We regretted the big meal Sunday night because it limited our capacity to enjoy the remarkable breakfast buffet at The Londoner. Not that we suffered.
Easy jaunt on the tube from Leicester Square to the Elizabeth Line at Tottenham Court Road, and on to Heathrow, where we breezed through security and got comfortable for our flight.
Here’s our big bird; unfortunately, Sir Elton wasn’t aboard (check the plane’s name, Nathaniel and Alex, and ask your daddy to explain).
Actually, neither was anyone else. There were several seats open in Premium, while Upper Class and Economy were perhaps 1/4 full.
The lunch was unusually good: a decent Chicken Tikka Masala, a nice hummus salad, English cheese, and, believe it or not, a nice scone with clotted cream and strawberry jam! I watched to pretty bad movies: Almodovar’s The Room Next Door (about assisted suicide with Julianne Moore and Tilda Swinton; very flat; you kept waiting for something to happen) and Wolfs (a Soderbergh-esque attempt at a caper with Clooney and Pitt).
We did our reverse train thing (air train–LIRR–NJ Transit–Uber) and we were home in less than two hours.
The wait at passport control in Madrid was just silly: something like an hour and a quarter standing in line foll0wed by the most cursory passport check imaginable. Things went pretty well after that: a shuttle bus brought us from Terminal 1 to Terminal 4, where trains leave for central Madrid. This is certainly the cheapest transportation from an airport to a city center that we’ve experienced: 3 Euros a head!
Our train to Cordoba departed from one of Madrid’s two major train stations, the Puerta de Atocha, and, after navigating some poor signage, we found our way to the separate boarding area for high speed trains. The Spanish national rail service, Renfe, runs some very fast trains. Nathaniel will be pleased to know that his grandparents rode on a Spanish bullet train!
We were prepared for some spotty weather during the first week of our trip. Andalusia normally receives four or five rainy days in March, but people tell us it had already rained for a week. And, sure enough, we arrived in Cordoba to a deluge. We were all drenched, just running to the back of the taxi, grabbing our bags, and dashing into the hotel.
Las Casas de la Juderia de Cordoba is a gorgeous small hotel, made up of five separate houses that have been renovated in a way that retains their original appeal.
By the time we’d had a brief siesta, the rain had stopped and the sun was poking through in patches.
The streets in the old town are narrow, cobbled, and lined with whitewashed houses with flowers spilling out from planters.
We walked around the Mesquita, Cordoba’s mosque / cathedral, and down to the Guadalquivir River. Here are the travelers basking in the sun.
The main bridge across the river stands on Roman foundations. The river was in spate, with whole trees spinning along and the waters overflowing the banks.
We wandered through a number of charming streets east of the cathedral; the pictures give some sense of the scenes that dot the city.
We managed to find a tapas joint that opened by 7:30, a blessing for the jet-lagged. Casa Pepe was terrific. We had tapas-sized portions of baccala, jamon iberico, sardines, eggplant, and croquettes. Sue had sea bass for a main, while the rest of us tried the extraordinary belotta pork. The others drank local wine while I had a palo cortado, an unusual sherry initially aged to become a fino or amontillado but inexplicably loses its veil of flor.
Before heading home we had a glimpse of the Mezquita by night.
I started the day with a couple of pics of the local denizens in front of the hotel.
We wanted to give Paul and Sue an overview of the city’s neighborhoods, so we hopped on a tourist bus. Well, OK, hopped on is a lie. The entire area around the Zocalo was altered by a massive demonstration, with street closures and an oppressive police and army presence. A guy from the bus company led us several blocks on foot before waiting for our bus on a distant street corner.
First stop was at the Monument to the Mexican Revolution. The museum of the Mexican Revolution is definitely on our list of to-do’s.
Ciudad de México
The bus route runs down the Paseo de la Reforma, the boulevard that has become the showcase for modern Mexico City. We entered at the Angel of Independence, a column with a bronze winged victory covered in gold leaf at its summit. The monument was constructed by Porfirio Diaz in 1910 on the centenary of Mexican independence from Spain.
A number of the new buildings are rather beautiful.
As we were in the middle of the gentrifying Juarez neighborhood, full of colonial mansions, we jumped off the bus and into an Uber…almost literally. We were soon walking into our favorite restaurant in Mexico City (as the poet Hölderlin qualified, “of those we know”), Nicos. They had remodeled the restaurant since we were here a year ago; the rather formal setting (white walls, tables with cloths) has been replaced by a more modern, informal look.
The food hasn’t changed, though: it is still memorable. We started with table-side guacamole and fresh tortillas, then shared a couple of plates: the house signature sopa seca de natas (not really a dry soup, but a very delicate stack of crepes with a subtle tomato/Chile sauce) and probably the best taco ever, pork belly. Sue has sea bass, Paul a fried chicken, and I had Carne en su jugo, beef in a soupy bean sauce that was just great. We shared a flan and an espresso to polish off a great meal.
Our bus tickets were good for the whole day, so we had an Uber driver take us to a stop on the “green route” that goes deep into the southern part of the city. After literally running in circles around a statue in the center of the Paseo Reforma, we finally found the stop. We had been to Coyoacan, a gorgeous colonial neighborhood miles south of the center, several times, but always on the metro; the bus runs along the Avenida de los Insurgentes, the longest street in Mexico (it runs 29 km from north to south). Much of the avenue between Condesa and the university district is enormously wealthy, very green, and probably pretty interesting.
At the heart of this district is an enormous complex called the World Trade Center.
Nearby is a cultural center named for the (Stalinist) muralist David Alfaro Siqueiros.
Next stop was Coyoacan, the village where Cortez stayed in 1521 and 1522 while the capital was being built from the rubble of Tenochtitlan. The neighborhood has a distinctly rural feel, with brightly colored colonial houses. The heart of the district is the church of San Juan Batista: an astonishingly grand and ornate edifice for so small a place.
To the west of the church is the Jardin Centenario, a deeply shaded grove centered on the Fuente des Coyotes –the name Coyoacan probably comes from Nahuatl and means “place of coyotes.”
The garden is ringed with cafes, and we paused for some mineral water–one forgets that the altitude (7200 feet) conspires with the heat to induce dehydration!
On the side of the church is the Jardin Hidalgo, much stonier and less inviting. The light on the steeple was lovely, though.
So lovely, in fact, that it made my wife sing!
The square is closed off by the eighteenth century Casa de Cortez (a plaque claims, falsely, that Cortez stayed here).
There was no question of dinner after lunch at Nicos, but we shared some appetizers and drinks at the hotel’s rooftop restaurant and went to bed happy.
We started the day by getting our Covid tests; it couldn’t have been easier, all rumors to the contrary. What the newspaper reports of long lines with multi-hour waits failed mention was that this was for free testing; paying a small amount at a labratory reduces the wait to…zero.
Our plan for the day was to explore some new neighborhoods. But it takes awhile to get anywhere on foot in the Centro: too many shopping temptations for those who will remain unnamed, too many courtyards to stick one’s head into.
The green oasis of Parque El Llano lies just past the botanical garden; at its center is the obligatory statue of Benito Juarez. Gotta give ‘em a break here: after all the place is named after him (official name since 1872: Oaxaca de Juarez). At the park’s edge is a lovely new modernist hotel called Grand Fiesta Americana. I had made a blunder and cancelled our reservation at the Parador San Miguel, and had booked here as a backup. We might just stay here next time: lovely modernist architecture, a pool, and an interesting location.
The streets behind the hotel lead into the Jalataloco neighborhood, which we all found captivating. Colorful houses, busy residential life, lots of cafes…what’s not to like.
The colonial church at the heart of the parish lovely, and it is flanked by two incredible Coquito trees planted in the seventeenth century.
We found yet another hotel candidate, the City Centro, smaller but more of a Oaxaca feeling and just as lovely.
I haven’t talked much about art in Oaxaca. Part of that is because all the museums are closed. But there is still lots to ponder. We popped into a gallery in Jataloco that specialized in Mexican Modernism, and they had a nice selection of Rufino Tomayo’s work.
And then there’s the street art, which is everywhere.
Sue was beginning to drag…little did we know that she had a bug! We made it to our first stop, the tiny Mondo Cafe; we had come drawn by reports of great iced mochas, and on a hot day that was very enticing. As it turned out, I was the only one to have the mocha…but it was terrific.
I walked Sue back to the hotel for a siesta while the others went to get their Covid tests. Sue felt worse, not better, so I joined the others for the final stages of our tour, this time to the neighborhood around the Plaza de la Cruz de Piedad.
The streets around the plaza are some of the most colorful in Oaxaca…and full of colorful characters.
Patti recognized the place where her mother had purchased fabric on trips to Oaxaca. The building is now the Institute of Oaxacan Artesans; it displays the work of some of the best craftsmen in the region.
Just down the street is the start of the area of town known as Los Arquitos de Xochimilco. In the eighteenth century, the San Felipe aqueduct supplied the town with water; now the arches of the aqueduct frame the doorways of homes.
All this tourism made us thirsty…or at least it made Patti, David, and I thirsty. Mary Lou turned pale at the thought of more mezcal and bailed…but we hopped a cab for a famous mezcaleria, In Situ, which offers more mezcals than I can count. We shared a flight of three: a blend, an Arequeno, and a Texpetete. Each one was extremely interesting, and the bartender was very helpful in understanding not just the different agaves but the geography of each palenque. Watch out Patti! That agave stave might fall at any moment!
Dangerously enough, I discovered that it wasn’t far to La Casa Grande, the mezcaleria run by the great Real Miners paleque…in fact it was right next door. Uh oh. We shared three more shots, two remarkable blends and another Arequeno. These were a different class altogether, really world beaters. But we weren’t done yet: an Aussie and his Mexican friend had wandered in, and they convinced us that we had to try an agave distillate from the state of Jalisco. And we were glad we did…it was remarkable!
As we walked back toward the Zocalo, we found where all the immigrants who had been occupying the Zocalo had been moved. I’m afraid I don’t understand enough about the situation to comment, but it can’t be a good thing.
Sue was still under the weather and didn’t feel up to dinner. As it turned out, she didn’t miss much. We went to a recommended place called Las quince letras (we wondered to what the fifteen letters referred; Patti figured it out: the name of the restaurant has fifteen letters). We saw right away that there wasn’t a Mexican diner in sight. And the food was pretty mediocre (although I ordered badly). But no amount of bad food could put a damper on what had been a glorious week in Oaxaca.
Our lodging, the Kelly Inn, was the kind of place that had an automatic pancake machine. Who am I to resist comparing pancakes from a machine to mine? We got a fairly slow start and paid the price: a 30 minute wait at the west entrance. Yesterday had been an illusion: the park empties quickly in the afternoon, but, even in October, it’s a nightmare in the morning. The owner of last night’s eatery had said that the levels now were what the summer levels had been before the pandemic.
In the morning light, the Madison River was magical. It is one of the great trout streams, full of brown trout…and fishermen.
We decided to give the Great Fountain Geyser another try, and headed for Firehole Lake Drive. As we approached, we saw something unusual: trees with “Bobby socks,” rings of geyserite at the the bottom that had killed them.
Unlike the evening before, when we were feeling rushed, we took our time, stopping at most of the geothermal features. The first on the loop road is Firehole Spring, a deep blue with brilliant hues all around…the result of the interaction of microorganisms with the geyserite.
Returning to Great Fountain Geyser, we encountered what is apparently a frequent feature of the park: obsessive geyser watchers. An older couple from Los Alamos, dressed rather eccentrically, was seated at the center of the benches that surround the geyser; they spend an enormous amount of time in the park..all of it watching geysers. We guessed that he had been a scientist at Los Alamos, given his intimate knowledge of the park’s geology. He was certain that the geyser would erupt within 30 minutes because the water was overflowing the central crater, apparently a sure sign of imminent eruption. He told us to look for the “one meter boil”…and we did. Whenever the steam cleared a bit, I tried to get a shot of Mount Holmes in the distance.
After 30 minutes, though, the water level was sinking, so we decided to see other things and return. Just as we were leaving, the next geyser down the line, White Cone Geyser, blew its top.
The next area going south is the Midway Geyser Basin, centered on the Great Prismatic Spring. The place was mobbed: we waited about ten minutes in line for a parking place. We’ll worth it, though!
You first pass by the enormous crater of an extinct geyser, Excelsior. The crater is 200 x 300 feet; the overflow is 4000 gallons per minute! It must have been quite something.
Here is the overflow into the Firehole River: it virtually makes the river boil.
The main attraction, though, is Grand Prismatic Spring. This hot spring is so large that it really can’t be photographed from its edge. The Park Service has opened a trail to a high hillside above it so that walkers can get an overview. We weren’t able to get a good look at the water, but the runoff is in technicolor!
Our last geyser stop of the day was the huge Upper Geyser Basin, with its star attraction, Old Faithful. The buildings of Old Faithful Village are actually built around the geyser and its large mound. We had a bite of lunch and then took our places with the multitudes.
Sue and I did a long loop through the basin, Tom and Emily a somewhat shorter one. You cross the Firehole River through a lovely stand of trees as you walk toward “Geyser Hill.”
We didn’t see any of the really large geysers erupt, but the formations themselves are worth the trip.
Giant GeyserGrotto GeyserCastle Geyser
The geyserite mounds around the geysers have taken thousands of years to develop.
We finished the day by driving counter-clockwise around the bottom loop of the Grand Loop.
The views over the vastness of Yellowstone Lake toward the Absaroka Range are splendid.
The drive up past the end of the lake and into the Hayden Valley is gorgeous.
It was a long but memorable day. We returned along the Madison River, and, at the inevitable critter-watching traffic jam, we saw an enormous bull elk with a full rack.
Dinner was appropriately western: BBQ. Tom and Emily had ribs, Sue and I sliced brisket….really good!
Iceland is a deeply moving place, a place that made us reexamine our relationship with nature. As Sue aptly said, the distance could not be greater to a place like Chianti, where, as Fernand Braudel long ago noted, humans and nature have found a harmonious balance. Humans carve out a somewhat tenuous existence in Iceland, as volcanos, glacial floods, and the weather near the Arctic Circle does its work.
In speaking to former visitors, we realize that not everyone has this experience. I think part of the difference lies in the areas one visits: Western Iceland is tamer, more civilized than the Far East and northeast. But probably the biggest difference is time spent in the highlands. Iceland’s interior is hard to visit, accessed only through roads so rough that only the truly obsessed would venture onto them. We weren’t finally able to visit Thorsmörk, a natural area ringed by three glaciers; and on our return we would like to visit Askya, a remote, enormous caldera in east central Iceland. We’re already plotting our next visit, but this time we’ll rent a camper. The ability to move around without reservations ought to be a good antidote to the weather patterns.
This wouldn’t be my blog without a word about gear! We felt very prepared for whatever the weather threw at us. Anyone who plans to go more than 20 feet off a paved road needs:
— A bombproof rain shell. And I mean bombproof.
— Rain pants, preferably waterproof / breathable. We have rain pants from the now defunct cottage equipment manufacturer GoLite, and they’v served us well for 15 years.
— Waterproof (trail) shoes. I’ll put in a plug for the Hoka One One Speedboat GTX that both of us wore: extremely comfortable, totally watertight, and very grippy on rock, even when it’s wet.
— We were both very comfortable in merino base layers; when it was chilly we threw on a light down puffy.
