I felt a sudden urge to revisit my affection for this land we now call home, especially now that you might say the “honeymoon phase” is over. We’ll have been here two years come January, which is long enough to either fall more in love or start noticing more of the warts.

(As an aside, I’m delighted to report that our own personal honeymoon phase is continuing: despite living together 24/7 and almost 365, Carolyn and I are more in love than ever, and I’m so happy to be sharing this experience with her. My wife is always my number one priority, so this opportunity to live in a new country and “show her the world” makes me feel as if my life is really worth living. We’re having a ball, and are so happy we took this risk and made the sacrifices it has taken to be here.)

But back to Portugal:

The more we learn about these people and this country’s culture, the more I fall in love with them. The other day, we had something of a history lesson from a well-educated Portuguese professor, who pointed out the following:

1. Christopher Columbus first approached the Portuguese royalty to fund his voyage to find India. Portugal turned him down, because they knew damn well that India was in the other direction. So he approached the Spanish instead, who were not as well-informed as the Portuguese. It worked out for Columbus, but only because the Spanish were not as adept at the whole sailing thing. I guess it is sometimes better to be lucky than smart.

2. Portugal did in fact figure out how to get back and forth to India (which brought them tea, which they introduced to the English, and we all know what happened from there). Eventually a Portuguese princess married an English king and as part of her dowry they gave the English the city of Bombay, which ultimately helped England gain a foothold for conquering India and beyond. So you could say that Portugal had a lot to do with the discovery of America and starting England’s rise to world dominance. Hell, let’s throw in an iconic part of America’s history: tossing tea into Boston harbor. That would never have happened without Portugal. It might have been toasters instead, and Boston Toaster Party just doesn’t have the same resonance as Boston Tea Party.

3. Portugal was never that interested in conquering lands, they simply wanted to open up trade, especially since the Spanish were blocking their trade routes over land. Gotta love a people who didn’t set out to kill and dominate the natives just to be macho. Perhaps they’ve always been ahead of their time. In fact, they even had a law whereby if you had sexual relations with a native, you had to marry her. So none of that raping and pillaging stuff. Indeed, they were able to leave Portuguese surnames all over the world without killing people to do it. In fact it was because of lovin’ em!

4. Portugal takes a lot of pride in the fact that Spain, despite their larger size, was never able to conquer Portugal. At one point they did have a Spanish monarch in Portugal, but that was due to marriage, and it only happened because their young Portuguese king went off to war and was never heard from again. The Spanish king was next in line for the throne, and so he sat upon it. The Portuguese waited about 80 years before they finally decided their guy was never coming back and so overthrew the Spanish king. That’s a lot of patience!

5. When Portugal overthrew their dictator in the 1970’s, it was without bloodshed. They simply exiled the bad actors to Brazil (I wonder if that has anything to do with the mess Brazil is now in?). Apparently, it takes a lot for them to get fed up, but when they do get fed up, they don’t go shooting off their mouths… or guns, they just make it happen.

I think these historical facts are important and relevant even today, especially in light of America’s current political dramas. For instance, in Steven Pinker’s latest book, Enlightenment Now, he states that Portugal is one of only three Western nations that haven’t recently been poisoned by “populist” political movements (the other two are Canada and Spain).

Personally, I think much of this is due to the same cultural attitude as demonstrated in the way they handled their missing king hundreds of years ago. I really don’t think any strident right wing politics can make much of a mark in Portugal. They seem to be uninterested in outside political influences, and they definitely don’t scream at each other for whatever political differences they may have with each other. It’s so strange to look at everything going on in the United States from the outside while living in a country that is 100 times more peaceful and calm. The Portuguese have always been this way, apparently, and there ain’t anyone shouting political slogans from a rooftop who’s going to change it.

They also have a sort of a negative “Eeyore-ish” approach to life, embracing the melancholic fado as their national music and having a word in their vocabulary, saudade, which is considered more or less untranslatable, but refers to melancholic longing or yearning. Personally, I think this serves to keep them grounded and humble. Since I believe humility is the cornerstone to good human behavior, I would blame the lack of humility as one of the key reasons politics is tearing America apart.

I’m also of the opinion that while the Portuguese are considered poor in comparison with other EU countries, they are an example of why “just enough money” is really more than enough money. Everyone dresses well, albeit casually. There are plenty of cars on the road, and if you don’t have one, there’s plenty of mass transit. There are few homeless. Their basic needs of health care and education through college are covered. Most people are on the same stratus financially. Because their culture doesn’t revolve around money, they’re not stepping on each other’s heads competing for it. You also can watch an entire American TV show without one commercial interrupting it, largely for the same reason. They take their time eating, and talking, and just being with each other. In other words, they have their priorities straight.

If I were still Catholic, I would view all of this as confirmation that Mother Mary did in fact appear to three Portuguese children in Fatima. If history, attitude, and culture were the defining traits of “God’s people,” I’d pick the Portuguese too.

Actually, I guess I already have.

Burning Man. If you haven’t been there, trust me, you have no idea what it’s like. Pictures can’t do it justice. Mere words fail to enlighten. Trying to explain to anyone who has never been there why anyone would subject themselves to desert heat for over a week with no flush toilets, running water, or <gasp> internet can be an exercise in futility.

Suffice it to say, it’s more or less extreme camping in the most inhospitable place in the lower 48 states. Playa dust covers the water-starved hardpan and gets into every conceivable crevice you have in your body. It surely coats the inside of your lungs just as it coats everything you brought, including your food.

When the wind whips up, within seconds it goes from clear-as-a-bell to not being able to see your hand in front of your face. You better have a mask of some sort and goggles, or you’re going to choke to death or go blind.

And yet tons of people attend year after year after year.

But I’m not going to talk about all that. I’m going to talk about why Burning Man is a seminal cultural event that deserves serious consideration as one of the most important cultural events of our time.

What? Me being serious? Just what did Burning Man do to me anyway?

Before we get to all that, I must regale you with a short story about our overnight pit stop on the way to the Burn. Our stay was at a 100-year-old hotel in a tiny California town. We wandered in just before 9:00 PM, which is when the kitchen closed, but we got our food orders in just in time. After that it was all bar bill. We racked up a $700-plus tab, closed the place down, and staggered to our respective rooms for the first time, luggage in hand.

And boy I had to pee.

When you’re sixty years old and you gotta go, especially with your share of a $700 tab in your gut, you gotta go. And sometimes that means you gotta go RIGHT NOW.

So when the key to the hotel door didn’t immediately open the damn hotel door, panic began to set in. I was jumping up and down with my legs pressed together trying like hell to get the stupid key to work. I was mere seconds from one of the most embarrassing things that can happen to a grown man, except for maybe getting beaten up by a female midget.

In desperation, I looked to my left and spotted a door just a few feet away. I leapt at it with a hope and a prayer, one hand shoving open the door, and the other holding, well, you know. The door opened like the gates of heaven, complete with angels singing, right onto a fire escape.

Since it was the middle of the night there were no cars on the lonely highway, otherwise someone might have been treated to the sight of a man with an oddly satisfied look on his face, teetering on the fire escape, quenching a non-existent fire with a good five minutes of dousing.

Thus relieved, in more ways than one (trust me, if I’d had peed my pants you wouldn’t be reading about it here, but that was honestly my only other option), I plopped gratefully into bed. At about 8:00 AM I heard a soft knock on my door. I opened it to find one of our crew standing there, a young man nicknamed Funkhauser, or Funky for short. He asked if he could use my shower. Of course, but why? Because he hadn’t been able to remember his room number and so slept all night on the couch in the lobby.

Thus the 100 year-old hotel in a sleepy little California town received the indelible imprint of some Burners. Fortunately, both misdeeds went largely unnoticed, and so we’re certain the hotel still loves Burners. mostly because we paid for a lot of booze.

With that out of the way, for me, Burning Man consists of two parts. The first part is all about creativity. People make art for the playa; they make art out of cars and drive them around; they make art out of their camps; and they certainly decorate their own bodies in every conceivable artistic (and otherwise) fashion possible.

What the art and music of Burning Man shows me is that the creatives among us have a yearning to create just for creativity’s sake. Modern societies, in general, give sparse attention to the creative spirit. Especially in the United States, success is largely defined by money. Putting the word “starving” ahead of artist is mostly redundant.

But they continue to create. They crave artistic creation. Burning Man gives them an outlet to do so, even though there is no financial recompense or recognition. There is only the art. They share it after sometimes spending years just to create it. Just because they want to, or maybe have to.

By holding it in such an inhospitable place with a guarantee of no reward save the love of sharing, Burning Man proves that the human creative spirit is an amazing, unassailable thing.

Historically, societies are mostly remembered for their arts and sciences (unless they were particularly fond of blowing things up). History won’t judge the US based on how many McDonalds there were or what the top 1% of the populace sold to get rich. It’s the arts and sciences that prove the mettle of any great society. Burning Man shouts to the world that the creatives should be unleashed, because when they are, they come up with remarkable, amazing, and beautiful things, things that mere mortals could never even conceive of… all displayed in a place as barren as the Black Rock Desert. By the way, I never saw any black rocks. Just miles and miles of dusty playa. Unless the wind kicked up, in which case I could see nothing.

But I could always see the creativity, and it impresses the hell out of me. Why can’t we get more of this awesome stuff in the real world? Why don’t we hold the artists and the scientists aloft, encouraging the quest for knowledge and beauty with the same fervor with which we spend money on guns and financial gain?

The second part of Burning Man is the people. Those who attend do so for any one of a variety of reasons. Most love the camaraderie, at least as far as those I talked to. They love the freedom. They love to experience art and music like no other place on the planet. Sure, some like to party. But even those people are doing so because it’s a place that encourages freedom and creativity, and some people find that a little inebriation (okay, sometimes a lot of inebriation) helps them experience the art and music on a level they cannot while sober.

But the main thing is the camaraderie and fellowship. I spoke to a dozen people all of whom uttered a variation of the phrase, “This is what church should be like.” I couldn’t agree more. Here is a place with complete acceptance regardless of race, gender, sexual orientation, height, age, or anything else. It’s a place where you get a thousand hugs, are given food and gifts without expectation, and meet strangers who become lifelong friends after chatting for just five minutes. It’s a place where you’re supposed to ask permission to hug, but no one does, because pretty much everyone welcomes them.

Of course, there are always exceptions, which is why we have to remember to ask permission if there’s the slightest hesitancy. During our camp’s “gift to the Playa,” consisting of a wienie roast with booze, Twister, and a large Jenga game, my job was to cool down those in line with a little spritz from a spray bottle. I generally asked permission, but one time as I was spraying over the heads of some willing recipients, some drops apparently landed on the skin of a young woman in line. She promptly uttered a sharp, “fuck off!”

It took me a number of seconds just to digest this. Was she joking? Did I accidentally douse her newly placed temporary tattoo? Did she have Tourette’s? I had actually only misted lightly next to her; I swear only a couple of drops must have hit her skin. But it was very jarring to be admonished so harshly in a place where love between almost everyone was the dominant theme. After digesting her rude reprimand, and seeing the sympathetic eyes of everyone else in line, I simply apologized and moved on.

In hindsight, I wished I would’ve taken the bitch down by throwing her on her back and pouring the water all over her spluttering face. Just kiddin’. Well, mostly.

After that, I made people sign a waiver before they got a spritz. Just kiddin’ again. The spritzees outnumbered the “no thankers” by about 100 to 1. But there’s always that one.

As a result of there always being “that one person,” societies create no end of rules to keep everyone as comfortable as possible. Which is why a society based on Burning Man would have a hard time lasting more than a week. Someone will steal something. Another will get hurt by someone else’s negligence. There will be disagreements. Tempers will flare. Some woman will be thrown on her back and have water poured all over her foul-mouthed face. And so we end up with the structure of society with all its rules and regulations.

But for just a week, in what is almost the worst place in the world in which to be, Burning Man demonstrates that people can come together and enjoy and love each other in harmony, and without reservation. Burning Man shows the world that a society can thrive with no money at all (well, except for ice and some drinks at Center Camp), while encouraging all who attend to give freely, without expectation.

One of the basic tenets of Burning Man is Radical Self-Reliance. This means despite all the largesse of free food, drinks, and hugs. you’re expected to make it all work for your own damn self. This ain’t no left-wing Socialist do-gooder free ride.

Nowadays some on the right enjoy denigrating those on the left with the term “snowflakes.” Let me tell you, while the 70,000 strong surely contains a large portion of said “snowflakes,” they prove they can out-tough anyone. Snowflakes wouldn’t last a split second in that desert. But these people survive and thrive.

Actually, the demographics of Burning Man skew toward the better educated with higher incomes than the average American. These aren’t hippies; they’re largely successful professionals. There was even a camp populated solely by doctors.

So while this kind of society wouldn’t make it in the real world for long, Burning Man shows us that even if just for a week, a completely different kind of society can work.

I think of it as if a scientist was able to create life in a laboratory. Even if that life lived for just a second, it would be proclaimed an amazing scientific feat. The scientific community would take that discovery and build on it, working on ways to make that short-lived organism survive longer. Only the small-minded would pooh-pooh the whole thing and say, “Pshaw, it was only for a second. So what? Big deal.”

But the scientist proved it could be done. We don’t stop there, we take that success and figure out how to make it last longer. Just so with Burning Man. Surely, this is but a moment in time, but every year Burning Man proves that a society built on love, trust, no money or advertising, radical self-reliance, and the embracing of creativity in just about every form, can in fact work. And with a lot more work, and by learning from this experience, it gives me, at least, some hope that societies can do a lot better than they currently are.

And then they burn it all and it all goes away as if it never existed (Leave No Trace). Because that’s all of our futures anyway. In a hundred years, no one will even know you were alive. So make the most of what you have. Burn in the desert. Explore the world. Create something. Live.

Burning Man is a metaphor for your life: you suffer, you love, you experience new things, and then you disappear forever.

I go to be reminded of all that.

 

Even if you’re a little, shall we say, slow, Morocco is happy to have you visit.

You don’t need to wear a turban, or a burqa, or bow toward Mecca five times a day (although it was a little cool to hear the broadcast waft about the city when it was time for the Muslim residents to do so).

Tangier is a very metropolitan –indeed, almost European– city, having been conquered and occupied by Rome, the Byzantine Empire, Portugal, England, and Spain, as well as a couple of drunk Dutchmen for about six days. It’s a sister city to Pasadena, of all places, which is ironic because not many little old ladies drive around brand new, shiny red Super Stock Dodges in Tangier like they do all over Pasadena.

We were glad the clothing requirements were lax for women because we were afraid Carolyn might have to wear the latest in Islamic clothes or headgear, like the infamous tank-top as shown to the right, which has become quite popular in some parts of Afghanistan.

There’s so much misinformation and misdirected hate aimed toward Muslims (at least in the states; I haven’t found that to be true for Europeans), that we were glad to see for ourselves that, lo and behold, they’re just people. The places that have most of the terrorists are in backward states largely populated by a disaffected, undereducated, and over-propagandized populace; kind of like Mississippi or Alabama.

Morocco is a peaceful place where mosques, churches, and even synagogues coexist side by side. We saw women dressed in dresses, scarves, burqas, shorts, and bikinis. Okay, maybe not bikinis, in the city anyway. We saw some beaches from afar, but I couldn’t tell whether the women were wearing full body armor or not.

Morocco has a rocky coast, and so got it’s name from the Romans after they sent an exploration party across the channel:

“Giuseppe! What did you see there?”

“Oy, nothing except more rock-o!” he replied. And so the name stuck.

This is the approach to Tangier. We took a one-day tour provided by the oddly named Bland’s Travel. But I guess if you’re going to Africa for the first time, you probably don’t want to be in a tour named “The Bullet Dodgers” or “Most of You Make It Out Alive Tours,” so we settled for Bland.

This is the scene that greets you when you walk off the ferry. That tower is part of the mosque next to it. There are a few vendors here and there, but none that bother you much. They saved the bothering for later in the tour.

A closer look at the city once we landed. It’s not all that different from cities in Spain and Portugal, actually. They even have electricity and everything!

Our tour guide was a jolly ol’ Englishman. My wife was played by Carolyn on this leg of the journey.

Their main language is written in an alphabet we wouldn’t have even tried learning had we moved to a country that used it. Their secondary language is French; Carolyn doesn’t remember much from high school, except she does know how to say, “Ooh la la! Those boys are really cute!” I tried using it and almost got arrested. If you think Christians hate homosexuality, you should try America’s ally Saudi Arabia, where it’s punishable by death. Sheesh. Even in Morocco, it’s actually illegal, but you “only” may have to serve three years in prison with a bunch of other, uh, men. Psst. Don’t tell the authorities, but they’d probably be a lot more miserable in a woman’s prison. Just sayin’.

The tour took us to the other side of the city, where the Mediterranean meets the Atlantic. We didn’t see any color changes, lines, or wave differences, so it’s hard to tell exactly where they meet, but we’ll take their word for it.

The tour also included a delicious lunch in –get this– an authentic Moroccan restaurant. I can’t remember if I’ve ever had genuine Moroccan food before, but it truly was delicious, and I’d certainly have it again.

They have enormous palaces around the area, some of them owned by Saudi royalty. Guards are in place to keep the riffraff out as well as arrest any woman who isn’t behaving properly. Oh, wait, that’s America’s ally Saudi Arabia who does that.

A local tour guide joined the tour, giving us all the inside scoops about Tangier and Morocco. This is at the entrance to a pretty spiffy cave, called the Cave of Hercules. Here he demonstrates just how strong Hercules must have been to separate the continents.

The cave features an entrance that looks either like a woman screaming or the outline of Africa. Pictures of this are quite famous, especially now that another photo of it is in this blog.

One of the downsides of that particular tourist agency is they really go cheap on the transportation. It took us hours just to go a couple of blocks downtown, what with all the cars honking at us and stuff.

One of the upsides is that I got to ride right next to Anne Hathaway.

Mounting and dismounting is kinda hairy. You have to hold on tight, because you go almost perpendicular at one point. Here Carolyn is holding on for dear life. She made it, thankfully. And the camel’s fine, thanks for asking.

She’d walk a camel for a mile.

Actually, she wouldn’t. I wouldn’t want to either. That’s a very bumpy ride on an ornery animal. I think maybe walking a mile for a Camel might be better for your health than walking a camel for a mile.

In case you ever wondered what it looks like from atop a camel.

After the camel ride, I thought I had become Moroccan so I had to buy one of these thawbs. Yes, that’s what some call it, a thawb. It made me look fat so I kind of thobbed about it, which made me realize where the name came from.

Sans thawb, back to lookin’ like just another dumb ol’ tourist.

Examples of Tangerine architecture. Interestingly, none of them were orange, plus we couldn’t tell if there were any seeds inside.

The entrance to the local WalMart.

The Tangerine Walmart. They seem to take great pride in laying out their goods in an organized, beautiful way. It may be all out in the open, but it sure is neater than any Walmart I’ve ever seen!

That didn’t make Carolyn like it any more than she did. All that meat laying about isn’t so appealing to many western sensibilities, especially when your potential food is grinning at you.

A couple of the pictures above were taken in the fish market. Despite all the fish, it really didn’t smell as bad as you’d expect. Open and airy, but they keep it clean!

This guy was a hoot. As you walk through the areas with shops, various peddlers cling to you like spiders on Carolyn’s back. “Get it off! Get it off!” They’re very persistent, and seem to receive “No, not interested,” as “Of course I’m interested, I’m just playing hard to get! Wear me down for another half hour and I just may buy something!”

I had a running dialog with this guy, who asked me for the tenth time what my price would be for the shirt he was selling. I finally said “free.” Unfortunately, that began the negotiations. He followed us all the way down to our bus. He was good-humored and a funny guy, he just wouldn’t take no for an answer. Despite losing the sale, he responded with a big thumbs up when I brought my iPhone up for a shot. I almost bought something out of pity because he obviously has to wear a tablecloth to make ends meet.

So that’s it for this particular road trip. On the drive home, we encountered some of the record-setting temperatures Spain and Portugal were going through. I glanced down and noticed it was not only 43.5 degrees centigrade (110.3 fahrenheit), but that Lucifer was really enjoying it. When it peaked at 45 (113 fahrenheit, or in scientific terms, “Holy shit it’s hot!”), we were Knock Knock Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door. If I’d have been more ambitious, I would have pulled over and called up “Highway to Hell” on my iPod, but one can only do so much for one’s art. Besides, I now figure my iPod is sending me messages regularly and I just hadn’t realized it until now, so I’ll be living my life as an iPodian from now on.

“Honey, it’s playing ‘Why Don’t We Do it in the Road’ again!”

Anyway, bucket list: Been to Africa. Check.

On our journeys, we actually relish experiencing the unexpected (unless it’s the bad kind, like a flat tire, a plane crash, or an empty minibar in your hotel room). We like going off the beaten track once in a while, because you never know who or what you might run into.

So when we found ourselves with an opportunity to meet the Rock, well, we of course had to make the most of that opportunity. We were delighted to have almost a full day together.

But before we get into our adventures with the Rock, while we were driving from Grenada toward the coast of Spain, we decided to take a detour into the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Some of our American friends might wonder why we drove all the way to California and didn’t bother visiting them, but they might be surprised to find out the original Sierra Nevadas are in Spain. Just like the original Matterhorn is in Switzerland, not Disneyland.

Sierra Nevada means “mountain range covered in snow” in Spanish, which means the Spanish think just about every mountain range in the world is called the Sierra Nevada. The actual version contains the highest point of continental Spain, and the third highest in Europe, just ahead of the Matterhorn in Disneyland Paris.

When Carolyn first pointed out that there was snow on them thar hills while looking up at them from Grenada, I scoffed, thinking there was no way in this 100 degree weather in late July that snow could still be on the peaks. But as we took the drive up the mountains and got closer to them, I could see she was right. To which I say, “tens razão Carolyn,” which means “you’re right” in Portuguese; otherwise translated as, “I bow to your incredible wisdom, oh wise one, please forgive me for scoffing… so, um, can we still have some nookie tonight?”

Our ultimate destination was a village called Capileira, so-named because you need a lot of extra capillaries to live at that altitude. It is the highest and most northerly of the three villages in the gorge of the Poqueira river. Cars are not permitted to continue across the mountains, so Capileira is the highest village that public traffic can reach, unless you’re driving a tank, in which case you can pretty much go wherever you want.

On the twisty-turny drive up we spotted this little cave with a small building built inside.

So of course I had to inspect it. It was just some sort of abandoned one-room hovel. I guess a mountain man or some such built his little castle and then either died or left it when the road was put through. Love to know the story about it! Probably just a cave troll, though, who are now mostly extinct.

There was also this small castle on a small hill. We love castles, but this one was pretty small and not something you could visit. Probably built for elves, who are now mostly extinct.

The road up was full of twists and turns, some with minimal protection right next to a steep cliff. The good news about that is they don’t have a problem with drunk drivers there. Whoever tries it the first time generally has taken their last drive.

The village is built right into the side of a cliff. They used to play baseball up there, but after the 430th time the ball went bouncing down the hill, ending up about ten kilometers away, they switched to backgammon.

Cool, clear, free, unfiltered water ushers forth from faucets scattered about the town. It honestly was possibly the tastiest and most refreshing water we’ve ever drunk. It was as fresh and delicious as water gets. Of course, we had the shits real bad a few days later, but hey, we got a photo op out of it beforehand! Just kiddin’ about the shits. It made us poop flavored yogurt for a couple of days, actually.

It’s a charming little town with quaint shops and gorgeous views of the countryside. The items in the shops were even reasonably priced; we don’t buy much on our travels but we did buy some things there. Like Imodium. Just kiddin’.

The views were definitely breathtaking, especially if you walked anywhere because there was nothing that wasn’t on an incline.

After a thoroughly pleasant visit, and gratitude that we’d veered off the beaten track and seen a place not many American tourists ever visit, we mushed on to the Spanish coast… and the Rock!

Most Americans have heard of the Rock of Gibraltar (aka the Rock), and– what? You thought we meant the Rock, as in Dwayne Johnson, the guy who gives every professional wrestler hope that they can go from pretending to wrestle to pretending to act? I never said that. As you should already know, he wasn’t even in Spain at the time!

Anyway, it’s a famous rock that stands guard over the entrance to the Mediterranean Sea. I think Dwayne needs to make a movie there.

On the other side of the channel, in Morocco, stands the other “Pillar of Hercules.” In ancient times, the two points marked the limit to the known world. Legend has it that it’s where the earth actually ended; that there was nothing whatsoever beyond. That’s why they sent Columbus past there, hoping he’d just fall off the end of the earth. Instead, he discovered Indians running around America, and so invented McDonalds in the hopes of eradicating them all because they were a bit more tan.

Accceso might have looked prohibido, but we went up to the top anyway.

Oops, maybe it was prohibido.

The Rock of Gibraltar is also famous for being home to a couple of hundred monkeys, who make a living looking cute and asking for handouts. The Barbary Macaque population in Gibraltar is the only wild monkey population in the European continent.

Here mom shows her baby how to deal with the tourists and beg for handouts.

Sometimes they don’t wait for handouts. This clever fella jumped on the back of this tourist, unzipped his backpack, and stole a plastic container full of food. Guess he was tired of the free fruit and vegetables. The man did get his container back, empty.

Sometimes its hard to tell which children belong to which family, so occasionally little kids are left to fend for themselves while the imposters who replace them puzzle their parents as to why they need so many haircuts.

After seeing the long line for the gondola ride up the mountain, we opted to take a van tour instead. The bonuses were ongoing and educational commentary from the driver, several stops along the way for views and sights, and…

…having a monkey sit in our laps. This little fella clambered up onto the van while it was moving, and proceeded to sit in both my and Carolyn’s lap. I didn’t want to take a picture of it because I was afraid he’d steal my iPhone and scamper away, subsequently racking up thousands of dollars of long-distance calls to his cousins in Africa.

Some of them are just begging for affection. This one looks more likely to rip my face off.

This baby was getting all the affection and grooming his little heart desired. His mama gets a free all-you-can-eat buffet of lice.

Inside the rock is a labyrinth of caves. This particular section was lit up with all sorts of colored lights. They even hold concerts inside there… I’d love to hear a concert with those unique acoustics. Obviously, they can only play rock.

They also have something called The Great Siege Tunne. I’m still not sure what a Tunne is, however.

They also had a bunch of tunnels, some of which were extended and modified during World War II.

Here I’m directing fire at all the terrorists flooding in from Morocco. I wonder if Trump would have wanted to build a wall across the Mediterranean if he was the President of Spain?

The Rock is heavily touristed, and so the vans pile up. Well, line up anyway. You wouldn’t want to be in a pile-up on the Rock. Most of the road up had only a flimsy guardrail protecting you from a ten thousand meter drop. The entire drive up, I was crossing my fingers that our driver never sneezed or had a sudden seizure.

But we made it safely, and enjoyed the amazing views from atop the famous promontory.

Amazed yet?

But wait, there’s more! For the same low price you also get to walk out onto a clear glass floor balcony, where you can stand and look down a very long way, with the pane of glass being the only thing between you and certain death.

I actually ventured out a little ways onto the glass, but there was this teeny tiny little thing that prevented me from going all the way:

Right next to it, there was a section of the balcony roped off with flimsy tape… because there were big cracks in the glass! How would you like to be the guy standing there when that happened?

So yeah, um, no. I ventured out far enough to check it off my bucket list, but I weigh too much to trust a piece of glass that’s identical to one that’s already cracked.

Speaking of death, for the life of us we couldn’t figure out what this was from our perch atop the rock. Closer inspection revealed it to be a cemetery, I think full of all the dead tourists who tried the glass floor thing.

By the way, that runway is one of the most dangerous runways in the world. On top of that, and possibly contributing to the danger, a highway runs right through it. The pilots conduct an ongoing sweepstakes to see how many cars they can take out while they land.

The Moors got their name from the fact that they made buildings moor-better.

Surrounding the Rock is the town of Gibraltar, which is still owned by the British. Accordingly, prices were in pounds, although they happily accepted Euros, especially since even the English can’t figure out what a pound is worth, or how much it weighs.

The town holds about 30,000 English refugees, who may get stranded there permanently when Brexit takes place and all flights to Europe from England are eliminated. At least I think that’s what is going to happen.

Carolyn snores, er- rests, on the drive home. That was a lot of hilly walking!

And so the sun sets on another adventure; more sights seen, more history learned, and a monkey in our car who refuses to get out.

The main reasons for our move to Portugal include, in no particular order, the desire to use it as a home base to explore Europe, to get away from our kids (just kiddin’), a burning desire to learn another language (Again, just kiddin’. It’s as difficult as I feared it would be.) because life is short and when we’re on our deathbed we want to feel as if we’d done as many things and gone on as many adventures as possible (not kiddin’), and, last but not least, to be able to retire early. Indeed, there is no way we could have retired in the US when we did, mostly due to its exorbitant health care costs (definitely not kiddin’).

In fact, just in case our positive view of European health care has been tainted by Portugal, we were excited to be exposed to another country’s health care (just kiddin’) after Carolyn popped something in her hip (Uh oh, a precursor to breaking a hip! We better get all this sightseeing done before our bodies give out!). She had to be taken to a hospital in Spain because she couldn’t walk on it. Turns out hips are pretty important for walking.

Anyway, she was seen immediately, they took X-rays (and even gave us the film as a souvenir), and announced that she had only three weeks to live. Oops. Wrong X-ray. Actually, she’ll be fine, but the whole visit, including the souvenir X-rays, was just north of 200 euros. In the U.S. the total billing would have probably been, oh, about one million.

I’m sorry, but anyone who still believes the propaganda that we need more freedom for the insurance companies to line their pockets with cash in order to provide proper health care, well, tell you what. Move to Europe, get sick, and see how they do it. You might just change your mind.

In any case, this particular road trip validated all of our thinking because we were able to hop in the car (This is before the hip problem. Hopping for Carolyn will be a bit problematic for another week or two.) and drive all over Spain and even into Morocco. We also were able to confirm that health care costs here will allow us to stay retired no matter where we go in the EU, and we even knew a little more Spanish because the Portuguese and Spanish languages are very similar.

I just had to get used to saying “Grathias” because in Spain they pronounce the “ç” like a “th.” For a while, I was saying “grathiath” because I thought it was only because everyone had lisps. Speaking of which, what numbskull decided the word for “lisp” should be “lisp?” Talk about adding insult to injury!

So we had four main stops on this particular road trip. First up was Grenada, Spain, the home of The Alhambra and (gre) nada else. And no, I’m not talking about Al’s ham bra you’ve heard so much about.

The Alhambra is a palace and fortress complex located in Granada, Spain. It was originally constructed as a fortress in AD 889 on the remains of Roman fortifications, and then was largely ignored until its ruins were renovated and rebuilt in the mid-13th century by the Nasrid emir Mohammed ben Al-Ahmar (Nasal for short) of the Emirate of Granada, who built its current palace and walls.

The Alhambra was the last holdout of the Moors in Europe until it was conquered by the Christians in 1492. Ironically, the whole thing started out as a big celebration because Christopher Columbus, who no one liked, had just sailed off the end of the earth, and they were ecstatic to be rid of him. The party turned into something of a riot, and the next thing that happened, moor or less, is that the Moors hightailed it back to Africa. But honestly that was mostly because they missed their camels and they were tired of the Spanish anyway.

My many rabid readers (okay, there’s only one, and it’s you! Wait! Don’t leave! I mean rabid in a good way!) may recall that I visited Grenada and the Alhambra with my two good friends Cale and John Lee back in January. I knew Carolyn would really appreciate it, so this, for me, is round two for Alhambra. I wanted Carolyn to see it, but I also wanted to see if anything had changed in the last six months. You know, just in case.

So without further ado, here are the pictures of that portion of our trip (if I had invented Twitter, it would’ve been limited to 144,144,144,144 characters), but yay! Here come the pictures!

The sun rises over the hills of Spain. Once in a while we accidentally take a shot that’s actually kinda pretty, so I thought we’d start out with that. It goes downhill from here.

I mean, immediately downhill.

Because first up is this shower shot from our hotel room. But it might help you understand why I’m so stupid. I keep hitting my head on all these low things. That bar went right across the middle of the shower.

And to complete the bathroom portion of this blog, below is an actual shot of our sink after we’d moved in. Notice anything unusual? Remember that I’m traveling with a woman. Unbelievably, she leaves no trace in the bathroom ever: no make-up, no curlers, no piles of bottles and gadgets whose use is a complete mystery to men. She’s awesome to room with, especially for a woman. Ha!

I guess they moved Elvas’s body to Spain after he died. Okay, I know it’s “Elvis,” but the Spanish have never been known for their spelling prowess. Otherwise they’d be called Spainish.

Grenada gets pretty hot. They erect shades in the summer to keep the sun off the tourists. On the other hand, these could be someone’s sheets being hung out to dry, I dunno.

Since I’d already been to Grenada and Alhambra, Carolyn took most of the photos. Sometimes I’d get tired of being in them, so I’d hide.

Grenada is a nice town with a vibrant touristy area. But the main reason to visit is the Alhambra.

So first up from said attraction is a short slideshow presentation of some roses from its many gardens. A rose by any other color is still a rose you know.

Now on to the rest of the Alhambra, presented in a mosaic, because there’s no way I can come up with interesting things to say with that many pictures. Not that I ever do, but hey; write your own blog if you’re gonna keep complaining. You might be rabid, after all.

So that’s The Alhambra after I edited out the 142 pictures with me in it. It’s a beautiful palace, with lush gardens and amazing architecture. Definitely worth a visit if you’re headed out Granada way!

For some reason, signs like this are like crack to an addict, as if cajoling me, “Go on! Go on! There must be something cool beyond this sign!” On the other hand, maybe they just don’t like El Paso, Texas.

After our tour of Alhambra, we took a walk up a big hill in Granada in very hot weather. That’s the Alhambra behind us. That’s us about ready to die in front of it.

As you can see Carolyn had become a bit overheated during the walk. Ninety-plus weather and a 40 (or was it 80?) degree uphill slope will do that to ya. The Sangria was just what the doctor ordered. Really. The Spanish medical system is that awesome. Anyway, we were treated to some of the best Sangria we’ve ever had, plus there was no deductible!

For you youngsters, “roger, wilco, and out!” is an old military term. But Wilco, our friend from Holland, elected to bring his partner Astrid instead of his other partner Out, so we have to make due with what we have, at least as far as headlines are concerned.

In any case, we were honored to receive a visit from these two royals from Holland. At least they said they were royals. We had to believe them because we don’t speak Dutch, so there was no way to confirm it.

Speaking of which, the combination of The Netherlands, Holland, and Dutch confuses me. Three completely different words. How do people living in Holland become known as Dutch? It’s like saying, “I’m from America, so I’m an Oopa Loompa.” They tried to answer my question as best they could, but in the end, they just threw me in the pool.

Here we celebrate their successful landing in Lisbon. We’ll only tell you how dangerous Lisbon’s airport is if we don’t want you to visit.

Here we serenade Wilco by belting out an aria from our favorite opera. He’s smiling now, but after a few more verses, he was ready to jump off the wall.

This is the scene from the aforementioned wall. The Sesimbra Castle dominates the skyline over Sesimbra, and affords impressive views, capture-able even by lousy photographers like me. And of course, we still like castles.

If that doesn’t look like the wave of a royal, I don’t know what does. His Secret Service agent is offering protection.

Carolyn’s gonna hate this picture.

The Dutch, at least insofar as one couple represents all of Dutchendom, seem to enjoy kissing a lot. I took to carrying around a spray bottle and would douse them anytime they got too carried away. The Portuguese are a shy people, which is why you don’t see a lot of Dutch people in Portugal.

Lunch by the sea with Sangria. Or is it Astrid? I’m bad with names.

Astrid enjoys a morning swim with her coffee. She was the only one brave enough to jump into the chilly water. Or maybe she warmed the water up by pouring her coffee in; the pool did seem a little darker when she got out.

There they go kissing again in front of the Cabo Espechel lighthouse.

One thing no one warned us about in regards to the Dutch is that shortly after their arrival, the city rushed in and began laying sewer pipe. I think the septic tank guy called them begging them to do this after getting tired of being called back to the house four times in one day just to empty the tank. This may be why they call all their territories The Netherlands: the Dutch do some weird things with their nether regions.

Wilco demonstrates his masterful pool cleaning skills. He is a very handy (and energetic) guy to have around. If Astrid ever dumps him, we’re gonna have him come live with us. Actually, we’ll take ’em both anytime!

This is the Pantheon (Panteo) right by our apartment in Alfama. Wilco pretends to be Rocky here, but he actually only ran up the last step.

Wilco is an aspiring model and Astrid is an aspiring photographer. Since it was a warm day, I was just a perspiring tourist.

Kissing again. And with the tongues now! Oh for heaven’s sake! Get a room!

Finally, a shot where they’re not kissing. Good God! Anyway, this is at Sao George Castle, which is one of the main attractions of Lisbon. In the background is the 25 de Abril bridge, which used the same blueprints as the Golden Gate Bridge. The Portuguese like to name things after dates, but they kind of messed up because there’s only 366 of those, which is why they decided to keep the country relatively small.

Still at Sao George Castle. While the castle dates back many centuries, it was in the late 14th century that the castle was dedicated to Saint George. You thought the “sao” (pronounced “sow”) was a pig, didn’t you?

Here Wilco demonstrates how to pickpocket a purse. We can’t show the next picture because there was too much blood. Don’t try and steal from Astrid, that’s all we’re sayin’.

I just had to take a shot of this electric car being charged by an extension cord dangling from the third floor.

We were in the middle of Lisbon (actually Commerce Square) before the World Cup match between Portugal and Iran was to be played. The mood was festive!

All in all, we had a wonderful visit with this delightful couple. In fact, I think Astrid and Wilco should write a book entitled, “How to Be a Perfect House Guest.” They were charming, interesting, funny, unobtrusive, helpful, easygoing, and Wilco sweeps a mean pool. Plus they offered to pay good money for each positive adjective.

We were very happy to have shown them around Lisbon as well as just chill out by the pool. They both work very hard, so this wasn’t just a visit to sightsee, they enjoyed the relaxing aspect of just sitting on our patio, soaking up the sun, and enjoying the company.

We also went to the nearby beach for an afternoon. The ladies insisted that I not take any pictures of them in bathing suits, but being the scoundrel that I am, I made sure we posed for a friendly passerby who took our shot. I’m sorry, ladies, you’re just gonna have to deal with it.

That’s it.

That’s all I got for this entry. There’s nothing more important anyway.

Good.

Aside from sex, food is probably humanity’s greatest physical pleasure. While people are understandably reluctant to ask others how the sex was in other countries, they certainly ask about the food! So I took pictures of an array of foodstuffs (don’t worry, I won’t publish any sex pictures) we encountered during our trip to Italy. Well, there is in fact one sex pic below. Apologies in advance to my Mom.

Speaking of which, this is about as sexy as chicken gets! Actually, the reason for this picture is that this is a “chicken salad” as ordered from the menu. Granted, it was in an inexplicably inexpensive restaurant on the outskirts of Rome, but still. Technically it is a chicken salad, if the recipe for one is as follows: Dump some lettuce on the plate. Throw a piece of cooked chicken on top. Voila! Even I can follow that recipe!

This was part of the menu of said restaurant. Yes, two euros for a Pizza marinara and three for a Pizza Margherita, which is pretty much their pizza staple. And they were of decent size as well. Although after the chicken salad I wondered if the Margherita pizza simply consisted of some dough with a margarita placed on top. Which would have been a great deal actually, but I was still throwing up from my hangover so had no desire for another margarita.

You can’t go to Italy without eating some spaghetti. I think it’s illegal, actually. So Carolyn enthusiastically stuffs her face to prove she didn’t need to be hauled off to jail.

This is how you store leftovers while in an AirBnB. Plus it’s further proof that we ate spaghetti in case they raided our apartment to check.

By the way, after you eat spaghetti, do you refer to it in the pasta tense?

Our companions were on a quest to find the best gelato in Rome, even being willing to brave this madhouse. The jury is still out on which was the best. Guess we need more tasting.

Speaking of madhouses, welcome to the asylum! Actually this was a very nice Michelin-rated restaurant (although none of the food tasted like tires, for which I was grateful) with rain forest decor and the finest group of traveling companions we’ve ever had the pleasure of being with. At least in April of 2018. In Italy. In that particular restaurant anyway.

Just like the two euro pizza restaurant, their servings were actually pretty generous.

You’d be a cuddle bunny too if you’d just imbibed two gallons of wine (which is 1.15 stones in metric, which is also 11.5 pebbles, or 11,111,111.5 grains of sand).

I can’t tell if this is before lunch, but it’s definitely after the two gallons of wine. Our Dutch friend Astrid is checking with me to make sure Carolyn’s really going to be okay.

Pastries are a big thing in Rome. After a polite sharing of the pastry by Wilco (he’s from Holland, so of course we went dutch on all the food), I demonstrate the advantages of sporting facial hair. You get to taste whatever you ate for a long time.

Unless it’s fish. After one unfortunate experience, I learned that you shouldn’t keep fish in your mustache. Anyway, if this handsome dude had a mustache, it would be like a Hitler mustache, only sideways. He’s better looking than Adolph either way.

On a tour we were told that Rome is like lasagna due to all of its archeological layers. So I made sure to order lasagna at the next restaurant we went. Here, our friends are comparing the photos they took of their own food.

I think the food you’re raised on may be the most important determiner of what you’ll like to eat for the rest of your life. I mean, I ordered frickin’ lasagna in frickin’ the heart of Rome, and I still like my Mom’s better. Even if she did make it with 30% fat hamburger, tomato juice mixed with flour (because sauce was more expensive), and lasagna noodles she rescued from the dumpster. Just kiddin’. But I do love my Mom’s lasagna. And my Mom.

Burro soap. Who would’ve thunk? I thought maybe it was good for cleaning, you know, your ass. Except burro means butter in Italian, which I quickly discovered the first time I washed my hands with it.

Now for the sex pic! These are the penis cookies I was so generously given for kissing a bride and giving her two euros. I promise I won’t make a joke about the dark one being bigger.

Aperol is an Italian apéritif made of bitter orange, gentian (which is a flower), rhubarb, and cinchona (which is another flower), and a secret combination of herbs. So with all those ingredients taken from a garden, it’s an essential component to a healthy diet. Here Wilco demonstrates a typical nutritious Dutch lunch.

After enough Aperol you’re about ready to kiss anyone. Although who could resist a handsome dog like Wilco?

Wine with dinner. A must in Italy. Along with being with a woman who doesn’t object to having her butt pinched. By me anyway.

The Italians must like their sweets. This is a shop filled with nothing but clever ways to make sugar look better, because of course the taste is otherwise so bad.

And that’s no yolk.

Are my puns driving you bananas?

I’m not sure what these are supposed to be. But it’s either a barrel o’ fun or 450,000 calories, or both.

There’s no doubt that eating sugar in the shape of a pizza slice gives you all the nutritional benefits of, um, sugar.

If you throw these in your mouth you get to claim exercise points while eating sugar!

The gorilla wasn’t licorice. In fact, it tasted a lot like plastic (and the store clerk didn’t appreciate me licking her ape).

Gelato. The King of Desserts as far as I’m concerned. In Rome, there are one of these shops every twenty meters or so. I think it might be by law.

The Romans eat so much fart-inducing food that they have hotlines you can call if your partner’s farting (or confartigianato in Italian) gets out of hand.

This puffy pastry looks delicious but it ain’t no gelato.

For the holidays, such as Easter, they go all out with their confections. In this case, these go in like a lamb, but out like crap. Actually not like crap, just crap, just like everything else you eat. My Mom still thinks crap is a swear word. At least I didn’t use the word shit.

Carolyn, honey, this should’ve been our wedding cake!

I think a sugar alien popped out of that egg.

It takes a lot of bread to live in Rome.

Cappuccino. The King of Hot Drinks. As demonstrated here by my queen.

Now you can say you’ve seen a plate of authentic spaghetti as served in Italy. The next day we took a tour through the spaghetti groves where we watched them harvest Angel Hair Pasta.

Carolyn demonstrates the proper way to eat spaghetti in Italy. You have to be careful because the pasta police can show up unexpectedly at any moment and give you a ticket if you’re not eating it properly.

This is supposed to be a one-person pizza. Between that and stopping at a gelato shop every twenty meters, it’s no wonder we gained 2 stone! (That’s 27.8 pounds.) Okay, maybe not two whole stones, but plenty of pebbles.

I haven’t got quite enough in my mustache for the rest of the day yet, although I’m saving the whipped cream on my nose for Carolyn.

Unlike many of our travel companions, we aren’t “foodies,” although I’ll try just about anything. Except I don’t really care for bleu cheese (they can’t even spell it right), green peppers, panda, siamese cat, and anything that tastes like you’re licking a pier. Carolyn likes most anything too as long as it’s been cooked to blackened perfection (her mother overcooked everything, so there you go). But Italy was filled with tempting offerings, and we enjoyed virtually every one of them, even the burro soap.

Although I have to now give a shout-out to the pastries of Portugal, lest Portugal become jealous of our love for Italian food. Click here for The Prettiest Pastries in Portugal, and How to Recognize Them.

And that wraps up our Italian adventure!

What a rip off! They say it’s a leaning tower- but just look at this picture. It’s almost as straight as an arrow!

Of course, they say perspective is everything.

The production of the Tower of Pisa began in 1173, and took almost 200 years to finish. That’s why they named it Pisa, because it takes a lot of pizzas to feed two centuries worth of workers.

The structure began to sink in 1178, after construction had progressed to the second floor. This was due to a too-shallow three meter foundation which was set in weak, unstable subsoil. The fact that they used all those leftover pizza boxes for the foundation didn’t help either.

Ironically, the flaw that created the lean is what makes it an enormously popular tourist attraction. Which just goes to show you, sometimes it’s the flaws that make you beautiful!

Okay, now do you believe the thing really leans?

So here’s the real deal with the actual lean. It’s quite a remarkable-looking building, especially with its lean physique.

I suppose the residents take the tower for granted, but it’d be a pretty cool structure to see on your way to get groceries every day, even if it doesn’t look like it’s leaning from every angle.

They were kind enough to provide parking for jet fighters, so you can get there in any one of a number of ways apparently.

I don’t know how many of these people arrived via jet fighter, but there were sure plenty of ’em. Tourism in Italy seems to be thriving just fine.

Fortunately, Carolyn arrived just in time to keep the building from leaning further. Or is it “farther.” I hate those two words. Leaning “more.” That’s good enough. In Portuguese we just say “mais.” Mais leano.

Psh. Everyone saw what she was doing and so started posing for fake pictures to look just like it. But Carolyn is the only one really holding it up, as you can tell by comparing the two photos.

Those who haven’t visited Pisa may not realize that the area, called the Piazza dei Miracoli (Square of Miracles) doesn’t only consist of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, but also features the Pisa Cathedral, the Pisa Baptistry, and the Camposanto Monumentale (Monumental Cemetery), as well as a couple of museums. I can attest to the fact that the Square of Miracles works, because it sure seems like a miracle that we live in Portugal and can hop on a plane to Rome and Italy and Pisa and points beyond for the price of a nice dinner. Okay, maybe with a nice bottle of wine or two included, but that’s my kind of miracle!

The baptistry is in the foreground. Construction was begun in 1152. It is the largest baptistry in Italy.

This is the Pisa Cathedral, construction of which began in 1063. It is the largest cathedral in this picture.

This is Moses, or at least someone as old as him. Oh wait, the statue is of Moses. Ah, I thought you meant the other old bearded guy.

This piece is entitled Fallen Angel, and is a temporary piece of contemporary art on display in the square. It was original simply entitled Angel, but then, you know, it fell.

Inside the Cathedral.

These are the stairs that take you to the top of the baptistry.

We swear they were this worn down before we stepped on ’em!

And these are the views that greeted us once we made it to the top. That’s a lot of space just for sprinkling water on a baby’s head!

Although the other buildings are beautiful, the Leaning Tower of Pisa is the main attraction of course. You have to pay extra and make a reservation to climb up the tower, and so we did. Security was pretty tight; not even any little old bags were allowed. But they let Carolyn in. Phew!

This isn’t the way to the top.

This is.

Heights aren’t necessarily my thing. Actually, I’m not afraid of heights, per se, I’m just nervous about the landing.

Although I love the views you get from above. It’s like practicing being in heaven.

I don’t remember going into the tower the first time I visited Pisa, but the top of it sure rings a bell! Note how the bells look like they’re hanging a bit crooked, they’re actually hanging straight.

Bucket list: Check!

Generally, when we travel, we plan ahead for some of the major things we want to do, but then allow timing, mood, weather, luck, and whimsey to guide us in discovering other things to experience and see. Such as it was with working in an unexpected trip to Pompeii. We found ourselves with an extra day to kill while in Rome, and so decided to take a day trip bus tour down to Pompeii.

The bus drove through Naples, the sum total of which netted four –count ’em- four!– usable photos and a fairly lousy lunch. Naples isn’t a city that’s doing all that well, led by an unemployment rate of about 28%. It was once a busy industrial city, but many factories have shut down in the last few decades. Naples is also characterized by high levels of corruption and organized crime, which often starts with serving very bad lunches to tourists driving through on busses.

We did get to see some waves crashing on the shore. It looks like a city that will be affected by climate change, as the waves regularly surged onto the main boulevard that borders the water. This was pretty much the highlight of our drive through town.

Although there is an interesting castle right on the water, called The Castel dell’Ovo, which literally means “The Egg Castle.” There’s a whole story behind that name I won’t bore you with. Besides, I have no yolks for it. Anyway, it is the oldest standing fortification in Naples, dating back to Roman times. The first castle on the site was built in the 12th century by the Normans. Speaking of which, how could everyone tell who was who if they were all called Norman?

This is the volcano, Vesuvius, that made Pompeii famous. If it hadn’t blown its top and buried the town, we might never have heard of Pompeii. The mountain doesn’t look like much, actually, so its understandable why they weren’t worried about it when they built the town. Besides, the land is very fertile due to the volcano, so the town grew because of the volcano, and then was destroyed by it. Reminds me of Stormy Daniels.

It’s amazing all that ash didn’t ruin their great lawns. Obviously, the technology the Romans had for keeping grass green was way ahead of its time.

There a couple of auditoriums, one of which was played in by Elton John, another by Pink Floyd. So they still work!

If you love old ruins like we do, Pompeii is a special treat. Because normally when you visit old Roman ruins, you see the “skeletons” of the walls only. It’s truly amazing to see an entire town in 3D, very much like it was in its heyday.

With just a little imagination, you can see how colorful and decorative the city was.

Not that you can tell from this painting, but many artistic and scientific skills were lost for a thousand years after Rome fell. Artists from the Renaissance actually got excited digging up old Roman ruins because they were able to see quality, style, and skills that were long since forgotten, and so resurrected them for their new art.

To accommodate wheeled carts but keep pedestrians feet out of the mud, they built sidewalks and placed these stepping stones between them. Note the groove where the wheels wore down the rock.

This was an entrance to a house. You can tell this isn’t a Roman-era photograph because she’s wearing glasses, and no one wore glasses back then. They all had contacts.

Again, when you realize that most of the Roman ruins we’ve seen don’t even have walls, when you see an entire city so well preserved, well, it makes you want to add another “i” to the end of Pompeiii! Actually, nowadays they’re writing it as “Pompei.” I’m guessing that with all those eyes, people thought the word looked like a potato.

AD 79. That’s when Pompeii was buried. I’m not sure we can build any better columns today.

The city was full of fountains, running water, and gardens. Plus they even predicted the shape of the United States, with the red, white, and blue included! Those Romans were really ahead of their time!

This is a picture that decorated one of the brothels. Despite zooming in and poring over every pixel, I still couldn’t quite figure out what kind of hanky-panky these two were up to. But it probably cost him ten dēnāriusses, which is 100 asses, which has to be where the term “piece of ass” originated. I’m just making that up, but it sounds right!

Just imagine hordes of people walking around in togas, carts clattering on the stones, and big neon signs advertising fast food hanging on every other wall.

Amazingly well preserved tile flooring. We want this for our shower.

At the time of Pompeii’s destruction, it was thought to have a population of about 11,000. Today, about 3 million tourists visit Pompeii every year. What Vesuvius didn’t destroy, all those tourists might. They’re now talking about regulating the number of tourists because it’s starting to get a little out of hand.

Despite the treasure trove of historical riches, Pompei (or Pompeii or Pompeiii, whichever you prefer), could be placed on the List of World Heritage in Danger by Unesco. Hundreds of millions of dollars are needed to help preserve, restore, and investigate the ruins, many of which are still buried.

Carolyn thought there’d be a bad smell from all the dead people.

Actually, it was kinda chilly there on that day.

One of the rooms where various artifacts are being held. The glass cage holds the skeleton of a dog, who was buried right as he was licking –um, ah, well. Anyway, at least he went out with a smile on his face.

A view to die for (literally), and a bronze guardian.

1,000 years after this was painted, this little bathroom fresco might have been the most formidable painting in the world. The painters at the time were still struggling with perspective and realism; the Romans had techniques that were completely lost until the ruins were dug up. If Rome hadn’t fallen, I still say you might be reading this from your pod on Mars.

These people were buried by ash, dying almost instantaneously. How many times has it happened that someone was going about their daily life, thinking of plans for dinner or whatever, only to have their lives upended, or even dying unexpectedly? This, actually, is one of the main reasons we’re tootling about the world seeing this stuff. You only got one life to experience what you want to experience, so get out there and start experiencing it. You never know when a Vesuvius might reach out and get you!