Uncomfortable Travel Truths

Bristol brought it home to us.

Much of the wealth of this English city was as a result of the slave trade. Many of Bristol’s 17th, 18th and early 19th century merchants made their fortunes by shipping English goods to Africa, then filling those same ships with slaves for the plantations of the West Indies and America, and then returning to England with sugar and other products from the Americas. Along the way some of them bought plantations in the Americas.

The city was enormously prosperous because of the direct and indirect connections to slavery. The wealthy merchants became benefactors—model citizens—using their money for civic projects and charitable good works. They were icons, heroes.

None more so than Edward Colston. His money built poor houses, and for the poorest residents — education programs, hospitals, and various charities. He helped refurbish and maintain the city’s great cathedral. The Colston stained glass window still is one of the masterpieces of the church. The city dedicated a statue to him that sat on a plinth in a prominent square in the city center. The bronze plaque under statue reads:

“Erected as a memorial to one of the most virtuous and wise sons of their city.”

His fortune was as result of trafficking 84,000 men, women, and children into slavery.

The city had to come to grips with this uncomfortable truth six years ago when the Black Lives Matter movement crossed the Atlantic and hit the UK. On June 7, 2020 a group of protestors toppled his statue and threw it into the harbor. It provoked a nationwide conversation about the legacy of slavery and slavery fortunes.

The cathedral and city have done an admirable job at trying to present the dark side of Bristol’s history. The cathedral has erected as series panels that tell the unvarnished story. One panel says, for example,

”For hundreds of years, many of the people gathered in this cathedral enslaved, bought and sold their sisters and brothers of color. They exploited, raped and murdered them, and the exploiters did not see their actions as being incompatible with the Christian faith.”

The cathedral also has erected a small monument to one enslaved man, John Issac, at the request of his descendants. But that did not happen without the pressure of the descendants of those enslaved and was controversial. And it’s located in a dark corner of the cathedral.

The church is raising money to install a modern stained glass window telling the story of enslaved peoples facing the Colston window. All this is shared by the church members who serve as guides and welcomers.

The city also has stepped up. The fantastic MShed museum, a city focused version of the Smithsonian, has a whole section devoted to protest and the Black Lives Matter movement.

It’s center piece? The Colston statue covered with red paint and a video of its toppling playing above the horizontal bronze figure of Edward Colston.

As travelers and tourists we know these uncomfortable truths are not unique to Bristol. Many of the places we’ve been on our travels have similar unsavory pasts. The monumental gold and silver pieces in the Seville Cathedral created from the exploitation of native peoples in the new world.

The glorious plantations of the US South built on the wealth of a slave economy, the amazing the Duke of Sutherland’s Dunrobin Castle in Northern Scotland who played a huge role in the Clearances where land owners forced the small tenant farmers off the land and into extreme poverty to create more wealth for themselves.

Dunrobin Castle still owned by the Sutherland’s family foundation

We just visited the Palace at Versailles on our way back from our Scotland trip (yes, a strange routing but we got a much better airfare through Paris rather than London). Our reaction—no wonder there was a revolution! The GOAT of ostentatious wealth. And while strolling the bucolic Mendip Hills in Somerset, UK, our local friend pointed out the remains of Victorian era lead mines where small children were used to climb through the horizontal flues to scape the lead off the walls. Most died before reaching puberty.

Remnants of flues where children from poorhouses & orphanages worked

But the mines made their owners fabulously wealthy and account for some very lovely country estates in the area.

For us, traveling is learning — broadening our understanding of other cultures and peoples. And if that uncovers uncomfortable truths, it is important to share that. We admire the way the city of Bristol took that challenge head on. It made our visit there much more than a quick photo op of beautiful churches, historic buildings, and Banksy’s murals. Thank you Bristol!

The Full Scottish

No, not the breakfast, which is more enough to sustain a human for a week, but the Highlands. The real heart of the Scotland. The full Scottish.

We had been in the Lowlands—Stirling, Glasgow, Edinburgh and hiked the Fife coast. Lovely enough in an English sort of way—rolling hills, farmland, green fields. In parts, urban, suburban, and industrial. Four lane motorways, large power plants, train stations with commuter lines, ports with gantry cranes. Yes, it is Scotland, we know. And we thoroughly enjoyed it.

But we had also come for the Highlands. Our trip ten years ago around Skye, Oban and Glencoe had whetted our appetite for the wildness and scenery of the northwest of Scotland.

We started in Inverness. While the town isn’t known for its charm, the River Ness does create some views.

The city is really a great base for a visit to the Culloden Battlefield, the last stand of Scottish resistance to English domination. Definitely a must-do. Over a thousand clansmen killed in an hour with minimal losses by the government forces. The story of Bonnie Prince Charles who was defeated at Culloden is often romanticized but like most wars, the reality is something far different.

From there we chartered a course around Wester Ross, sticking close to the coastline, starting with Ullapool.

Ullapool. We struggled with the pronunciation of the town. It looked simple enough and relatively straightforward compared to many Scottish names. It was the first syllable that was hard. — uu-lapool? O-lapool? All-lapool? We were corrected several times by locals. Never sure we got it right.

A relatively new town, Ullapool was created in 1788 by the British to capitalize on the local herrings runs. And we arrived in time for the biennial lugger festival, celebrating the traditional sailing boats (https://luggerfest.wordpress.com/) used in the area. The celebration centered around the harbor. Locals gathered to listen to music, get a bit to eat, and sign up for rides in the antique and reproduction boats proudly displayed in the marina. A bit of music here and there and several of food trucks selling seafood. We particularly enjoyed the fresh oysters a local oysterman was selling for £1.50 each. Best we have had in ages at price we could afford. A world apart from London’s £8 an oyster. Why didn’t we eat more?

Lots of families, baby strollers and friends meeting up. Fun, festive and very small townish. Other than us, hardly a tourist in sight. Of course, the ferry terminal dominates the town with its twice a day sailings to the islands of Lewis and Harris. Plenty of fish and chip joints, nicknamed “chippies” appropriately. And a very small protest in support of Palestinians. Even the cloudy skies and bit of rain didn’t seem to tap down the fun.

We booked the Clachan Garden B&B for our two days in the Ullapool area. (https://www.clachangardenbandb.co.uk/) It turned out to be the best decision we could have made. The place was charming—the setting amazing. It was in a valley of farmland at the end of Loch Broom—basically a long fjord— stretching out to the Atlantic Ocean miles west. Sheep and tiny lambs were frolicking in the fields surrounding the B&B. Too cute. Working dogs and farm equipment on both sides of the narrow one lane road. Idyllic, yes. But what made the B&B were the hosts, Stephen and Margaret Monroe. They had moved out here many years ago from Newcastle for a simpler life. He was a musician, a classical guitar teacher, a lover of books and she had worked for the local government. They bought a post office to run in Ullapool, then opened a cafe, and finally settled on a B&B. They were both so busy it was hard to see it as a simpler life.

We could have snuggled down in their library forever and Steven encouraged us to thumb through his vast collection. In fact, books lined almost every wall of the cottage. Our two bedrooms rooms felt curated and cozy — named Miss Rose and Mrs. Peacock. And the sunny breakfast room was where we seemed to settle before and after each day of touring. Then there were the six homemade jams for the breakfast toast (got the recipe for the caramelized pear jam from Margaret). And for us the coup d’grace was the La Marzocco espresso machine—not just any old espresso machine but the Rolls-Royce of machines! Stephen had purchased it in — of all places our home town of Seattle! He handled it like a pro—best cafe we had on trip. Yep, Steven and Margaret spoiled us.

On their advice we drove the road to Lochinver on a gray, cloudy Sunday — an appropriate backdrop for the seascapes and scenery. It is reputed to be one of the most beautiful drives in Scotland. We won’t argue with that! A narrow lane with plenty of pull-outs for cars to step aside for oncoming traffic. A few working vans, and locals who knew the road’s dips and curves well enough to zip along. We crawled along, oohing and ahhing at the sights. Unfortunately, the highly recommended pie shop in Lochinver was closed on Sunday but we had lunch with the locals and their dogs in a six table sandwich shop.

It was hard to leave Clachan Garden B&B, but we had a schedule to maintain! We drove through Wester Ross, past both salt and fresh water lochs, waterfalls, through miles of wild rhododendron woodlands, past fields of sheep, a few ruins, but very few Highland cows, between 3000 foot mountains and across glens of rape seed and blue bells. Most of the narrow two-lane roads posted for 60 miles per hour while we preferred 50 or even 40.

We did stop at the amazing Inverewe Gardens—a Michelin 3 star site. And it was. A beautifully maintained botanical garden begun over a 150 years ago.

We ended up just outside of Fort William in the community of Onich. Please, if you are ever there, don’t judge Fort William by the miserable traffic. Park your car and walk down High Street — maybe a quarter mile of lovely old gray stone buildings, a beautiful small park in front of the church and local shops. Delightful!

We planned the trip not only to see the scenery, it also to walk through it. We’re not serious backpackers, but we love a good day hike and our quick visit to the area ten years ago had whetted our appetite. Not enough time back then to take a hike, but just enough for a quick stop to snap a selfie. We vowed to come back. And here we were.

Steall Falls is one of the famous hikes, and our host in our vacation rental highly recommended it. As we expected over a school holiday, it was packed. A steep, rocky climb eventually opened to a meadow and the falls.

Next we drove to the Glencoe National Park and stopped at the visitor center for a recommendation for a 2-3 hour hike that would not be overwhelmed with people, strollers and dogs. Armed with that advice we headed out, past the trail head that led to the most famous path to the Three Sisters or the loch where dozens of cars and tour buses were parked. When we got to our destination we realized it was exactly the spot where we had stopped ten years before. And this time, almost alone, we walked the trail for an hour or two.

We wrapped up our Wester Ross tour with a night in the Dornach Castle (more on Dornach in our next blog) complete with another whiskey tasting and then returned to Inverness to drop off our rental car. We hopped the Caledonian Sleeper night train back to London. An adventure in itself in dealing tiny, tiny spaces. Goodbye to driving on narrow lanes and hello London.

Yes, we’d done the full Scottish.

Off the Beaten Coastal Path

The Fife coastal path in Scotland! Our bit: Kirkcaldy to Crail. 37 miles. Picturesque most of the time, sometimes industrial. Rural and urban, but mostly rural. And the Firth of Forth and the North Sea on our right. Uncrowded. A few other hikers but mostly local dog walkers and joggers. We went through fields with Highland cows and sheep, green rye fields, bright yellow rape fields, quaint coastal fishing villages with their lobster pots stacked everywhere.

Then there were the golf courses where we literally walked through the fairways, keeping an eye on the golfers teeing off.

We trekked through suburban communities, past giant wind turbines, grain elevators, WWII bunkers, castles, caves and huge mobile vacation home parks.

The path was flat, marshy, hilly, rocky, beachy, with cliffs and drop offs, and several stretches along roads—both country and major A roads. Up stone stairs, down steep paths, over stone fences, through animal gates. Past playgrounds and cemeteries.

In many places coastal erosion caused the path to be diverted away from the coast. Lots of “Path closed, danger!” signs. It’s an ongoing serious problem that will continue to alter the path.

The most infamous part of our hike was the Elie Chain Walk. It a series of nine chains bolted into coastal cliffs with narrow rocky ledges to walk on just above the crashing waves of the North Sea—a 1/2 mile of terror. Fortunately for us, the coastal authority lists the safe times to walk it based on the tides. We were a “red no-go” because of high tides when we reached the chain walk. The safe alternative path took us high up to the cliff above the chain walk. Scary enough in its own way. Looking down, we breathed a sigh of relief. The chain walk would have been terrifying.

Walking the safer path instead of the chain walk thru the rocks

We had incredible luck with the weather. Two days of partly sunny and on the last day when the weather reports said rain and wind all day, doom and gloom, we got one brief shower. A strong wind off the North Sea was chilly, but we did get some sun and a real sense of what living on the North Sea coast might be like. And this was May. The locals kept saying “It’s Scotland after all.”

It wasn’t really a strenuous hike like a Cascade mountain trail—the most elevation gain in any one day was about 300 ft. But we were leg weary, exhausted by the end of each day! 14 miles the first day and nearly as much the last day! 12 mile average per day. Some small aches and pains. Nothing that two Ibuprofen couldn’t relieve. While there were small towns and villages along the way, there were significant stretches with nothing but path, coast and us.

Through all of the twists, turns, and detours, the path was clearly — crystal clearly marked — with Fife Coastal Paths medallions and arrows pointing the right direction.

With that and the app provided for our cell phones we never once got lost. Not even close! Of course, every fork in the path triggered a conference with our hiking partners.

It was a very pleasant contrast with our Minister Way hike in York several years ago where we got lost every day and rarely saw another human.

We had arranged the hike through a company, MACAdventures which provided luggage transfers and accommodations along the way — three charming hotels and one B&B. The Ship Inn https://shipinn.scot/ in Elie was the favorite. It’s an old inn on the waterfront with a restaurant and a lively bar filled with locals and dogs. Lots of dogs.

Breakfasts were always included which meant you could start the day on a full Scottish—toast, eggs, fried tomato, baked beans, hash browns, oat pancake, sausage, bacon, black pudding, and, yes, haggis — and skip lunch all together!

The evening meal was usually in the hotel pub or dining room which also provided the evening’s entertainment — chatting with a fellow hiker or to the locals who often seemed surprised we had chosen their corner of Scotland for our hike, and us loving the sound of the Scottish brogue with its “ayes, nayes, youses”.

And a wee dram of whisky to top off the evening. “Slainte mhash!”

Would we do it again? Aye, in a heart beat.

Back to the Future

Well, this spring we are shaking it up a bit. For the last few years we have followed our preferred pattern for traveling. Find a home base and from there explore. Valencia, Spain last year. Ontiente, Spain the year before. The Dordogne or Occitaine, France and years ago Umbria, Italy. All were explored from a place we called home for two or three weeks, or in the case of Valencia, two months.

Years ago we used to travel a bit like the bad movie, “If It’s Tuesday, It Must Be Belgium.” (Don’t know it? Don’t bother looking for it. As you might guess it’s about traveling through Europe with a different hotel room every night). Our version wasn’t quite that hectic or silly, and certainly more interesting, but we did cover a lot of ground in a relatively short period of time when that’s all the time we had. It suited our circumstances then just fine. Can we still manage that? Or have those travel muscles atrophied?

This year our primary travel focus is the Highlands of Scotland with a week in the Fife region, a few days near Edinburgh, a week in Somerset, and a couple nights in both London and Paris. Not quite a different hotel room every night, but definitely more movement than we’ve been used to. The closest we’ve been to near constant movement was four years ago in Spain, mainly in Andalusia, and then we relied upon a nearly full-service travel company to manage all the different hotels, train trips and tours. It was a breeze! Can we do it by ourselves this time?

Well, we aren’t totally on our own. We’ve shared the planning for the core 21 days with our travel companions and then tacked on 14 additional days on our own. Even so, the trip involves more than 10 different plane, train and car rentals reservations and 15 different hotels, B&B’s, and vacation rental stays. Lots of planning went into each step. Lots! Some pieces of the trip our friends planned. Some we did. Many we planned together. We talked, discussed and debated options, texted and emailed ideas and then reservations back and forth. Some parts of the trip are planned in great detail (dinner reservations on our walk along the Fife Coastal Walk where a hiking service carries our bags from inn to inn as we carry a light rucksack) and others left open (a couple nights in London with only a vacation rental booked).

Making all these arrangements wasn’t the only challenge. In addition to the four day hike along the Fife coastal path, we also want to do some hiking in Glencoe, around Ullapool and Wester Ross, and near Fort William. That meant packing bulky hiking gear and enough clothes for those stretches when we wouldn’t have access to washer/dryers. Weather in Scotland is unpredictable, especially in May. Sun, rain, wind or even snow at higher elevations? So we also have to pack rain gear and warm layers. Then there’s London and Paris where those hiking shoes will never be seen! And by the end of the trip the weather in London and Paris could be quite warm. Short sleeves? Shorts? Sandals? Not enough room. Didn’t take long for us to realize our usual carry-on roll-aboards wouldn’t hold it all.

We purchased every book we saw on Scotland over the last year and then had to pare down to just two (plus the one Mary smuggled in when Peter wasn’t looking). Camera? Bring the big, good camera or rely upon our iPhones? Big camera won. Binoculars? Just one pair. We’ll have to share. And so it went. One large suitcase, one roll-aboard and two backpacks later we were packed.

So how will it go? Will we survive packing and repacking our bags every second or third day? Will it get old fast trying to find a decent espresso in each new location or even worse, not finding any at all. Will we miss having our boulangerie, our patio, our market, our neighborhood or will the variety and parade of new vistas more than compensate?

“Our” patio, home, espresso, and market in previous slow trips to France and Spain

Stay tuned. The adventure has just begun. Oh, and our first hotel was the lovely Holiday Inn at the Newark Airport—a transit stop on our way to Paris.

Loreto Redux

For the last few years our escape from the dreary, wet January/February weather in Seattle was Costa Rica. Really a magical place which we’ve written about in many of our blogs. But we’ve seen most of Costa Rica on our five trips there, and we had only about two weeks—much less time than our usual month plus — because of a couple of trips planned in the months ahead.

So we decided to try something a little different—Loreto, Baja Sur, Mexico. It’s on the Sea of Cortez about 4 hours north of La Paz and 8 hours from Cabo San Lucas. We’d been there five years ago to celebrate a friend’s 60th birthday and found the town to be charming. Tiny, still somewhat authentic. A world away from the tourist meccas of Cabo, Mazatlan, Puerto Vallerta. We had also spent time on the Sea of Cortez—the “aquarium of the world” according to Jacques Cousteau—on an UnCruise small ship. (We wrote about that trip https://chasingthegoodlife.blog/2018/08/14/hometown-whales/) So we knew there was a lot to see and do in the area especially if nightlife, gambling, and partying isn’t your thing.

And getting there was much easier than most warm weather escapes from Seattle—one stop in LA and then 120 minutes on to Loreto’s minuscule international airport. Left Seattle in the early morning and were in our condo at 3:00 pm. A real contrast to the eight hour, one-stop flight to San Jose, Costa Rica, which required a one night airport hotel stay both coming and going.

Loreto and its surroundings are in a mountainous desert bordering the Sea of Cortez—picture the Southwest US, but on an ocean, complete with saguro like cacti (but technically a cardón we were informed by a naturalist). We’re staying in a gringo development of half Canadian and half US visitors, spread around almost 900 homes, Nopoló, nine miles south of the town of Loreto. A bit contrived as planned communities tend to be with fake adobe homes and condos. Not our usual vibe. But the location! The Sea of Cortez on one side, with its islands off in the distance, and the mountains behind us to the west. Stunning views. Beautiful dessert landscaping (who knew how many blooming plants would survive the desert heat?) and immaculate grounds.

And quiet. Surprisingly so, given the density and number of homes. Most mornings and evenings it’s just the sound of birds and the wind in the palms.

And plenty of choices for excellent short-term rentals—another draw. Good restaurants, a couple coffee shops, walking paths, a long, half mile beautiful beach to stroll, kayaks to rent. But, of course, all of this comes at close to US prices. Still, for a short getaway it checks most the boxes.

And the town of Loreto, despite the draw of the raw beauty of the area, has remained largely Mexican but with enough infrastructure to support a modest tourism industry. Parts of the town, particularly on the outskirts, are a bit run down, dusty, ramshackle. Locals buying meat at the many small carnicerias, tortillas at one of the ancient tortilla factories, whole roasted chickens at the industrial smoking ovens of the Pollo Asado. Typical of most of non-tourist Mexico.

Loreto’s real claim to fame, however, is its modest mission and church, first established more than three hundred years ago as the headquarters for all of Baja and California.

The town center, with its flower covered pedestrian walkways, and the malecon (the waterfront walk) are lovely and are a reminder of what tourist dollars can do—in addition to providing local jobs.

The main old hotel on the city square, the promenade and government building.

But it is small time tourism compared to much of the rest of Pacific coast Mexico. There are no mega resorts here, no cruise ship terminal. The airport has roughly 3 flights a day. One golf course—although apparently there is a super fancy golf course resort now open about 20 miles south of town. There was a giant Holland American cruise ship offshore when we arrived and a few cruisers wandering around the town center, but we have no idea how they’d get 2000 people into town. The Loreto marina is really only suited for the tiny panga fishing boats. Even the fancy charter fishing boats are moored miles south in Puerto Escondido.

Five years ago when we were here we did see Steven Spielberg’s yacht anchored off shore and even got to see him and his entourage whisked off from the marina to the airport in a motorcade of white SUVs to a private jet. He had hosted the Obamas the week before. Our tiny, distant brush with celebrity.

I guess we can be thankful that we are staying in bit of a backwater. By shear bad luck we timed our stay in Loreto with the killing of El Mencho, the narco gang leader, by the Mexican federales in late February. The killing set off acts of violence from the drug gangs all around Mexico, particularly in Guadalajara and Puerto Vallarta across the Sea of Cortez from us. Roads closed, airports shut down. Cars and buses set on fire. Shops trashed. People sheltering in place. But in Loreto, absolutely quiet. Nada. Something to be said for being off the beaten path.

So what is there to do and see around sleepy Loreto beyond strolling, reading, beach walking, and napping—certainly not bad options? Nature is very, very big here. And marine life is the star. The entire bay in front of the town is a giant national park—the Loreto Bay National Marine Park, a UNESCO World Heritage site, the aquarium of the world. There are boating excursions into the park and if you’re lucky you can see dolphins, whale sharks, and the largest mammal on earth—the blue whale. And we were lucky to see the Humpback whales attempting to woo potential mates by tale slapping and breaching off shore. There are snorkeling expeditions to the nearby islands and even swimming with the sea lions for the brave.

We do like looking at birds and usually during our morning and sunset walks we easily identified six to twelve different species. The pelicans were a show unto themselves.

But even more impressive is the two hour drive across the peninsula to Puerto Adolfo Lopez Mateos and Magdalena Bay. Here every year from January to March, hundreds of grey whales migrate down from Alaska to calve. Small pangas (open motorized boats—the number and size is limited by strict environmental regulations), take you out into the bay to witness this natural wonder. The whales seem to get close enough that you could reach out and touch them. Of course, you’re not supposed to. Truly a must do if you’re in Loreto at that time of year.

Photo credit to our frequent travel companion Malcolm Lindquist

We’ve made that trip twice before and could not resist a third time this visit. So up before the sun, literally, and off across the Baja peninsula to the Pacific side. The first hour of the drive, winding up the side of the mountains as the sun rose was spectacular and we deeply regretted the lack of any safe space to pull over the take pictures.

Then another hour of straight roads through the barren cardón forests as you gradually go down to sea level again. Unfortunately when we arrived at the coast we saw the first clouds we had seen in two weeks — close to the ground clouds as in dense fog. So we had to wait a couple hours until the sun burned through the fog and it was safe to leave harbor. And as the two hour boat ride extended into three hours, the skies became blue again. Well worth the wait and the $40 per person charge.

Aside from hopping in a car or van to go whale watching, there are also several short drives from Loreto worth the time—one to the gorgeous St. Javier Mission in the mountains above the town

another up the coast past the stunning Bahia Concepcion to the old mission town of Mulege. It was in Mulege that local resistance to the American invaders kept Baja part of Mexico during the 1848 Mexican—American War. A hero city, Heroica Mulege.

Certainly more enough to do and see for a two week escape from the cold and rain of the Northwest US. And we’re enjoying every warm minute of it.

Shocking Copenhagen

Let’s make one thing clear! This is not a complaint or a whine or a criticism. Just a reality check.

Copenhagen is a stunningly beautiful city in a progressive country with architectural treasures and a great history. It reputed by one of those “scientific” surveys to be the happiest city in the world. A city of hygge.

But despite all the pluses, it was still a shock transitioning back through Copenhagen to the United States after two months in Valencia, Spain.

We had booked our flight to Valenica through SAS, Scandinavian Airlines, because they were restarting a direct flight for the first time since 2009 from Seattle to Copenhagen and offering some of the best prices to Europe we could find. We also jumped at the chance to spend a few nights in Copenhagen on the way back. We had been there several times in the 90’s on our way to and from Russia. It was time to revisit.

The first shock is weather. It shouldn’t have been, obviously. We knew better. Northern Europe is after all north. And we arrived on November 1st. We left sunny Valencia in the high 70’s to arrive in rainy Copenhagen in the high 40’s. And windy. And gray.

Shorts and tee shirts gave way to long pants, sweaters, and rain coats. Layers on top of layers. Window checks from our hotel. Were the people in the street below wearing raincoats, parkas, skull caps, scarves, and carrying umbrellas? We had been smart enough to pack warmer clothes, but still our bodies somehow felt abused.

The second is sticker shock. Most travelers know that the Scandinavian countries are expensive—really expensive—but coming from Spain and low cost Valencia in particular….oh… my….god! Two lattes and two small rolls with cheese in Copenhagen—$32. In Valencia that’s a dinner for two with two glasses of decent red wine. A 45 minute train ride round-trip for two to Helsingborg from Copenhagen—$123. A 2 hour round-trip train ride to Benicassim from Valencia—$30. For two. To Madrid on a high speed train—$60. A plain gin and tonic in our mediocre hotel bar—$22. A top of the line G&T in a fabulous Valencia bar—$8.

*An eight course Valencian lunch in a Michelin Bib Gourmand place with impeccable service and a ramen counter lunch in Copenhagen cost about the same*

Museums in Valencia are mostly free. The National Museum in Copenhagen $20. The Glyptoteket, a wonderful art museum, the same! So it goes. Of course, wages are higher in Denmark than in Spain. Denmark also has one of the best social services systems in the world—free child care, elder care, schooling, good pensions, and great health care. But as a traveler, not a local, the shock was real. We had to reset.

Then there was the different daily schedule in the same time zone. In Valencia, we got up at 9, sometimes, but not always, got out of apartment by 10, ate lunch at 2, dinner at 9:30 or later, and in bed at 1. Usually, we took an afternoon stroll around until the sun started setting around 6:30 the last week we were in Valencia—daylight savings time ended.

In Copenhagen, however, it was dark at 4:30. People started dinner as early as 5:30 and following that pattern, we could have been ready for bed at 9—about the time the restaurants in Valencia were opening. Different life cycles. A jolt to our recent biological clocks.

At first we thought there was a big difference in the street life. In Valencia, people live in the streets. They eat, play, and socialize in the restaurants and squares outside. The noise is sometimes deafening. Because of the small apartments, you have friends and family gatherings at restaurants. It was not unusual to see tables of 15 or 20 celebrating birthdays, anniversaries, or graduations partying late into the night —almost always outside. We usually went to bed at 1 am on weekends when the partying was liveliest, because that was when restaurants legally had to get their tables off the street and things finally quieted down.

Early evening two blocks from our Valencia apartment in October

In Copenhagen, dead silence around 8 pm our first night at our hotel near the city center. Almost nobody out and about. We thought at first maybe the zombie apocalypse had arrived. We slept with the windows wide open even though we’re on a fairly active street and the reception desk had warned us about street noise. However, we rarely saw a car driving down our street, just bicycles. Lots of bicycles! Of course, the late fall weather in Copenhagen precludes much outdoor restaurant seating except for a few chairs for desperate smokers. But then we began to see the life in the streets. Blankets were hung over chairs at outdoor tables. Without the rain, those seats probably would have been taken. We found Nyhavn, the tourist waterfront. There cafes, bars and restaurants line the quay. Even in November, people were huddled next heaters for lunch in puffy parkas trying pretend it was July. The locals say any sun brings people out. And in summer, we sure it’s bumped up another notch but still not the living in the street vibe of Valencia.

*Copenhagen outdoor culture in November*

So at first the transition was indeed a shock—the contrasts enormous. But once we adjusted a bit, more similarities emerged. Both cities have a bike culture. In Valencia bikes and motorized scooters were everywhere, sometimes zipping along in the bike lanes and sometimes not. Sometimes following traffic signals and sometimes not. In Copenhagen bikes are the primary mode of transportation. Commuters, students pedaling away.

Entire families head out on often with mom and the kids in the front “basket” and Dad pedaling from the rear seat. During rush hour the bike lanes are packed and riders follow the rules of the road, even using turn signals! Some bikes are specially built to move boxes and pallets. We even saw a couple wrestling a refrigerator onto their bike with a wooden passenger crate — heading to the recycle center?

Then there’s the food scene. Valencia is crammed with restaurants—we counted 25 in a short 3 block walk from our apartment. Every imaginable enthicity, not just Spanish. Every price range—from cheap kebab take-away joints to Michelin starred restaurants. We had four Michelin rated places within two blocks of our home in Ruzafa. Everyday it seemed there was a food festival. We enjoyed a rice festival with paella stalls, but missed a seafood “experience” in an old grand warehouse, an Octoberfest, a potatas bravas festival, and festival featuring the flavors of Latin America. And yes, Copenhagen has plenty of restaurants. Around our hotel we have Italian, Vietnamese, Japanese, Indian, and Danish. But not the density. Not the insane variety in price and quality. And we haven’t found any food festivals yet although we’re sure we could find a herring fest if we looked hard enough. When we walked maybe two miles from the city center we found a few blocks packed with small shops and restaurants. Still subdued compared to Valencia.

It’s a tale of two cities and we’re glad we don’t have to make a choice. Both are a traveler’s dream — flat, walkable, fascinating with deep histories, abundant culture and art, and great food. Vikings or Moors, Danish modern or Valenican art deco, Cervantes or Hans Christian Anderson, smørrebrød or paella. We enjoyed both.

“That’s so Valencia!”

Almost two months into our stay here in Valencia, we’ve come across a few quirks or idiosyncrasies of the city. Mostly small things but big surprises.

Beer! Despite being a huge wine producing region in a huge wine producing country, Valencians drink beer. Walk by any outdoor table on any afternoon or evening and you’ll see almost exclusively beer. In bottles, in glasses, in mugs. Yes, maybe a glass of wine or two, but beer is king.

Cooking in the streets! The city has hundreds of neighborhood social clubs (Falla clubs) that prepare all year for the March Fallas festival. They each have a social hall that opens onto the street. Apparently, anything is an excuse to party and close off the street. 1/2 year to the next Fallas. Party. Valencia Independence Day. Party. A local girl wins the Fallera beauty contest. Party. Paella is required. It has to be cooked the traditional way—on an open wood fire in the middle of the street. And snacks to nibble on? Chips, olives, pickles. And beer, of course. No fancy tapas here.

Grafitti doors! Lots of grafitti on the metal pull down garage and store front doors. Some are very artistic and beautiful—probably professionally done. Others not so much. But it’s on doors everywhere. And interestingly, very little graffiti anywhere else here in Ruzafa—although we have seen quite a bit in other neighborhoods (some called for provincial president’s resignation) and in the center of old town some anti-tourist grafitti.

Scooters, skate boards, motorized unicycles! They are a huge part of the transportation scene. And all ages use them—not just young people. The scooters travel quietly at warp speeds—they are a real menace for pedestrians. The city is flat, very car unfriendly, has special red bike lanes everywhere (which the scooters use), and the weather is good all year long. So it’s a great, inexpensive (if dangerous) solution to getting around. We followed well dressed woman as she carried her scooter into the big department store. We watched a middle aged guy come out of his big yacht at the marina and fly off on his scooter. Away he goes!

Dog washing laundromats! There are doggy laundromats for your dogs, your doggy blankets, and doggy paraphernalia. It’s a good business because everybody has a dog. One of our first nights here we ate dinner with five dogs. One breed, a kind of miniature labradoodle, is Valencia’s dog of choice. Cute little fellow seen everywhere.

Street names! They usually change after three or four blocks. Very few names seem to last the entire length of a street. We have friends who live on Literat Azorin which becomes Reina na Maria and finally Pere III el Gran. The street is 12 blocks long. This is the case everywhere in the city. No wonder cabbies look at you quizzically when you give them a street name. Better to use a landmark like a Mercado.

Merry Christmas! In the middle of October, the street decorations are starting to appear. It’s not the retail shops because they still have up Halloween decorations. Christmas starts early, and ends 12 days after Christmas with the arrival by boat of the Three Kings. That’s the big day! A present or two may be exchanged Christmas Day, but the real celebration comes on Three Kings day. Just imagine! The holiday season here spans nearly three months! American retailers—eat your hearts out.

Black Friday sales! But they are not necessarily on Friday. And they happen frequently. And there’s no Thanksgiving Day for the sale to follow. Apparently Valencia has stolen the term and uses it indiscriminately to advertise big sales

Small doors, big stores! Our two largest supermarkets, comparable to big American supermarkets, have two small doors—one on either side of a city block. A tiny sign over each entrance says Consum or Mercadona. Once you get in, the space is enormous and often snakes around in a warren of different halls and rooms. The stores literally take up a good portion of the interior of the city block. Usually there is underground parking as well. But good luck finding it.

We’ve gotten used the these quirks. And we suspect if we stayed here longer and were a bit less transient, we would find more. As one of our local friends said when we were turned away from a government building when it was supposedly open, “That’s so Spanish.” We would add, “That’s so Valencia.”

Restaurant-topia!

We are in a restaurant paradise. Ruzafa, Valencia. Can’t think of a place we’ve been that has a better variety and greater density of eating places. Nothing we’ve experienced compares to this place for sheer volume, quality and price. In an unremarkable stretch of three blocks near our apartment, we counted twenty-five restaurants and bars. And the variety is crazy. We’ve eaten Sardinian, Sicilian, generic Italian, Georgian (the country, not the state), Irish, Moroccan, French, Japanese, Asian fusion, Lebanese, Turkish. And, of course, Spanish—Valencian, Basque, Andalusian, Galician, Castilian.

Sardinian prawns with arugula and a ravioli-like dumpling with sage

We could live in this neighborhood for ten years and not exhaust all our restaurant choices. At one naive moment we thought we would count all the restaurants in the Ruzafa — an area of about 3 square miles. Foolish and impossible idea. We do have a friend here who maintains an annotated map of her top restaurants in the neighborhood, currently at 37. We need to start our own list.

So what’s the deal with all the restaurants?

What creates this incredible density of eating places?

We are trying to figure all this out. We have some thoughts.

Ruzafa is NOT tourist central. There are tourist traps and international big name chains in the old historic part town where all the major sights are — McDonalds, Burger King, Starbucks and HardRock. In tourist central, the signs outside are often in English. They hawk the Spanish tourist favorites—PAELLA, TAPAS, SANGRIA! But in Ruzafa, not so much. It’s not tourists that keep these restaurants hopping. These are small, locally owned places. The restaurants depend on return customers, not volume, and the price has to be right. We’ve sung the praises of the prices here—everything is dirt cheap by comparison to the US and Northern Europe. A good red wine last night at an outstanding Moroccan restaurant was 2.50€ a glass. Crazy! And the quality has to be really good with so many options to choose from.

Ruzafa is also diverse with lots of immigrants and expats. So many nationalities. So many different cuisines. Another lure to diners.

A bit of Italian influence with pesto on baby squid

But still, why so many restaurants in such a small neighborhood?

Is it that Ruzafa is reputed to be “hip and trendy”? Attractive to those looking for a lively, fun area to dine. Near enough to historic center for those adventurous tourists willing to take a hike. And also walking distance from neighborhoods of upscale apartments and neighborhoods of hundreds, maybe thousands, of mid-century high rise apartments. That helps fill restaurant seats.

It’s also a real neighborhood where locals stay close to home to hang with their families and friends. In Ruzafa itself, lots of street level space for restaurants and shops, and customers living in the apartments above.

Ruzafa was a run down neighborhood a few decades ago. In a pattern many cities have seen, in moved the artists looking for cheap space. The gay community found a home here, too. Pretty soon the bohemian vibe brought in small bars and restaurants. And “suddenly” it’s hip and trendy corner of Valencia. We’ve been told rents here for commercial properties remain relatively low. So the take-away kebab places stand next to Michelin star restaurants. Both benefitting from low rent. It’s definitely a mixed up jumble of high end, low brow and everything in between.

A pretty modest Peruvian restaurant — chicken and rice, fried fish with beans, a ceviche salad and Peruvian corn nuts

Like many European cities, particularly in the south, Valencia has an outdoor culture. People live in the streets. And that is certainly apparent in Ruzafa. The street corners are often cut-outs like in the L’Eixample in Barcelona, creating more space for outside dining.

Many of the restaurants have only five or six tables inside and another five or six outside. Families or friends shove the tables together and hang out for hours, drinking beer, wine and spritzers — often with a play area for the kids in sight of the tables.

With only a few tables, one seating a night, you’d think these restaurants couldn’t possibly survive. And yet they seem to flourish. We thought when we first arrived and saw all the restaurants we could just wander out at night and grab a table. Not so. You need reservations almost anywhere other than the most casual places on a weekend night, and, by the way, the weekend here seems to include Thursdays and Sundays.

And then there is the quality of the food. Another draw. The restaurants rely on local ingredients. A short bus ride outside the urban center takes you past small truck farms that nudge up against the city high rises. The government and to some extent the EU subsidize the local farmers keeping quality high and prices low.

An Asian fusion meal of noodles and dumplings

Across from our apartment in the Mercado, there are 29 butcher and charcuterie shops. Twenty-nine! 19 fish stalls! Everything is fresh. We asked at one stall for oranges. Come back in 10 days or two weeks and the local oranges will be in, the lady said. Maybe that’s why most restaurants change their menus with the seasons. And, in some cases, like our local osteria, the menu changes every day depending on what the chef finds that day.

Does good seasonal food keep folks coming back? Is that enough to keep all these places going?

We don’t really know. We’re here for two months, with several weeks to go. So we still have time to try to answer the question, ask our expat friends for more information and formulate more theories. In the meantime, we’ll enjoy another meal out.

Crazy Ass Opera

OK. We’ve seen some weirdo versions of operas—“Carmen” with characters in 30’s Nazi outfits riding motorcycles, “Aida” where the triumphal march consisted of dozens trays of what looked like Oscars paraded around the stage, modern clothes and settings in Mozart operas, etc. We understand the desire to make the old standards fresh and relevant.

But this version of “Faust” at the Valenica Opera House takes the cake. This “Faust”—the opera where Faust makes a pact with devil for youth and love — was absolutely bizarre. Beyond bizarre.

The set was largely made up of various circles ringed with flashing lights, images projected almost like holograms from time to time, boxes that moved from back of the stage. Lots of smoke machines, too. The colors were black and gray, mostly subdued with a few brightly lit objects like a staircase that appeared and disappeared. Some of the effects were actually pretty amazing but we’re not sure how they tied into the opera.

Costuming, well, impossible to say what the “era” was. There was no “era”. Maybe lots of eras? A timeless setting? Perhaps. Lots of folks in whiteish outfits of various eras. Several of the female characters including Marguerite, the heroine, were dressed in white tutus and ballet slippers or wedding veils. Faust wore a modified zoot suite most of the time. Marte, the heroine’s neighbor and friend, appeared in what looked like a nun’s habit. Valentine, Marguerite’s brother, was in a white clown outfit complete with turned up slippers and a sequined cone shaped hat.

Curtain call with “timeless” costuming, men on stilts and the lead singers!

The fair scene, Act II, took it to a new level of bizarre. Sequined people on stilts, circus barker outfits, lots of acrobats in gaudy tights somersaulting and back flipping around the stage. There was a large wheel like those used in knife throwing carnival acts with doppelgänger of the heroine strapped to it. From time to time, they spun it so she was upside down with her underwear showing under the tutu.

Then there were the flying tutu ladies suspended on trapezes in a later scene. And in another segment, giant black top hats appeared that covered all but the feet of the performers as they danced around. Why? Not clear. In the debauchery scene, suddenly three men in US navy outfits showed up to seduce the heroine. Later they appeared with fake muscles tops to make them look sexier, we guess. In the last act, Mephistopheles is dressed in a surgeon’s gown complete with bloody rubber gloves as a surgical gurney is rolled on to the stage with body on it.

If the costuming and sets weren’t enough, there was the over the top interpretation. Lots of apparently meaningful symbolism that was completely lost on us and maybe most of the audience. Maybe if we had program notes, or attended a pre-performance lecture, we might have had a better understanding. Or not. Of course, then there was the language barrier. A Valencian production in a Spanish country of a French opera based on German play. What possibly could get lost in translation?

One character appeared on stage throughout the opera (he was actually sitting on stage before the opera started and the house lights dimmed)— but he never sang. He sat next to Faust during the opening scene. Why? Who knows. Who was he? Who knows? In later scenes he died several times and literally lay there on the stage floor for long patches with the performers singing their arias while stepping over him or around him. He got a big applause at the curtain call.

And then there were the doppelgängers. The heroine and her brother, Valentine, had several performers dressed in exactly the same costumes who followed them around the stage—they weren’t singers—but you never knew who was actually singing. Sometimes they mouthed the arias with the singers. Why? Who knows. But we’re sure it’s meaningful.

And if this all wasn’t weird enough—the coup de grâce! At the end of Act IV, the building started shaking. There were huge, loud rumblings. We thought it was lightning storm. There was no scheduled intermission but the house lights went on and the orchestra started to leave. A terrorist attack? People pushed through the closed house doors to get out. What did they know that we didn’t?

It was a huge, monster fireworks display right next to the Opera House. Enormous explosions. The Valencians are experts in fireworks. It is, after all, the home the Fallas festival where the town goes insane with fire and fireworks. The audience stood on the balconies and watched. Some went outside. Gunpowder smoke surrounded the opera house. Turns out it’s the city’s Oct 9 celebration, Valencian Independence Day. The fireworks were scheduled to go off at midnight but because of the predicted bad weather, officials moved it up to ten. There was never any announcement. After about 20 minutes of teeth rattling explosions, the ushers shooed us back in to finish the opera. There was a faint aroma of sulpher in the auditorium and visible smoke in the spotlights projecting onto the stage. Seemed very appropriate for the last scene with Faust going off to hell.

If you could get by all the craziness, we have to say the singing and music were absolutely superb. The singers top rate. The orchestra world class. The acoustics in the Opera House are out of this world. And the building itself is an architectural masterpiece. Worth the price of admission on its own. Our seats had built in screens where you could follow the libretto in what ever language you chose. And tickets prices were half of what we might pay in our home town of Seattle. The crowd reflected that. Not quite the same as the wealthy gray haired set that dominate our local opera.

Inside Opera house where each seat shows a libretto in the language of your choice

Did we enjoy the opera? Maybe not so much as a performance. But as an experience? Yes! Absolutely, yes!

Mercado Mania

Location, location, location!

The view from our window says it all—a mercado, a public market! It’s the Mercado de Ruzafa (Spanish) or Mercat de Russafa (Valencian).

It’s in an ugly, ugly concrete building—no getting around that fact. Even a little decorative paint can’t hide that. Not pretty like the spectacular art deco Mercado Central or the even fancier Mercado de Colon. But inside, wow! Foodie heaven. A home cook’s paradise. An ocean of food stalls!

In our scientific count, we found 29 stalls selling either meat, poultry, or charcuterie. Some even specialize—there are several pork only, a couple that specialize in just chicken, one guy sells only ground meats, a dozen selling jamon and charcuterie.

Want a thick or thin chop — they cut your meat to order. Our chicken folks are amazing—like samurai warriors. They cut and debone a whole chicken in seconds. You tell them exactly what you want. Knives flash and presto—a package of perfectly cut, trimmed and sliced whole chicken. Bones saved for broth. Service and a show.

There are 19 fish stalls housed in a separate wing of the market where the temperature is kept lower to help keep things fresh. Most of the seafood is laid out artistically on beds of crushed ice. Fish sculpture extraordinaire.

Of course, there are dozens of fruit and veggie stalls. Most sell only seasonal produce. I asked one lady if she had oranges—it is, after all, Valencia. She said not today but come back in 10 days—the fall crop will be in then. One stall offers the very best romaine lettuce. There is always a crowd as each customer buys a head plus whatever else looks good. You have to ask politely “Quien es ultimo?” “Who is last?” in order to know where to stand.

A few specialize in tropical or South American produce for the immigrants—clearly not seasonal and imported. But those stalls are the exceptions.

And there’s the rest, the other stalls—nuts and dried fruits, the egg lady, bakeries, prepared food take out, spices, olives, pastries, the mushroom guy, specialty stalls with Italian, Greek, South American, Mexican foods, dry goods, candy, wines and spirits, sushi, vermouths only, coffees only, even a tea only place. We’ve found our favorite cheesemonger in one of the smaller stalls carries mostly Spanish varieties, and our young egg lady who has both regular eggs and eggs from pasture raised hens.

There is, of course, a restaurant and bar where the locals and Mercado workers hang out. A little dark and dingy. But lively. They all seem to start the day with a beer, vermouth, or a shot of something stronger.

The public market in the marina district — no surprise — is known for seafood. The area used to be a small fishing village before Valencia absorbed it. But Thursday when we wandered out there it was also flea/street market day. Since Monday is our neighborhood’s street market, we thought we knew what to expect. Nope. This one was enormous—maybe five times size of ours in Ruzafa. It ran down the main street about 10 blocks to the public market and filled many side streets. Enough underwear, table clothes, shirts, kitchenware and used shoes for the entire planet.

Then we got to actual market — Mercado del Cabañal. Newer than many markets, and still filled with jamon, fresh meats and tons of vegetables as you would expect. But the seafood! Wow! Fish, and a particular shellfish is not cheap here, but the quality and variety is amazing. The legacy of the old fishing village.

What you don’t really have at the Mercado de Ruzafa or Mercado del Cabañal are tourists. Expats, yes, immigrants, yes, tourists, very few. A real contrast to the Mercado Central and the Mercado de Colon.

The grand Mercado Central in the old city isn’t entirely tourists—our Valencian friends shop there. But because of its beauty and its location close to so many historical sites, it is included in all the guide books and on all city tours. Bottom line? The locals definitely fight their way through the selfie shots and tour groups with barely enough room for their small shopping carts.

The Colon Market is a whole different vibe. Gorgeous building. Built in 1916 as a market, it’s been extensively renovated, and beautifully maintained. Upscale restaurants and bars spread over two floors. It’s filled with little booths selling locally made fashion, artsy jewelry and pricey souvenirs. And only a few real food stalls—probably just so it could still call itself a mercado.

Tourists, yes. Mobs. Many Spanish, but sitting down to a coffee, you’re just as likely to hear Dutch, German, British English, or American English.

And dotted all around the city, there are many more neighborhood mercados, each with its own flavor.

It’s our mission before we leave to visit as many as we can. Mercado mania.

But for now, and probably always, the Mercado de Ruzafa is our happy place.