For Cindy

Anticipation: waiting for something to happen. Only I didn't know what I was waiting for. Weeks before we had slotted time for Pere Lachaise cemetery, a famous burial ground for those that want to be remembered and those we want to remember. Jim Morrison, Edith Piaf, Oscar Wilde and thousands of others call it home and we had 2.5 hours to see what there was to be seen. Rick Steeves, the travel entrepeneur that had talked us through Athens was here again, directing my steps, adding music to enrich the scene and making sure we saw what others came to see.

But Rick didn't know I'd been here before and I didn'tknow what I wanted to see until I started walking. June 11, 2001 I pushed my daughter, Rachel, down these cobblestone paths. It was a lumpy ride in a wheelchair but she never complained. The doctor said she had somewhere between 5 months and 5 years to live and a good year of that was behind us. This was our chance to deepen our connection, do something different and mostly to see EuroDisney (she'd been to Anaheim and Florida so this was a bucket list thing). Weather while we were here was crap and we wore raincoats most days including the day we visited Pere Lachaise.

She had a lively sense of dying, of wanting to know how they were remembered, of what the afterlife looked like. I'd been seeing a therapist who helped me get on her level and tried to see the future through her eyes. So together we walked this park of people who didn't want to be forgotten. We visited Jim Morrison and Voltaire but mostly we wandered the quiet paths and absorbed the tranquility of the space. Rick Steeves pointed out today that it's about the same area as Disneyland. We wandered and looked, contemplated the lives lived and lost and she was comforted by it. It was like seeing a home you'd bought but but go back to see before moving in so you could decide what furniture to bring with you.

As we strolled we happened upon a sepulchre with her name on it. Famille Rachel had been placing their lost ones there for the better part of 200 years and it was a photo op not to be denied. An arch with her name framed the young lady in her wheelchair, bent but smiling in her blue raincoat. And that's what I looked for today. It didn't come as part of the pre-programmed tour and in spite of my swivel head search had not bee seen. As we were about to leave the park I saw a security guard focussed on her cell and interupted "Parlez-vous Anglais?". "A leetle". I prattled what I wanted, she shrugged and pointed. There was an administration building not far off and as luck would have it (check out Looking for Nika) they were open. This lady spoke even less English but Deb stepped in and made it happen. We left with precise directions to the spot I had taken Rae's pic 17 years ago. It was less dramatic than I'd remembered and the sun was on the wrong side but there I was, breathing deep of the past.

And all of that was hours ago. We got home, I typed as Deb showered and then we headed out for our last night in Paris and another new adventure. This time it was jazz, Parisian jazz to be precise, and as cranial-crashing as only new sounds can be. She'd found someone online that offered to take the uninitiated to a dark corner of Paris for a musical experience that we couldn't have found on our own. I'm certain that's true because there is no way that we would have found this pay-by-donation venue with its excellent musicians and hidden location. We took the subway to a prescribed spot and waited at a cafe. And waited. I neared the end of my glass of wine when a young woman slid close on her bicycle. "Deb?" she asked and Deb nodded. It was a like a drug deal from a movie. I excused myself to answer the call and let them speak French and as the bladder relaxed asked myself "What the f... am I doing here?" When I returned the bill was paid and we were being led across the road to a wide gateway I hadn't noticed from our perch. Beyond was a wide cobblestone path going up to an abandonded building. Colourful lights lit our way and in the widening ahead plastic tables and chairs accomodated our co-conspirators. We wended through, passed through a door, then another and found ourselves in a large dry deserted space. It was the  sort of space you'd expect to find the homeless with graffiti the only decoration on the decomposing walls. But on one side was a bar with beer taps and the far end had a stage. We kept going and found a courtyard beyond so we grabbed a few seats and gotinformed about what was about to happen,

Our guide was a young woman, part jazz singer, part music therapist and she gave us the skinny on what we were about to see. "Just wait", she said. A few moments later an extremely tall black man came through a door and said something in French that got everyone moving. We managed seats in the front row and faced a group of musicians who had taken a vow of never getting beyond 30. All male, a nerdy type sat at a grand piano to my left, five sax players of various sizes aligned the front row and the rhythm section filled the rear. The stand up bass and drums created a below decks engine that pushed these front runners along at a captivating pace that got everyone in the room ectstatic. The guy on trumpet, squeezed between the saxes and piano, would have played lead guitar if he was with Led Zepplin. People danced and clapped, swayed their heads and slapped their knees. An hour and a half later and I'm saying "That's what I've got to be working on".

An amazing show but like all good things had to come to an end, kind of like this vacation. It's around midnight and we have to be up early enough to strategically pack our bags to transport our treasures home. I'll sign off for now but still have some treasured memories about this pilgrimage I need to share and honestly, lots of thoughts seeking release. Talk soon.

Ends in View

The Arabic symbols floated up through the water, rose to the carved wood ceiling 20' overhead and stared down at me. I lay on my back in the body temperature water and stared right back. We were in a restored hammam, an Arab bathhouse which was much more common when the Moors were here. But tourism here is heavily dependent on their Muslim history and the economy is heavily dependent on tourism so they've deftly mingled tourist wants with some verifiable pieces of the past. Tourists want a spa and a back rub and hey, Muslims we're big on cleanliness so we make that desire look like an authentic step into the past. I'm sure the original version was a loud meeting place for men to hammer out deals and get a good soak away from the wife. Today's is a hushed spa with dim lighting, multi-temperature pools and choose-your-scent massage. I particularly liked the cold pool with ice piled around the edge and the salt pool with an overflowing vat of salt at one end.

I've been luxuriating in the role of tourist for the last ten weeks but it comes to an end in a few days. We're currently in Jerez de la Frontera having arrived yesterday via Blablacar and today was a sojourn to Cadiz. It was a 30 degree day on the downtown beach and they take this fabulous weather so much for granted that they don't feel the need to provide services. Sure, there was a guy willing to take some money to sit in one of his chairs but no washroom, no refreshment stand. The majority brought their own chairs and bevvies and not a word of the English language was heard.

Which was nothing like Torremolinos. Like Mexico to Canadians, Costa del Sol is Spanish soil but really a British playground with pubs, breakfast fryups and eating times more in line with British rhythms. Torremolinos is littered with bars and beachfront restaurants all designed to provide respite to weather-weary Brits who are vacationing, not travelling. Which is good because there's nothing of interest there other than a beach and good weather which was the magnet for Deb and I.   We were exhausted from the trials of discovering, photographing, walking, getting lost and found. We (Deb) booked a magnificent condo overlooking the beach courtesy of Airbnb with a kitchen that enticed us to cook a meal and a washing machine to restore our travel-weary clothing. The meal was frozen canneloni that was as bad as it sounds but the empanada stain from Seville was finally removed. Unfortunately, what we came for wasn't there. Poor Deb, sometimes I feel bad about her sharing my bad luck. As luck would not have it, the two days of rain they get annually happened as we arrived. Rain so heavy it made the news in Vancouver with flash floods flowing to the sea and taking several tourists with them. Bamboo was stacked high on the shore, torn from some distant shore and thick rolling clouds blocked the sun and didn't roll away until we got in our blabla car bound for Gibraltar.

When Deb was planning this journey and I saw we were going to be in this part of the world I said "We gotta go there!". I didn't know why but I had to see the rock. I didn't know it was a British rock but as it grew in the windshield my understanding grew with it. It's British territory so part of the British way of seeing things, of the way my mother saw things. The Rock of Gibraltar was synonymous with steadfastness, someone you could rely on, someone who was always there when you needed them. My mother often used it as a positive descriptor but I hadn't heard it in decades. It had sunk to a subterranean level until I stood before it. To get to it you have to go through customs (kinda, they just waved us through) and cross an airport runway. On the other side we jumped in a cab and said "Gondola please!" and a few pounds later we stood at it's base. A little more planning would have revealed we needed more time. Our tentative driver got lost looking for his boyfriend who joined us for the drive and he felt more comfortable driving slightly under the speed limit. It's not a big place but needed more than 90 minutes we were left with. We stood in the lineup for 20 minutes before realizing we couldn't make it to the top and back before our next driver showed up for our trip to Torremolinos so our visit consisted of a drop off at the gondola and a walk back. Still, the sudden understanding of why I was there and the photograph made it worth it.

I'm at the point where, as I'm about to step back into my 'real' life, to make comparisons between here and there. But I'm hungry and we meet the next driver at 6am for our flight to Paris. Talk soon.

Lucky: part one

"Are ya feeling lucky, Kid. Well, are ya?" Dirty Harry proferred an existential question; do you feel lucky? Staring down the barrel of a very big gun may not be the best time to answer this question, it's something that you already need to know. Are you a lucky person? Some are, some know it. Some aren't and also know it. Not everyone thinks about it, assuming it's all odds and if they flip the coin enough eventually it'll come up half tails and half heads. I used to take some comfort in that.

I used to feel that shit happens, it happens to everybody but I've been paying a lot more attention lately and realized shit doesn't happen to everybody. Some people, in spite of having very little input into a positive outcome, do well. Some people believe in God and prayer so they can tip the odds in their favour, others have good social intelligence and can foresee an outcome and align their behaviours accordingly. I don't believe in god, or at least not the type that's paying attention, and rarely foresee with any accuracy the outcome of my behaviours but I had faith in science, in physics, in the odds.

I'm not blind to the good things in my life, I'm part of the 1%. I have good health, I own my own home, I love my city, my country, my family. But I'm not lucky. It was bad luck to find my son dead in his crib. Odds range from 1 in 1,000 to 10,000 depending on where you live. But there he was. The odds of having a child with cystic fibrosis is 1 in 3,000. The odds of having a second child predecease me of natural causes is incalculable. But there she went. I used to think "Holy cow! Those are some long odds but I 'beat' them" and even thought if I could beat those odds I could beat the odds against winning a lottery and bought a lot of tickets. Never even came close. It seems there's a difference between good luck and bad luck...

Those are bigger ones but there's been medium and small. The medium variety would include not getting a job I was qualified, experienced and had the seniority to get. They gave it to a woman for whom I was her union rep when she was called on the carpet for her poor attendance. She had no experience in the posted job but they didn't want me because I was an outspoken union steward. An easy grievance to win the union told me but as we went into it my union folded into another and the ball was dropped and didn't get picked up until the timeline was almost expired. My new rep assured me it's all good, we got this. Then he had a heart attack. By the time it got picked up again the timeline had expired. I've had a number of experiences like that, all ugly. The small ones are the simple things like games where the roll of the dice or cut of the card will give you a smile or a frown. I've had a lot more frowns than smiles and would never leave anything close to being important to something where I have a 50% chance of winning.

About a year ago I started to give it some serious thought. I'm coming up on the last quarter or so of my life and can look at the bigger picture and I'm glad I waited. Seeing your self as perennially unlucky would create perennial unhappiness. But now I'm looking back and weighing things out and aware of the possibility of giving more weight to the sad outcomes than the happy ones so last year I started one simple test. Electrical plugs are polarized, they only fit in a socket one way. If you check it before inserting you'll get it right every time, if you don't check you've got a 50% chance of getting it right. Same for USB cords into your computer. I decided to never check and see if I would get right the first time. I've been successful about 20% of the time. "But keep going" you could say, "and it would have to balance out". Maybe, but I'd have to get it right 80% in the next year. Maybe I never get back to even before my days are done.

But here's the important thing; I'm not unhappy. In spite of it all I'm very happy. At times I've had to force it, remind myself of all the good things in my life, think about people that have had it worse and my happiness floats like oil on an ocean of misery. Throughout it all I've remained hopeful, convinced that if I just kept going things will get better. After the first and second marriages failed I tried again and found la femme des mes reves, the best person I've ever known and while she beats me more often than not at our favourite game, have never been more in love.

I'll be home in less than a week (now in Costa del Sol but more about that later) and my son has been practising his tattooing skills. I told him to practise the word 'grateful' in Olde English script, it's going on my right arm.

Carried away in Cordoba

Happy Thanksgiving! They don't thanksgiving here so no turkey, no cranberry sauce, no pumpkin pie. We had roasted noodles served with shrimp and garlic aioli coloured black with octopus ink at a table (you pay a premium not to stand while you eat) in an alley. Still warm here so the coolness of the alley felt good - we needed to let the sweat we worked up during our private flamenco lesson dry out as we cooled down.

In 1986, one September afternoon, I was in the Unicorn pub on the Expo site in Vancouver. I had a season's pass so had tried most of the pubs there but this was one of my favourites. I forget who I was with but there I was enjoying my brew as the joint slowly filled up. A lot of the entering patrons looked similar; heavy set with thick necks with reddish white complexions. It looked like the Indian summer was taking its toll on their cheeks and they were all wearing sports jackets. Some were leaning against the bar, some were at tables engaged in conversation then one began to sing. I turned my head to see which voice had been unleashed by the beer but before I found it another voice elsewhere joined in. I swivelled my head in the opposite direction to see who had the talent to create a harmony when another voice, this one right beside me, also got in on the action. In a burst of sound the way the sky can open up and drench you in seconds all the men in jackets struck the same soaring note. I was in the middle of the Welsh Men's Choir and they lifted me on the cloud of their crystal clear chorus.

A few nights ago in Cordoba we were in a bar. Deb had heard about this place as being somewhere that spontaneous music and flamenco could erupt. The sort of place where pro's hung out with each other and if the mood or alcohol took them they just might do what they do just because. The bartender told me 'Jesusito' was in the next room. The locals believe him to be the best Flamenco guitarist in the world and if we were lucky he just may play. As we waited and drank our sherry, another new love, I googled him and found a gaggle of utube vids. He was impressive but in the bar so far, silent. So we're talking and drinking and we hear some music in the background. Deb asks, "Is someone singing?" "No", I said "that's a recording". It was a men's group singing in perfect unison with only guitar. So we chatted some more and I looked over to a newspaper whose headline proclaimed 55% of 'tourists' were actually illegal immigrants when the dark-skinned woman beside me asked in perfect English "What do you make of that?" I didn't know what to make of her. I'd assumed she was a local with limited (local) English skills. Turns out she was local, knew everyone, had lived in Florida and missed it. So we got to talking and Deb asks her "Is there someone singing upstairs?"

She lets on that yes, there was a group upstairs called La Clandestina, a well-known local group that performs a style of music that's part barbershop quartet, part men's chorus, part musical play and all Spanish folk. She says they're quite secretive in practice as they hone their art primarily for competitions and in all the time she'd been there she'd never actually been in to see them. But then she asks a woman behind the bar if there was any chance we could be taken upstairs to listen outside the room. She said she'd ask and away she went. A few minutes later she came back with a look of surprise and a shared-secret smile on her face and signalled us to follow her. She took us up a few flights of stairs and as we approached a door slightly ajar she held a finger to her lips to ensure we were silent. The few inches of light coming from the door crack showed a room stuffed with men all sweating, waving and singing. They finished the number and the guy that had been our bartender downstairs and is now their guitarist upstairs sees us through the crack, checks with his bandmates and pulls open the door.

He sees the phone in my hand and waves a "NO!" finger. No video, no recording. No problem I say. Deb and I step into the room and drag two chairs into the corner where we're largely ignored for the next hour. There were 18 men in the room, the youngest around 20 the oldest around 60 and they sang as if they were having conversations in small groups. Heads nodded in acknowledgment and fists were raised in anger all to emphasize the lyrics which were beyond me but the emotion was unmistakeable. They would stop mid song, discuss how it should be and start again. I felt like a fly on the wall at a Beatles practice session.

When done, we all retired to the bar and I got a chance to say "Wow!". They appreciated our appreciation and shared there stories. They all have day jobs, get together twice a week and it was clear the camaraderie was as big a part of the gathering as the music. We didn't get to hear Jesusito play but I got what I came for; some authentic local music and a reward for going off the beaten path.

I'm almost done sharing my experiences in Cordoba and want to start telling you about Granada (the Alhambra!) but it's late and my pillow is calling. We're off to Malaga in two days for some beach time and just saw the weather report; the first rain since leaving Vancouver. Hmm, should make for some interesting writing.

Andalusia 101

Seville is now a memory, many memories actually, some of which I'm going to recount here and now as well as my 62 year old memory will allow. Our pace has changed dramatically since parting company with four of our company. With them it was a more relaxed way of being with lots of downtime and I recall saying that the less I did, the less I wanted to do. Now my excuse is we're on the go all day every day and there's little time tell you about it. We only have two and a half days in Cordoba and as this was once the largest city in Europe, its history is rich with the intermingling of Moors, Romans, Visigoths (did you know they were Christian? Go figger), Jews and Gypsies. Each had a profound impact on today's culture; food, dance, language and religion have all flowed from the forceful rivers of the dominating powers and my 60 hours here aren't near enough to absorb it. But we're trying and I've had some of my most emotionally exciting moments as we dip our toes in Andalusia. But first Seville.

Like Cordoba, it was the birthplace of the Renaissance and is home to the largest Gothic Cathedral in the world (twice as big as Notre Dame) but it wasn't the history that drew us out of our new digs shortly after arriving, it was hunger. They're known for their tapas and we wanted to know them so away we went but it was Sunday night. Restaurants throughout the city are bursting at 10pm and, as we saw pedalling home last night, still ovrflowing past midnight. But it was Sunday and our place was well off the tourist path so food wasn't everywhere. We trudged the cobblestones, despondent with unsatiated tummies and cuiriousity when we saw a light behind an open door in the near distance. "Could be a restaurant", I thought and ventured in, squeezed past a few people in the narrow hallway and saw a woman standing behind a counter. A closed door on my right had a sign that I decipheredd as saying "Don't open unless there is applause". I approached the lady and asked "Tiene comida?(Do you have food)". "No" but then added "Tengo solo empanadas". "That's food", I thought and said "Dos y dos cervezas". She handed me the beer and I handed them to Deb and as I turned back to get the food I heard the applause. I turned around again to look for Deb but she'd also heard the applause and had entered the room. I slipped in and found her in command of two seats in a small hall where impromptu performers took turns on stage. The first guy sang and played guitar. I couldn't understand the words and he was okay but nothing I hadn't seen before. The second guy spoke into the mike briefly to explain what he was about to do then stepped away and acted out a soliloquy with all the passion and arm waving the role required. Unintelligible but impressive. The next one up pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and recited some of her poetry. As did the next one, and the next. Not being able to understand any of it didn't detract from the moment, it was an intimate look at how Sevillians see themselves; passionate and lovers of the arts.

Which we got to see again the following evening but in different form; Flamenco. Deb had booked us some seats to see what was purported to be some of the best Flamenco in the world in a small venue that seated maybe 30 people. We spent the day seeing the usual sights: the cathedral ( got a picture of Christopher Columbus' tomb), Encarnacion and more but then decided the city was too big with too much to see so we got the 'Coles Notes' version by buying tickets for one of those hop on hop off buses. The tix were good for 24 hours so we used it to get around to the sights but also to get back and forth to our apartment which was outside the more popular areas. We hopped off at our apartment towards the end of the day to put on clean clothes and make ourselves more presentable as the show was VIP (and came with a glass of wine).

Siri has become my new best friend and her British accent guided us to the door of the Flamenco Museo and throughout the narrow twisting alleys of Seville. She got us there on time and we settled into a brick vault for the performance. I wasn't sure what to expect. I'd seen a little on tv in passing in the past and knew there was some foot stomping and castanets but that was about it. But what you don't get on tv is the intensity, the brush of her dress as she storms by or the spray of the guy's sweat as he twirls. It began with a guy and a guitar. The lights were dim with a soft spot on him and his hands. His fingers flew over the strings to bring out the sweet sounds of classical guitar and set the mood for what came next, the singers. One male, one female to create the soundtrack for the dancers. They sang with a ferocity we'd first experienced with Fado and while I again couldn't understand the words, at the point where she leaned over in her chair, eyes closed, fist on her heart, mouth slack, it felt as if she was sprinkling her tears on her child's grave.

It stopped. The lights dimmed slightly and a man in high waisted pants and a woman in a floor-brushing gown and severe hair style slipped in. The music began softly then abruptly ended with a stomp of their feet. And it began. An hour of changing dancers, changing costumes, changing tempos and moods. It's made me rethink my decision to take up tap dancing, well maybe not but I couldn't stop myself from falling in love with the art. It mixed the rhythms of tap with the power of clomping with the beauty and story of dance. I applauded and cheered and told the people coming in for the next show they were in for the time of their lives (their blank stares said they didn't speak English).

Wonderful. And yet that wasn't the most magical moment. That was last night but our Blabla car to Granada is picking us up at a point I've got to find. I believe we've got 4 nights there so will find some time to tell about last night, the night before and our last night in Seville.

Bla Bla Bla

I'm now in Seville. That's Sevila on the Portuguese signs on the way here and Sevilla (sayVIya) now that were here. We're now down to two having parted company with our four travelling companions this morning. We'd spent 7 weeks in each others pockets and it was surprisingly fantastic. Maybe it was because we're all adults and know how to keep our insta-thoughts to ourselves or maybe it was the copious quanties of wine but we not only survived we flourished. The most challenging setting was six people on a boat and while we each had our own tiny bedroom the common area was less than a studio apartment. Much less. And yet for two weeks we danced around one another with the closeness overpowered by the joy of the company and the scenery that floated by. Having six people meant we could rent much larger places than the two of us could afford so when we weren't on the boat we were in a mansion (with pool), a penthouse suite (with pool) and a hilltop villa (with pool).

But now we've embarked on the last leg of this epic journey and will spend the next two weeks in southern Spain. Ever heard of Blahblah Car? You're going to. It's a new app that hooks up people going on road trips with people who need transportation. So if you're going up to Kelowna and want someone to pay for the gas, you put yourself on their list and they hook you up with someone else that wants to get to Kelowna. We met Mariana this morning, a young woman who's from Faro - our starting point - but now lives and works in Seville. She's often back to see family and routinely drives the 2+ hours alone. She picked us up at the train station as well as another young woman who needed a ride. The four of us chatted down the highway in a mix of Portuguese, Spanish and English and paid 12E each for the pleasure. Uber wanted 200.

Faro is the capital of the Algarve but even the taped voice in the PutPut train said it's not a tourist destination. There are some distant beaches accessible by ferry and a 13th century cathedral but not accessible to tourists because it was being used for mass. So we passed the time waiting for our ride lingering over lunch and discovering the 'Distinguished Gentleman's Ride'. I was curious why I kept seeing well-dressed guys walking about and Deb said they were waiters. "That's a lot of waiters for a small town", I thought. As we entered the plaza in front of the cathedral we saw them congregating with a wide range of two wheeled noisemakers. There were scooters and Harleys, rice rockets and sidecars and everything in between. We sat on the steps and watched the crowd grow to several hundred. I asked a young guy in a bow tie to explain but got a shoulder shrug. His dad came over to explain that this was an event that takes place the last Sunday of September in 600 cities around the world and is a fundraiser for men's health. I'm always the last to know. They gathered for a foto on the cathedral steps and then, led by a police escort, roared there way through town and out onto the highway.

Our week in Algarve was again divided into "Let's sit around the pool" and "Let's go to...". There was a Saturday market to visit where clothes and such from South America were on offer so we indulged and I came away with new shoes (Oh Lord, help me find room in my luggage) and another collarless shirt (they always look so good on holidays and gather dust at home). Across town on the same day was the farmer's market and as it was Deb and I's turn to cook, my tiny town driving skills got a go and we managed to maneuver streets small and narrow to secure lamb, chicken and meatballs for our couscous. We also got in two beach days; one at Albufeira and the other at the most beautiful beach I have ever been to - Praia do Barril. The Portuguese have been working hard to protect the salt marshes that line their southern coast, they're key breeding grounds for storks, herons, flamingos and a few million other things but they lie between the mainland and some very impressive beaches. To get to Barril there's a small train transporting beach enthusiasts from the parking lot through the marshes out to the ocean. Or you can walk the 3' wide trail for 15 minutes. The reward for the effort is a beach with the softest sand, a gentle breeze and not a sound but the pounding surf. This is where the violence of the Atlantic meets the warmth of the Mediteranian so wave jumping was the sport of the day. There's no hotels but it's very well-serviced with several restaurants, showers and change rooms - everything I needed and wanted for the perfect beach day.

We got to Algarve the same way we got to Lisbon only this time our driver was Rui. We were expecting Antonio but Rui said he was his replacement and it could have been a scam but he had a nice car so we piled in. Rui knew the roads, was prepared to give us his entire day and drove real fast. So fast we had time to stop and explore Evora and Monsarraz. Evora was a sizeable medeaval town but large enough now to be a bedroom community and enough of its claims to fame intact to be worth the visit. There was the usual beautiful cathedral and church museum claiming to have a small piece of Christ's cross (I swear if they put all the claimants together there'd be enough lumber to build a cathedral) but the most interesting and creepiest thing I've ever seen was also there, the bone chapel. Apparently there was a graveyard where they wanted to build a chapel so all the graves were exhumed and the bones were used to decorate the walls, ceiling and arches of the chapel. Rows of skulls with femurs and humerus (it wasn't that funny) arranged in symmetric patterns. Honestly, how could you focus on your worship with mom and dad literally hanging around? I asked Rui "What the f!@k?", he responded with a shrug. We also stopped at Monsarraz, a moorish castle from around 800AD but it had been a key military site since prehistoric times. It occupies some impressive real estate so with the help of the Knights Templar it was returned to Spanish control around 1100AD. There's gorgeous views, important if you want to see the enemy coming, and a bull ring still in active service - we apparently just missed the bull killing season - but today's occupants mostly just meet the needs of the tourists.

But now Algarve and Portugal are behind us. We just spent a full day walking the streets of Seville and I'm more than a little impressed. It's Spain's fourth largest city and seems to have achieved that perfect mix of history and modernization. Dinner here is even later than Portugal. It's now 9:10 so I'm going to put on my big boy pants and head out to further test the tapas they're famous for.