it “Mother.” In crayon. Her crime was instantly detected, and after the ensuing uproar, the story became enshrined in family lore.  Rich, Jane, Charlie, and Cathrine, not long after Jane tried the forgery. The taller kids' heads were accidentally chopped off by the photographer, in the manner of so many family snapshots. The nostalgia train rolled on into my first-ever visit to Rich’s hometown: Maywood, New Jersey. To my absolute astonishment, it was exactly as I’d pictured it. Built just after WWII, the modest homes were within easy walking distance of the school, the shops, and the railway station where Rich’s father caught a commuter train into New York City seven miles away. When that train line was discontinued in the 1970s, the awkwardness of the commute kept Maywood isolated and preserved as if in a time warp. Over breakfast at Maywood’s Pancake House, his brother gave Rich a fat envelope. Inside we found family photos, a lock of Rich’s baby hair, and a letter Rich sent home while serving in Vietnam, the kind you write just in case. That letter took my breath away and made me count my blessings. Speaking of near-death experiences, a few days later we were in Tucson, Arizona having a close encounter with a snake. We'd been hiking in the Sonoran desert for over an hour, and despite signs warning us to watch for rattlers, Gila monsters, and other wildlife, so far all we’d seen was a small gecko. Then a six-foot snake slid across the path right in front of us, so close Rich would have stepped on it if I hadn’t grabbed his arm. “Saved your life,” I told him. “Possibly the snake’s, too.” “Wasn’t that just a big gartersnake?” he said skeptically. Later, one of the friends we were visiting asked, “What color was it?” “Black with a yellow stripe.” “There’s a saying about the snakes around here: ‘Black and yellow is a dangerous fellow.’ It was probably quite poisonous.” Yikes! Maybe I really had saved Rich’s life. On the other hand, looking at online photos later, I noticed the one most resembling ours had a caption reading, “Gartersnake. Harmless.” So who knows?  Arizona is a nice place to visit but you wouldn't want to tangle with a snake there. As we got ready to leave Arizona, temperatures were soaring towards the 90s, scorching the landscape. Our friends had rented a condo in a gated community for retirees, hundreds of identical, low, adobe-style bungalows the color of sand: as near invisible as housing can get. My theory is the residents figure this way when their time’s up, the Angel of Death won’t be able to find them.  The award-winning Harvey Milk Terminal in San Francisco Airport I realize I’m not the first to say this, but arriving in San Francisco was like landing on a different planet. We walked off the plane into the colorful new terminal named for Harvey Milk, the first openly gay elected official in California. Back when Milk moved from New York to San Francisco in 1972, LGBTQ sex was criminalized in most of the country and under attack from anti-gay-rights activists. “If homosexuals are allowed their civil rights, then so would prostitutes or thieves or anyone else,” said Anita Bryant. A smart, funny guy with a genius for organization, Milk mobilized his Castro Street neighbors, then Americans everywhere. “If you are not personally free to be yourself in that most important of all human activities... the expression of love... then life itself loses its meaning,” he said. “All men are created equal. No matter how hard they try, they can never erase those words. That is what America is about.”  Harvey Milk at a gay pride parade in San Francisco in 1978, Ten months after being elected city supervisor, Milk was assassinated by disgruntled ex-supervisor Dan White. As the city mourned, White claimed diminished capacity due to depression involving binging on sugary junk food, famously known as the “Twinkie defense.” Milk remains a national hero. In 2009 he was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom, and today his name appears on public buildings, schools, parks, a US Navy ship, and now an airport terminal. Time called him one of the “100 most important people of the 20th century.” Would Milk have achieved as much elsewhere? "The great thing about the Bay Area is that people don't accept the status quo here," says SF Chronicle editor John Diaz.  At 100, Betty Soskin still works as a park ranger, giving talks at the Rosie the Riveter museum. Her experience as an African American shipyard worker was radically different from the portrayal of Rosie in the popular press. Betty Soskin, now a lively 100, recalls how her boss built WWII Liberty Ships on high-speed assembly lines, hiring people of all colors to work together as never before in this country. “They accelerated the rate of social change, so that to this day it still radiates out of the Bay Area into the rest of the nation. It’s where the visionaries come to find constituents for their wildest dreams.” San Franciscans are often said to live in a bubble, but I believe it’s actually an incubator for hatching the next generation of change. Our anything-goes incubator culture enabled Levi Strauss to create blue jeans, Steve Jobs to develop personal computers, and Harvey Milk to dream of freedoms that are now a reality. And there are countless others. We don’t always get it right (see my previous remarks about the Twinkie defense, which semi-worked) but we keep trying. It’s fun to be back in my home state, where Rich and I will stay until the end of summer. We’re busy prepping for fire season, restocking our earthquake emergency kits and the Apocalypse Chow food locker, and trying to keep the garden alive during the worst drought in 1200 years. I’m bracing myself for whatever comes to this catastrophe-prone state. So far, California's never had a sirocco, but with today’s changing climate, who knows? Stay tuned for updates. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY  Will Spain's Ensalada Rusa (Russian Salad) be re-named Ukrainian Freedom Potatoes? “I saw a bank that said ‘24-Hour Banking,’ but I don’t have that much time,” comedian Steven Wright once joked. Ha! To hardened veterans of the Spanish banking system like us, 24 hours sounds laughably swift. Rich and I have been trying to untangle an issue with our Seville bank for over a year, and last week was our final showdown. The trouble started in January of 2021, when Rich and I were in the US and our residency cards were on the verge of expiring. Knowing this would cause our Spanish bank to freeze our account, we transferred all our money to an international bank, leaving 10€ in our checking account, and somehow just a single centimo (one cent) in savings. Last week, thinking we ought to tidy up our affairs by closing those frozen accounts for good, we made the 45-minute trek to the only local branch of our bank. There I explained that if they’d give us ten euros, we’d sign the closing papers and be on our way. The clerk looked at me as if I’d asked him to hand over his wristwatch — or possibly his firstborn child — to settle the account. “Cash? We don’t handle cash. Transfer only.” No cash? In a bank? Apparently it all happens online now. Don’t get me started.  Carlos San Juan, head of "I'm old, NOT an idiot," collected 600,000 signatures on a petition to make banking more human and less reliant on internet technology. I am ready to make it 600,001. Photo: Spain in English Unfortunately we didn’t have our international bank’s transfer details handy, and a sort of discreet pandemonium ensued. After fifteen minutes of furious keyboard activity, the clerk announced he could transfer the money to UNICEF. Fine with us! I naively supposed the charity would also wind up receiving the savings account’s final penny, but no. The clerk explained in order to do that we would, inexplicably, have to reopen our account, a process which would involve a second visit to the bank within 48 hours. At the look of horror on my face, he took pity and offered this wise advice: “Just walk away.” And so we did, leaving our penny behind to fend for itself. I love nearly all aspects of living in Seville, but I have to admit I’m glad to be done with the Spanish banking system. Rich and I will soon be heading to the US for the rest of the spring and summer, and as always in the run-up to departure, we’re reminding ourselves of the petty annoyances we’ll be happy to leave behind. These include line-dried towels that are stiff as boards no matter how much fabric softener I lavish on them; having to huddle over space heaters on chilly nights (yes, we get them here!); and the endless dust that comes from living in an old building in an ancient city filled with new construction projects. Seville is in a flurry of preparations for the floods of visitors expected soon for the spring festivals, Holy Week and Feria. Paint cans, tarps, and tools litter the sidewalks as hopeful owners spruce up store fronts, restaurants, and hotels, restoring them to their pre-pandemic glory. The atmosphere is one of cheerful bustle, and I often hear workmen singing as they push carts filled with beer barrels and grocery deliveries through the streets.  Every spring this Seville shop uses this little wooden contraption to spin special gold thread for Holy Week tassels and embroidery. In the midst of all this normality, it’s hard to believe that just 2500 miles away, another European country is at war with Russia. Sevillanos have been holding demonstrations of solidarity, chanting “Ucrania es Europa”(Ukraine is Europe). Measures large and small are being taken to poke the Russian bear in the nose. Zara’s parent company, Inditex, closed 502 Russian stores. Spain’s Royal Opera House canceled the Bolshoi Ballet. The Mobile World Congress in Barcelona dropped the Russian pavilion. I expect any day now to hear that the Spanish are changing the name of Ensalada Rusa (the potato-based, mayonnaise-laden Russian Salad) to Ukrainian Freedom Potatoes. A few nights ago over dinner, a friend asked if I thought nuclear war was coming. No, I don’t (touch wood!). But it’s certainly less absolutely inconceivable than it was a month ago, and that’s making everyone justifiably jittery. Fortunately for my ability to sleep at night, military experts are saying it’s highly unlikely that nukes will be deployed. More selfishly, I’m reassured by the fact that Seville is 2500 miles away from the action. Rich and I don't feel any immediate need to brush up on the duck-and-cover skills we learned as kids, although I do find myself eyeing my Ikea desk and wondering how it would hold up in a bomb blast. Let’s hope we never have to put it to the test. This week I’d originally planned to write a lighthearted post about International Happiness Day, which is coming up March 20. But right now that doesn’t seem to strike the right note. I’m reminded of the words of Anne Morrow Lindbergh, a woman who knew more than most about life’s joys and sorrows. “Don't wish me happiness,” she said. “I don't expect to be happy; it's gotten beyond that, somehow. Wish me courage and strength and a sense of humor — I will need them all.” And so will every one of us in the days ahead. But if we’ve learned anything in the last two years, it’s that we can cope with challenges that five minutes ago were unthinkable.  Anne Morrow Lindbergh was an aviator, author, wife of the first man to fly nonstop from NY to Paris, and mother of the most famous kidnap/murder victim in US history. In other news, Rich and I depart for the US a week from Thursday. No, we are not fleeing Europe one step ahead of the Red Army; our tickets were purchased weeks before the invasion of Ukraine. As my regular readers know, Rich and I always spend part of the year in the US, and we arranged this trip to see family in New York and friends in Arizona, making up for visits too-long postponed due to the pandemic. We plan to spend the summer in California and return to Seville in September. We’ve renewed our Spanish residency cards and continue to cherish this city as our home. But there’s a lot of wisdom in the old Yiddish adage Mann tracht, un Gott lacht (Man plans, and God laughs). The last time I organized a short visit to the States, back in May of 2020, it was 16 months before I could return to Seville. I don’t presume to know the mind of God, but I can tell you one thing for sure: that old trickster has a few more surprises in store for all of us. And you can take that to the bank.  Whatever happens, let's try not to lose our heads. I'll be on the road for the next few weeks, so I won't be posting on this blog. Check out my Facebook page for updates on our travel adventures in NY, AZ & CA. And hey, stay safe out there, everybody! YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY  Pigeons are as smart as dogs or monkeys, which cannot be said of all politicians. Photo by Raz DAngelo / Fine Art America I love the Spanish news. No matter what else is going on in the world, they find time for articles like the one about 600,000 grumpy pensioners protesting under the slogan “I’m old, NOT an idiot.” Enraged by the endless closing of bank branches where human-to-human transactions occur, members of “the third age,” as it’s known here, are demanding the government stop financial companies from forcing them to bank online. “We don’t understand these machines,” grumbled the group’s leader, 78-years-young retired physician Carlos San Juan. Nobody does, Carlos! Look at what just happened during the chaotic vote to approve landmark labor reform and release 14€ billion in European Union funds into the Spanish economy. At the last minute one of the right-wing opposition members, voting online from home, accidentally pressed the wrong button — the “yes” button — so the legislation passed by a single vote. Horrified, he immediately tried to change his vote, but it was too late. The nation’s entire economy pivoted on a single internet-based error. Ooops!  The Spanish Congress leaps to its feet, cheering, as the mistaken vote enables them to pass landmark legislation. But my favorite recent news story is about Spain declaring animals, domestic and wild, to be sentient beings. If you’ve ever lived with a pet, you won’t be surprised to learn science has amassed “compelling evidence that at least some animals likely feel a full range of emotions, including fear, joy, happiness, shame, embarrassment, resentment, jealousy, rage, anger, love, pleasure, compassion, respect, relief, disgust, sadness, despair, and grief.” And they can be very devious. Our dog Pie, who knew begging was strictly forbidden, would sit gazing at guests, radiating such intense adoration they’d feel compelled to pass her chunks of steak under the table. Wild parakeets, impatient for their turn at the watering hole, will give the “danger, predator” cry, causing the flock to scatter so they can swoop in for a drink. These creatures may not be able to speak but they are far from dumb. Spain’s law encourages us to treat animals with the respect they deserve. We can only hope that along with their new rights, the animals recognize their responsibilities. Cats, in particular, can be pretty terrifying when they turn on humankind, as seen in the recent spate of OwlKitty videos. Octopuses are covered under Spain's law, which is good news for those who fell in love with these affectionate and intelligent creatures while watching the Oscar-winning documentary My Octopus Teacher. It’s bad news for those investing 50€ million building the world’s first commercial octopus farm in the Canary Islands, now barraged with outrage at the idea of subjecting these “Einsteins of the sea” to the cruelty of factory farming. PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) jumped in with a global campaign showing sea creatures and the slogan “I’m ME, not MEAT…Go vegan.” Good luck with that here in Spain, Europe’s most carnivorous country, where the average person consumes three pounds of squid and octopus a year. Pigeons didn’t wait around for PETA to take them off the dinner table. Once widely hunted for food, they took matters into their own claws, cleverly making themselves indispensable to humans by carrying long-distance communications for everyone from the ancient Persians and Romans to WWI and WWII armies. Perhaps the most famous was Cher Ami, who in 1918 saved the lives of 194 US soldiers of the Lost Battalion. The men were trapped behind enemy lines in France without food or ammunition, and because their location was unknown, they came under friendly fire. Desperate to alert HQ to stop bombing them, they kept sending messenger pigeons but the Germans blasted them out of the air. Cher Ami was shot down but rose again and flew 25 miles with a bullet through the breast, blinded in one eye, and one leg hanging by a tendon. His message saved the men, and after Army medics patched him up, Cher Ami toured America as a war hero.  On an earlier mission, Cher Ami was sent aloft to do aerial reconnaissance. (For younger readers, this was before they invented drones.) “Pigeons,” Rich says, “are amazingly intelligent. They can recognize themselves in a video, which very few animals can do. They can distinguish between Impressionist and Cubist paintings, organize groups of objects from the lowest to the highest number, and spot cancer tumors on mammograms.” Who is teaching them this stuff? And why? I thought robots were supposed to take over human jobs, not birds. It turns out these are just ways of measuring pigeon intelligence, which is right up there with the IQ of monkeys, dogs, and children. Since pigeons generally only live two to three years in the wild, they’re faster learners. Well-fed and carefully tended domestic pigeons can make it to age 15 or more.  The birds looked at a mammogram on a screen and pecked at one of the buttons on the side to identify the presence (blue) or absence (yellow) of cancerous cells. They were correct as often as human radiologists. Many pigeons outlive their owners — or possibly their owners’ enthusiasm. “There’s a pigeon adoption agency near us in California,” Rich said yesterday, with a gleam in his eye. “We should go check it out." It won’t be long before we head to the West Coast for the summer; is Rich hinting that there's a pet pigeon in our future? We can’t adopt anything permanently, of course, as we’ll be returning to Spain in the fall, but I suppose we could foster a bird temporarily. Although to be honest, I can’t help wondering if the kindest solution to excess pigeons isn’t simply opening the door to the cage and setting them free among the 120 million pigeons already roaming the world. “But those are feral pigeons,” explained Rich. “Not domesticated ones.” Obviously I still have much to learn. And finally, speaking of pets, I’m afraid I have some very sad news. Remember Macy, the dog who pioneered peanut butter painting? After a debilitating illness, she was put to rest yesterday. She will be mourned by her family, friends, and the art world for her great talent and her even greater heart.  Macy and her human, Cyndie Just before I got the sad news about Macy, I happened upon a card sent to us when our beloved Pie passed. On the front there’s a picture of a leash and the word “stay.” Inside it says, “If only they could.” Loving animals is one of life's abundant joys; losing them breaks our hearts. They are not, as was once thought, mere biomechanical objects to be owned, used, and discarded like an old shoe. Research confirms the emotional connection we have with them is real, not an artifact of our imagination or a projection of our own feelings. Of course, you still find naysayers like the far-right Spanish politician Ángel López Maraver, ex-president of the Spanish Hunting Federation, who insisted the new law is “insanity, nonsense, stupidity. It humanizes animals and dehumanizes man.” To Ángel, I would say, as one journalist remarked during the UK’s wrangling over the question of animal sentience, “Politicians clearly think that they know better about animal brains than the majority of scientists on the planet. This complete lack of logic leads me to believe that many of our [lawmakers] probably have less intelligence than a jellyfish.” And I hope that any jellyfish who may be reading this will know that I mean them no disrespect whatsoever by that remark. My bird research led me to the American Woodcock, aka the timberdoodle, the bogsucker, and the hokumpoke (I am not making this up). There are many theories about why these birds dance this way; I'm convinced it's so God can show off her quirky sense of humor. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY |
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As my regular readers know, I never get free or discounted goods or services for mentioning anything on this blog (or anywhere else). I only write about things that interest me and that I believe might prove useful for you all to know about. Whew! I wanted to clear that up before we went any further. Thanks for listening.  Karen McCann
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I'm an American travel writer based in Seville, Spain and currently visiting my home state of California. Wondering how to navigate travel's new normal? Sign up for my blog so you can get free updates as the situation unfolds. 
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