Venice or Bust VIII - Viva Venezia!

MARCO THE GONDOLIER
CANAL WITH WOODEN STRUCTURES

SEARCHING FOR BARGAINS IN THE RIALTO

BRIDE AND GROOM IN PIAZZA SAN MARCO

THE SNAKE MADE ME DO IT!

PARKING LOT AT THE ILE POMENI

VIVA VENEZIA

I just love the sound of Italian in the morning!
“Buon giorno,” says our waitperson.
“Due café,” I reply. “Espresso con pane e uno cappuccino con biscotti.”
I’m not sure if I get the hand gestures right but the accent is understandable.
Our waitperson bustles off.

We are sitting in the sunshine on the Grand Canal facing the Rialto Bridge with our first coffees and the whole day ahead. “Che buona fortuna!”

The guys in the nautical black hats and striped sailor shirts are ‘gondolieri’. For 70 euros the four of us clamber aboard for a thirty minute gondola trip to the Grand Canal, the Rialto fish market and back . Our gondolier is named Marco. He and I are both namesakes of the patron Saint of Venezia – San Marco. Marco points out some of the original wooden structures that are 500+ years old and date to the time when the proto-Venetians moved to this inaccessible swamp to avoid Attila and the gang. (see 'Hungarian-One Easy Lesson' in my August 4, 2008 blog)
These pre-date the glorious stone and brick ‘palazzos’ built during Venice’s ascendancy as the major naval power in the Levant from 1200-1500 C.E. We see a famous tenor walking to the opera house on his way to work. Hailed by Marco, he smiles and waves.

Shops take up most of the area between the Rialto and St. Mark’s square. By the time we reach the Piazza San Marco, everyone is tired, thirsty and out of euros. We take a break for pizza and gelato and, of course, more café –‘stile Italiano’.

It’s Saturday and I snap a nice photo of a bride and groom on their wedding day in front of the western façade of St. Mark’s. No one else wants to see the paintings by Tiepolo and Tintoretto that decorate the Doge’s palace. They go off shopping while I sit in the sun, watching tour groups and flocks of pigeons perambulate the Piazza. The tour groups crowd around their guide’s banner. Meanwhile, the pigeons congregate in not dissimilar fashion around individuals holding paper cones high in their outstretched arms. I flash on a scene from my childhood: I’m standing in Piazza San Marco. I’m holding a cone of cracked corn. Pigeons sit on my head and arms while Dad takes my picture. I remember the feeling of scratchy pink pigeon feet on my seven year old scalp. Funny thing memories! I wonder what our bride and groom will remember of their wedding day 50 years from now?

I photograph the mosaics and the statues on the outside of the palace. My favorite is the statue of Adam and Eve on the Southeast corner. The snake is in the middle. The tree of life has everybody adequately covered. It looks to me like Eve is pointing accusatorily at the serpent. “The snake made me do it.”

No time to gaze at art. We hike further east to Ile Pomeni – a small island in a residential neighborhood. It’s evening and families promenade with their dogs and children in the afternoon sunshine. There are no cars in all of Venice so people are free to inhabit the streets. And they do! How wonderful to live where walking is the norm. In this respect, Venice is a lot like Amesbury’s sister village of Esabalu in Kenya. If you haven’t lived in a community of pedestrians before, you really haven’t lived the way human beings should.

After sunset, Venice is magic! We cross the Rialto Bridge an dine at an outdoor restaurant in Campo San Polo. San Polo is the second largest public square in Venice, after Piazza San Marco. Bullfights used to be held at Campo San Polo and Lorenzo di Medici was assassinated here.

The spaghetti at the local trattoria is so expensive that we have to send John out to find an ATM in order to get tip money. Of course, John gets a little disoriented by the winding streets and we send out a search party (me). I leave Marg and Rena wondering if they’ll have to do dishes in an Italian ristorante. After a long meander I find John wrestling with the ATM. We figure out why his card isn’t working (in Italian) and return to the ladies patiently wondering where in the heck we are. ‘Missione compiuta.’

Never mind. The food is delicious. The lights, the lively Saturday night crowd, the strolling classical street musicians on a clear autumn evening weave a spell. Ciao Venezia! I’d stay longer if I could.

DAKTARI

Venice or Bust VII - Corfu Second Class Island

Empress Sisi as a Nymphette

Sisi's Study

Hail, Hail Freedonia!

Escape from Corfu - PLEASE!

Corfu – Second class Island

After Santorini, the Greek island of Corfu is a disappointment.

I'm afraid that I have to say it’s the Revere Beach of Greek islands.

As we debark from the Splendour, I vote to take a ferry to the even smaller island of Pakos and spend the day in an “unspoiled Greek fishing village” as described in the tourbook. I’m outvoted 3 to 1, so we do the same thing on Corfu that we did in Santorini. Only it’s inferior in every way.

First the taxi tour. Our driver, Christos, is quite personable and his English is better than any of the others (he lived in Toronto for 20 years). Unfortunately, the material he has to work with is not top drawer.

The scenery is so-so and it’s a cloudy day (the only cloudy day on the cruise). There are no dramatic cliffs, active volcanoes or buried cities. The chief attraction is a tiny palace built by the last Hapsburg Empress – Elizabeth of Austria a.k.a. ‘Sisi’. (faithful blog readers will remember her as the same Empress for whom the ‘Sisi’ bridge in Budapest was named -see "Peeing in the Public Baths - Budapest, Hungary August 25, 2001" ) She built this palace on Corfu because it was the part of the Empire farthest away from her detested husband, the Emperor Franz Joseph. It was constructed in 1892 at the height of Austrian kitsch. Sisi was assassinated by an anarchist bomb in 1898, so she didn’t get to spend much time in the palace.
And we don’t either.

After the island tour, we spend the rest of the day in the Old City shopping. The Old City is not that old. I would say it’s about as old as the Marx brothers. It even reminds me of the capital of Freedonia,“Land of the Spree, and the Home of the Knave”, as depicted in the movie ‘Duck Soup’. Only where’s Rufus T. Firefly when we need him most? I am un-amused.

The shopping itself is also inferior. What can you expect from an island whose principle products are olive oil and kumquats? Kumquat liqueur anyone? I buy a tee-shirt and take a few photos.
One of them is actually quite interesting. It seems to show a bunch of toys escaping from a Corfu shop window and invading Freedonia. Now that would be interesting! Unfortunately it’s just a trick reflection on the glass.

That pretty much sums up Corfu – a trick reflection of a Greek Island from which toys and tourists cannot escape. As old Groucho might say - “Corfooey”.
Don’t worry readers – better days are ahead. Next stop – Venezia!!

DAKTARI

HAPPY THANKSGIVING - 2008

My friend Tom and I are sending our best wishes for a Happy Thanksgiving day.

(Hope she thaws out before morning, Tom!)

DAKTARI

Venice or Bust VI - Spectacular Santorini - Oct 1, 2008

Cliffs of the Caldera
Fira -Cable Car versus Mule trail?

Waiting for the Taxi

Make way for Burros

BEAUTIFUL OIA

Spectacular Santorini

Santorini (Saint Irene in Greek) is one of the most beautiful places in the world. We drop anchor in Santorini harbor, surrounded on all sides by 1000 foot volcanic cliffs layered in red, beige and black. The white-washed village of Fira clings to the top of the cliff , its sunlit cottages overlooking our shadowed mooring.

The harbor was created when a huge eruption breached the western wall of the volcano of Santorini allowing the turquoise waters of the Aegean to fill the caldera. Another eruption 3600 years ago unleashed a catastrophic tidal wave that destroyed the Minoan civilization on Crete 90 miles to the South. (Remember the legendary Minotaur and his labyrinth? That civilization.)

We take a tender from the ship to the dock at the foot of the cliff.
"Looks like we have to take the cable car," says Rena as we approach the dock. "And look at that line!"
A long, long line of tourists from cruise ships snakes along the dock. The cable car’s single gondola holds only six passengers at a time.

"Not necessary," I respond. "The guidebook says you can take a mule or donkey to the top via a mountain path. It costs a little more but it will probably take less time and be more scenic. How about an adventure?"

The response from Margaret, John and Rena, a combination of eye-rolling and sideways glances, implies a healthy skepticism for my 'donkey adventure' proposal. All hopes are soon dashed when the ship's steward announces over the lighter's intercom that taking the donkey option will make us "smell like mule for three days". Despite my protests that we can buy a can of Fabreze and spray our clothes at the top, the final vote is: Cablecar Wimps 3 vs. Mule-piss Volunteers 1. Rats!

I am mollified somewhat by the cable car ride which is steeper and scarier than any I have taken before. I am sitting across from a woman from New Jersey who turns white and covers her eyes, moaning gently all the way up. Despite the silver anti-nausea patch behind her left ear, I am relieved when we exit the car without an emetic eruption. Wouldn’t it be ironic to escape smelling like a mule only to wind up smelling like a barf bag. (Travel tip: always pack Fabreze in your luggage along with the bugspray and suntan oil.)

A wrong turn at the top of the lift leads us away from the main tourist route. After several blocks Rena queries, "Do you know where we're going."

"Not exactly," I admit.

At just that moment a local fellow exits a house on the side-street and heads for his car.
"Excuse me," I ask. " Where can we find a taxi?"
Luckily I don't know enough Greek to ask for directions in the language of Pericles. I never (well to be truthful, hardly ever) ask directions in a language I don't understand. The answer always leaves me worse off than when I started.

Lucky for us, it’s 'Be Nice to Dumb Tourist Day'. Seeing our distress, his wife comes out of the house to help. After a brief discussion, our saviors summon a cab with their cellphone. We spend a pleasant 1/2 hour sitting in the autumn sun waiting for the taxi. The wife and small son wave bye-bye from the window as we depart. I realize, "Hey Santorini, you’re a small town just like Amesbury." I relax and feel at home.

At the cabby's recommendation we traverse the spine of the caldera to the small village of Oia. It's the only town I can think of whose name consists of three vowels – just pronounce it ee-ah. The road ends and from there, its either Shank’s mare or donkey. (N.B. Shank’s mare - an old Scottish saying meaning “to travel by foot”)
A local muleteer charges uphill on his burro scattering tourists to either side of the narrow path. Another donkey sure-footedly delivers six full suitcases to a cliff-side pensión.

At the top we stop at a taverna for Greek coffee and cheese pie. The pie is made with a local goat cheese called 'chloro' wrapped in filo dough and deep fried in olive oil. Served piping hot with Santorini's dark honey, it's 'to die for'. The photographs from the café don't really do justice to the great views. We take a card from a local bed-and-breakfast in case we ever return. (I should be so lucky!)

If ever I do come back there are still many things to do including beaches, winery tours, archeologic excavations, and a visit to the active volcano in the middle of the harbor. Shopping, by the way, is not too shabby either. This island is definitely a gem worth re-visiting.

P.S. One of the local treats are fresh almonds right off the trees. They are moist and chewy and taste like mild coconuts or Brazil nuts rather than almond flavor. It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever had them! If you ever get the chance, be sure and sample a few.

DAKTARI

YES WE CAN

S. Rose Bolick -'Bama Baby

(Charter Member of 'Baby Needs a Change.org')

Venice or bust V -Say NO to Rugs - Oct 1, 2008

MARG AT HER LOOM

ROMEO MEETS JULIETTE

THE LOCAL MOSQUE

RENA TAKES THE VEIL!

SAY NO TO RUGS

Ahmed drives us to a rug shop, probably owned by a relative. The establishment is run by a large Turkish family. Today marks the end of Ramadan, a big Muslim holiday. For kids it means no school and lots of candy and chocolates. The men of the family greet each other with kisses on both cheeks. Everyone is dressed in their Holiday best and a big family feast is in preparation in the back.

“Looks like we have to stay for the timeshare sales pitch,” I murmur to Rena.

“It doesn’t cost anything to look,” Rena whispers back.

“Famous last words,” I think to myself.

Actually it turns out to be much more fascinating than your average timeshare hard-sell.
The family business is selling Turkish carpets to tourists. In the entryway, a woman sits weaving a woolen carpet. Margaret asks if she can help and the scarf-covered young lady graciously makes room at the loom. She shows Margaret how to tie a rug knot. If Margaret ties one knot every 7 seconds, 8 hours a day for 7 days a week, in just 8 weeks she will have a respectable 3’ by 5’ carpet to sell!

Each tribe has its own colors of wool and traditional patterns for making rugs. Out back in the showroom, we are treated to hot apple tea as carpet after beautiful carpet is unfurled on the floor in front of the four of us. It’s a private showing of marvelous textile artwork in silk as well as wool.

In the front room is a big basket of what looks like oval white Styrofoam balls. Ahmed’s cousin gives one to each of us.

“Shake it next to your ear,” he says.

We dutifully shake the ovoids and hear a soft rattling noise.

“That’s the larva of the silk moth,” says our host. “ This cocoon is made of one single strand of silk over a mile in length. It was spun in just one day by the silk worm that you hear rattling around inside.”

He proceeds to open the lid of a vat of water with silkworm cocoons floating on the surface.

“Here we boil the cocoons, which loosens the fiber and allows us to unravel the cocoons.”

He uses a small whisk to gather up three dozen loose ends of silk, each with a silkworm cocoon attached. These strands are twisted together and fixed to a small spinning wheel, like the one that Ghandi used to spin the homespun cloth he made famous during his campaign to free India from the British.

“Once this single thread is spun,” says our guide, “we gather 30 threads together and spin them again to make a yarn suitable for rug making.”

I do the math. “That’s 1000 silkworms to make just one skein of rug yarn,” I think to myself. The final step is to get the lady of the house to tie 600 tiny knots in a very intricate pattern and “voila!”– one square inch of fine silk carpet.

For a thousand years, the knowledge of how to make silk thread was a trade secret of the Emperor of China. The silk road ran 4000 miles from Cathay to Venice – just to provide silk fiber and fabric to the royalty of Europe. The end product is exquisite and virtually indestructible.

After the tour and the private display of fine carpets comes the inevitable hard sell. Somehow we manage to say NO to rugs. I’m ready to buy but Rena holds firm while I give the merchant a knowing eye and my trademark apologetic shrug. We wish the merchant a Happy Eid ul-Fitr (End of the Fast.) and depart the premises.

From our private glimpse behind the silk curtain, we descend by backroad to the bazaar at Kusadasi. John and Margaret begin endless negotiations to buy a pair of leather jackets while I wander off to find stamps and a letterbox to mail some postcards. When I return, Rena has been picked up by a nice young Turkish boy named ‘Romeo’. I’m not sure if Romeo wants his new ‘Juiliette’ to buy a pocketbook or to take him to America in her steamer trunk!

After taking a photo of Rena and her Romeo, we walk to the mosque and hear the muezzin’s call to prayer. We stop for baklava, crepes and coffee at a sidewalk cafe. Well- dressed men continue to kiss their brethren while kids collect candy from all the shopowners. Rena tries on an “I dream of Jeannie” veil – suitable for the serraglio. She’s quite fetching. “Eat your heart out, Romeo,” I whisper smugly to myself.

What a great day in Turkey! We limp back to the boat with our collection of tired feet, achy backs and lame legs to the Splendour of the Seas. I’m cheered by the prospect of a Motown floorshow in the ship’s theater followed by Latin dance night in the Top Hat lounge. It’s formal night again and I get to wear my tuxedo! I hope I find a fellow dancer to partner with me. That would be heaven indeed.
Happy Eid ul-Fitr, y’all.

DAKTARI

HAPPY HALLOWEEN - Oct 31, 2008

HAPPY HALLOWEEN FROM MONKEY SOPHIE

HAPPY HALLOWEEN FROM NURSE LINDA AND DAKTARI

Venice Or Bust IV- Ephesus, Turkey -September 30, 2008

MANY-BREASTED ARTEMIS
RUINS AT EPHESUS

LIBRARY AND HADRIAN'S TEMPLE

WORSHIP IN THE RUINS

VENICE OR BUST IV
We’ve arrived in Turkey!
You gotta love a country whose money is called the yittle!
YTL stands for Yeni Turkeii Lira (New Turkish Lira) but we call it the yittle for short. It's worth just about $1 U.S. which is very convenient. A yittle here – a yittle there and soon your spending some serious loot.
We change our euros to yittles and head to town.

The town is Kusidasi (first syllable rhymes with tushy, second syllable rhymes with posse). Kusidasi is a pretty port city built in the last thirty years for the express purpose of separating tourists from their yittles. Unlike Dubrovnik, there is no old city.

To find a really old city we hire a cab to drive us to Ephesus – the capital of the ancient Roman province of Asia. Our new cabbie, Ahmet, is efficient but not as much fun as Nikola from Dubrovnik. First stop is a large stone statue of Mother Mary. Turkey is a Muslim country so Ahmet must figure all American tourists are dying to see a giant statue of Jesus' Mom. I guess he can tell from Rena's body language that we are not fans.

Our next stop is at the temple of the Goddess Artemis. In the Mother Goddess competition, Artemis wins hands down over the Virgin M. She pre-dates Mary by 3000 years for one thing. Artemis was originally the Persian Goddess Cybele. Then she became Artemis. Later, after the Roman conquest, Artemis was idenitified with the Roman Goddess Diana, the huntress.

Artemis' statue is my idea of what a real mother goddess oughta look like. She has curves in the all the right places plus at least 50 breasts. Now this is something even doctors don't see everyday!

A roadside vendor is selling replica statues of Artemis and I just have to buy one. I bargain for a while and we eventually settle on the Goddess Artemis Action figure upgrade – a bigger statue for the same price as the statue ordinaire. Total price is 4 yittles – that's less than 10 yittle cents per boobie! What a steal! After negotiations are concluded, I pause to offer a silent prayer to the Goddess and ask her many-breasted blessings for all pagans everywhere. Om Shanti, y'all.

Next, Ahmet takes us to visit Artemis' hometown of Ephesus. It's remarkably well preserved – buried by an earthquake in 614 C.E. Ephesus was the biggest city in Asia at the time – over 200,000 people. They've been excavating the ruins for 110 years and have uncovered less than 10% of the city. The stadium alone held 25,000 people!

I befriend a grizzled old black-and-white tomcat in the ancient forum. He's got nicked ears and a scarred nose but I can tell by his big purr and nuzzling neck that he's more a lover than a fighter.

A few ruins go a long way. I like the physician's house. A large boa constrictor marks the doc's office entrance and a statue shows this ancient healer was a woman. She was honored with a statue because she saved Ephesus from the plague.

We pay a yittle more money and go into the peristyle house. This is an ancient condo development on the slope above the city forum. Seven very wealthy families lived here. The site has been unearthed right down to the brightly colored fresco paintings on the walls, the marble columns of the central courtyards, and the mosaics on the floors. Even the clay jars that held food in the kitchen have been preserved.

Rena and I knock off early and clamber over a broken wall to sit in the sun and rest. A tiny hummingbird sips nectar from a flowering shrub. The landscape smells of warm sage and oregano baking in the afternoon sun. I close my eyes and inhale -- warm earth, blue sky and herbal scented air. This peaceful moment at the edge of the ruins will be my treasured memory of ancient Ephesus. "Thank you again Goddess Artemis," I pray silently. "I love your hometown."
DAKTARI

Venice or Bust III - On Board Ship - Sept 29, 2008

Bob, Terry, Rena, Marg and Me

Major Atrium!!!

Elevator Near Miss

Babar of the Stateroom

OOOH - NICE ELEPHANT

Today we are sailing from Dubrovnik to Kusadasi, Turkey.
I thought I’d just write a word or two about shipboard life.

We're on the Royal Caribbean Line’s Splendour of the Seas – a 12 year old ship with about 1600 passengers and 800 crew. Our day at sea is spent sunning and snacking while the rocky coast of the Peleponese passes by.This works up a good appetite for dinner. To stave off hunger, we order chocolate and fruit crepes served to us on the fantail. Who needs lunch!

Speaking of hanging, we have a ringside seat on the fantail for the shipboard climbing wall. I am sorely tempted to try my luck but Rena sagely notes that everyone else trying his or her luck is about 12 years old. I have to act my age, again – sigh!
At night I have a fine dinner – wild mushroom fettucine alfredo with escargots for an appetizer and cherries jubilee for dessert. Our companions at dinner are Bob and Terry from Indiana. Terry works as a hospital administrator and Bob is a retiree from insurance giant AIG. They are delightful dinner company and we enjoy discussing our respective adventures during the previous day in Dubrovnik. (See Venice or Bust II.)It's always fun meeting new people on a cruise.It's formal night so I get to do two of my favorite things – 1) play dress-up in my 1947 tuxedo and 2) dance West Coast Swing to a live band in the lounge. After that we head to the floor show – a medley of musical numbers from the movies. After the show, I get Rena laughing so hard she almost pees in the glass elevator that travels up and down the ship's seven story atrium. It’s a test of the trickle down theory only this turns out to be a dry run. Better luck tomorrow night? (Answer: Depends.)

Enough of these urinary diversions!
We return to our room. Every night our room steward makes up the bed with a different animal mascot. Tonight it’s an elephant. She’s wearing MY sunglasses!! And they look better on Ms. Babar than they do on me. The nerve!!

Tomorrow will be my first time in Asia.
Well, Asia Minor really, but it still counts.
Another day, another continent – I love it.
Maybe I'll call the next blog installment ‘Turkey before Breakfast’. Catchy, no?

DAKTARI

Venice or Bust II - Dubrovnik, September 28, 2008

Dubrovnik -Stradun (town square)

Sunny Hole-in-the-Wall

TWO DALMATIANS

Picnic in Dubrovnik - New City

VENICE OR BUST II - DUBROVNIK

Dubrovnik is on the Dalmatian Coast of the new nation of Croatia which won its independence from Serbia in 1994. It took a pounding by Serbian tanks and planes during the war. However, the old walled city has been mostly restored to its former glory. Numbers of cruise ships dock in the harbor disgorging a daily flood of sight-seers with euros to spend. This allows the local inhabitants to abandon less profitable occupations such as felting, fishing and lavender gathering.

We have met up with John and Margaret Lowell from Malone, NY. John and I were in the same medical residency program in Pittsburgh in the 70’s. Rena and Margaret both birthed baby girls there in 1977. We’ve been friends ever since.

The four of us head down the gangplank.
“Dobor dan!” I cheerfully greet our cabbie Nikola, displaying a full 50% of my Croatian linguistic abilities.
Nikola invites us on a tour of the area – 50 euros for one hour.
“Hvalya, dobar” I counter. Great! I’ve still got a word or two of Croatian left for later.

Off we go to visit the local war memorial. We cross a beautiful new tourist bridge and trek up the only road that overlooks the old town. We turn left at the second goat path, through a pasture into a small village.

“Only 16 families live here. Welcome to Bosanka.” says our driver.
The pasture is fenced. Donkeys and their droppings on one side and me on the other.
“Seventeen donkeys are in there,” says Nikola.
I do the math. “That’s one donkey per family and one to grow on.”

Arriving at the top of Mount Srd, the only mountain in the world whose name has no vowels, we are confronted with the bombed out ruins of a cable car station. Four hundred Croats with rifles faced 3000 Serbs with tanks. Guess who won? The Croat defenders did buy enough time for the city to evacuate, however.

Carefully, we skirt the minefields and enter the war museum. A continuous video shows Serbian tanks and planes shelling the partially evacuated Old City. In 1936, the bombing of civilians in Guernica horrified the world. Now bombing of civilians in Europe or anywhere else is just routine. The 20th century will probably be remembered more for its barbarism than for anything else. Nikola’s family were displaced by the war but no one was killed. He still can’t stand the Serbs.

We are dropped off in the Old City. Hordes of camera-toting tourists throng the main street and the city square. Many of them are standing in line to pay 10 euros for the privilege of walking on top of the city walls.

“Hey, everyone,” I exclaim. “I’ve got a better idea. If we walk at the bottom of the walls it’s free.”
The rest of the entourage looks dubious.
“No, no, really,” I protest. “Let’s try it. We can do the top of the wall later if we want –after the cruise ships get ready to leave and the lines go down.”

I have used this gambit many times before and sometimes it works. I take the lead and we start climbing the stepped and cobbled alleyways. An open market sells lavender and lace tablecloths. It makes the entire old city smell like bath powder! We reach the base of the city’s walls.

We’re above rooftop height and going past ancient buildings with the 600 year old limestone battlements on our left. Suddenly, there’s a hole in the wall with a hand-lettered sign pointing left – “COLD DRINKS” it says in English. I duck my head and lead us through a short tunnel. We come out onto a limestone balcony 150 feet above the Adriatic. Tables are set up in the shade of palms and umbrellas. We sip cold sodas and make the acquaintance of two Dalmatians – a little girl and her dog. Dalmatian dogs here are light brown and shaggy. They look like mutts. I’m disappointed not to see black and white spotted puppies like the movies.

Refreshed, we’re off again through the 'hood - backyards, solar clothes dryers and pocket playgrounds. We find an ethnic museum. The girl-guides speak English and show us the way Dubrovnik used to be, before cruise ships were invented. These Balkan peasants were hard workers! Now, thanks to the tourists, even their donkeys can relax and enjoy the good life!

Down, down, down – we descend the cobbled streets. One street is made up entirely of outdoor restaurants. We stop for café-au-lait and apfelstrudel. Rena and I go off on our own for a bit and score an Italian leather pocketbook for $90. We also find the second oldest synagogue in Europe. After the expulsion from Spain in 1492, Ladino-speaking Sephardic Jews started a one-room synagogue which is still in operation today.

It’s been a wonderful day of exploring nooks and crannies of Dubrovnik’s Old City. We scoot back over the moat and ramble the residential neighborhood of the New City. Off a side street , we come across the locals enjoying a Sunday picnic on a sunny dock. I take the shot and bag my favorite photo of the day. It’s the last one on this blog.

“Dobor dan, hvalya.” Bye, bye Dubrovnik – you were great.

DAKTARI

AIR TRAVEL IN THE AGE OF CHOLERA

SS Splendour leaves the Pier

Piazza San Marco from the Ship's Railing

Male Mannikin with Bust

(What could be worse than cholera? You need travel no further then your local airport to find out?)

Rena and I start our newest adventure in reverse - flying on Iberia Air from Boston to Chicago to get to Venice, Italy. Ah – the Internet – promoting cheap tickets at the expense of common sense. We wing in over lake Michigan, catching a glimpse of the Sears Tower, and alight at O’Hare International.

Every stop at O’Hare is an adventure and this is no exception. We board on-time but sit on the tarmac for over an hour. Likely we’ll miss our connection in Madrid.

FLIGHT FROM ORD TO MAD
Positive:
· I pre-order Asiatic vegetarian meals on Iberia’s website. All others eat trash!
· I take Ambien and listen to a guided meditation to the center of the earth (provided on a CD by my friend Kat.) In the old days, this was called ‘tripping out’ and was frowned upon – now it’s medically approved travel prophylaxis. I sleep the whole way!

Negative:
· Sitting across the aisle from two parents with a 3-year-old and an infant.
· Rena is immune to Ambien. She gets one hour of shut-eye. (While I, being blissfully ensconced at the center of the earth, miss the whole thing.)

DESTINATION H
This is it! We’re getting into Madrid airport 45 minutes after our scheduled arrival.
We have just 40 minutes to get to the gate for our flight to Venice. As we bolt from the plane, a small sign points the way to H concourse. Bad news – it says it takes 36 minutes to get there! We tear off in the direction of destination H as fast as we can scramble.

Oh no! Passport control! There are only ½ dozen ahead of us but it takes forever. We charge ahead, running up the escalators and down the moving walkways. We make it to the gate at 9:03 AM - close but no cigar. Boarding is closed for the 9:10 take off. We watch our transportation taxi off into the rising sun. Que lastima!

VENICE OR BUST
The senorita at Iberia Air Assistance re-books us on a flight at 12:45 that gets us to Venice at 3 PM. Our cruise ship, Splendour of the Seas, leaves port promptly at 5. “Should be do-able,” sez I. “Not in this century,” sez the spouse. “Let’s go shopping.”

We stock up on Milcha bars and stoke the furnaces with café con leche and brioche con chocolat. Shopping at the chic airport boutiques is very interesting. All the male manikins in the European shops have mini-boobs. Is this the new fashion? Later, I confirm the same trend on the Rialto in Venice and even in Croatia. In the near future, will men be wearing small padded bras to nightclubs and offices? In the 80’s, I remember women wore dresses with padded shoulders to make a not dissimilar fashion statement. Hey guys – if sometime in the 21st century you find yourself wearing a training bra, remember you heard it first from Daktari.

Our flight from Madrid takes off 45 minutes late. Nervously I scan the boarding documents for our ship. Oh no! The booklet says all passengers must be on board one hour prior to sailing. Our wheels touch down at 3:20 PM. Only 40 minutes to scarper the plane, collect luggage and get to the pier. The adrenaline is flowing now.

“Why don’t you take a cab and go ahead to the ship?” I suggest to Rena. “I’ll follow with the luggage.”

“What do I do if you don’t show up?” she queries back.

“You’ll think of something. Just get us checked in.”

“ Then what,” Rena says skeptically.

“Don’t worry. ” I reply. “ Maybe, throw yourself overboard – that should get us an extra ½ hour.” Eventually, the cooler head prevails - we decide not to split up.

Mirabile dictu! The luggage has landed. That’s one small step for a man and one giant step toward getting to the boat. We jump into the waiting cab and I tell our astonished driver Giuseppe to step on it in French – “Vite, Vite.” He must think we're crazy.

It’s 3:50 PM. Ten minutes to go. Giuseppe shrugs and shakes his head “Venti minuti minimo.” I flash a wad of Euros. He steps on it. Soon we are doing 90 Kph down a residential street and headed for deep water. We screech to a halt at the pier at 4:03 PM. Emerson Fittipaldi couldn’t have done it better! I give Giuseppi a 12 Euro tip and a kiss on both cheeks. “Molto buono.”

The crew of goodship Splendour rolls the gangplank back out the hatch . Three cheers as it clunks on the dock! We’re the last ones on the ship and the last ones to lifeboat drill. Time for dinner. Cholera or not here we come. Buon appetito!

Daktari

Buchu Bushcamp - South Africa - August 15, 2007

Danger- Wrong Side Driver

Rafe at the Whale Spotting Beach

Pink Knees for the Ladies

Pink Knees for the Ladies

Buchu Hobbit Hut Cottages-Stick and Fibre Construction

Interior of the Hobbit Cottage - Where's Frodo?

This is the second part of last years adventure tour of S. Africa. In the last episode I was cage diving with great white sharks (See Shark Bait - August 13th, 2007). Now for the real scary part - my first time driving on the left side of the highway.

AUGUST 14TH – Off to the Bush

At 9 AM the rental agent delivers our vehicle to the hotel. It’s a Toyota Corolla with automatic transmission! Rena, Rafe, Colleen and I are off to the bush. That is if I can quickly adapt to driving on the wrong side of the road.

I carefully edge into the left land and proceed straight ahead. The car performs erratically at first. Or perhaps it’s the driver. One left, another left, then a right. This is too easy! Oops – almost hit the curb. Gotta go easy on the right side hubcaps. Wrong way rotaries are especially hard to get used to. Luckily, South African drivers are among the most polite, helpful and tolerant in the world. I only heard a horn sound once in three days of driving and I think she was a tourist from New Jersey. When a South African driver sees you overtaking, he pulls off onto the shoulder to let you pass. Sweet!

As we drive East on the N2, Capetown gives way to suburbs and farms. We leave the highway at West Somerset and hug the coastal route past vistas of sheer cliffs and small fishing villages. Back on the N2 then off again at Caledon, we motor through fields of green wheat and yellow rape. Fruit trees are starting to bloom.

We make frequent stops for photos and to allow Colleen to talk to the animals. She speaks to sheep, cows and ostriches. Male ostriches are black and females are dull gray. The male’s kneecaps and calves are bright pink. Later we are told that this only happens during mating season.

Carrying on through Napier we reach Bredasdorp – site of the shipwreck museum and the world’s southernmost Marathon. We turn onto a dirt road and 40 km later we arrive at the DeHoop Nature Reserve ( pronounced do-wop with the accent on the wop). DeHoop is famous for flowers and whales. The Buchu Bushcamp is a bed-and-breakfast just before the Park entrance. We arrive at sunset.

AUGUST 15TH – BUCHU BUSHCAMP

Buchu is definitely a low crime area. There are only 7 guests at the B&B. The four of us, a British birdwatcher and a Spanish couple who took a wrong turn and wound up at the reserve by mistake. Lucky them! This is a wonderful find. It looks like the hobbit village in Lord of the Rings. Our cottage is one big room with a loft for Rafe. The roof is thatch and we sit on tree stumps outside to watch the sun go down.

We dine in the big house on ostrich steaks and butterfish fillets with a central fire-pit for warmth and lanterns for light. The only power after dark is just what’s stored in batteries from the solar panels. There is no moon tonight and the Milky Way is spectacular. In the Southern hemisphere, you look directly toward the galactic core. What a view.

We fall asleep to the sound of peepers- just like spring at home. Also to the sound of energetic young Spanish tourists mating in the nearby cottage. “Are his knees bright pink?” I wonder drowsily. “Will this mating season never end?”

In the morning, sunbeams and showers alternate. The bush here is called ‘fynbos’ which means ‘fine bush’. When the sun is out there are multitudes of brightly colored flowers as if the rainbows are painting the landscape. ‘Fine bush’ indeed!

Our guide for the day is Jonti, the wildlife manager for the reserve. The staff at Buchu packs us a picnic basket and we follow Jonti into the park. Jonti has a bad stutter but his eyes are keen enough. As we drive to the park he points out two bontebok antelope and many elands. There are rare Cape zebras in the park, but since it’s the mating season we don’t see them. “They like to m-m-m-mate in private,” says Jonti. I think to myself, “They must be the only ones!”

Inside the park, Jonti warns us to lock the car doors. “Crime,” we whisper knowingly. “Not crime,” says Jonti. “B-b-b-baboons. They know how to open car doors.”

We take a 5 km nature walk with Jonti who is happy to point out birds, flowers and even the various varieties of ‘scat’. Scat are animal poops – baboon, antelope, ostrich and even porcupine poops.

Back in the car, we meet up with the baboons. Despite their bad rep, these primates are on their best behavior. Mama baboons are nursing. The baby baboons are playing. Even Dad is peacefully picking his fleabites.

We drive to a parking lot and hike over the dunes to a small cottage on the beach where we open our picnic baskets and have lunch. From here you can see whales – lots of whales. They are female Southern Right Whales and their pups – the latter are about 20 feet long. The pups are playing – jumping straight up, waving their tales and flipping their flippers. Rena and I walk the beach but don’t find any shells. A brief shower drives us back to the car, laughing.

Later, Rafe takes over the bar at base-camp and makes caipirinha for the waitstaff. Caipirinha, a concoction of cane liquor, lemons, sugar and ice, is the national cocktail of Brazil. This we enjoy with babooti the national dish of South Africa (ground beef with spices). After dinner Rafe does magic tricks for the staff.

We have a quiet night until Rafe discovers a bat in his bedroom. The sound of Portuguese cursing drifts faintly over the fynbos.

Daktari

Daktari at Home - September 2008

Big Jump for a Small Rider

Yum, Yum at the Beach Plum

Sawyer Island - So Near yet So Far

Pontoon Party on the Essex River

Sunset on the Essex Estuary

Last week’s blog featured the Outdoor Gravity Orb, which just happens to be located in my hometown of Amesbury. There are plenty of other local adventures to be had in this Northeast corner of Massachusetts So, in the interests of having fun while minimizing carbon footprints, here’s a selection of my recent local safaris. (Each selection has at least one highlighted link to click for more info.)

“Have a beautiful day in the neighborhood.” –Fred Rogers

Fidelity Jumper Classic -

“Hey Rena, wanna go watch horses jump over a fence?”
Rena glances up from the sun-chair where she is reading the Daily snews.
“Not really, why do you ask?”
Daktari knows a thing or two about persuasion

“It’s an international competition, it’s five miles away and it’s free,” I plead. “Plus there may be shopping.”

We drive about 15 minutes to the Silver Oaks Equestrian Center near Exeter. The horses and riders come from as far away as Puerto Rico, Europe and Brazil. They compete for a prize of $75,000 and they are wonderful to watch – for an hour or two. There was a bit of shopping, too. But only if you’re into bits, bridles and English leather.

Time to blow Dodge City.
We saddle-up the Suzuki and mosey down the road to our next stop.

“The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity.” – Dorothy Parker

North Hampton State Beach

This is a cute little pocket beach similar to the neighborhood beaches in Rio.
It’s just at the end of North Hampton on route 1A (right before Rye). Don’t blink as you approach this little gem. It’s only 2 acres with about 20 parking spots. You’ll miss it if you’re not careful. Parking tokens are available for $5 in the bathhouse and are good for 4 hours.

The sand is soft, the view is lovely but the waves today are treacherous. It’s high tide and they break right next to the shore. I hop in just once and find myself tumbled arse over teakettle. The butcher’s bill is only one elbow slightly abraded. Lesson learned!

We’re both feeling a bit peckish. It’s time for lunch. Directly across the road is the Beach Plum. It’s a classic little beach take-out with several picnic tables for seating. A lobster roll and root beer float with vanilla ice cream is worth the safari. The combo creates a gustatory time-warp direct to the 1950’s. Outstanding!

“A woman should never be seen eating or drinking, unless it be lobster salad and Champagne, the only true feminine and becoming viands.” -Lord Byron.

“ Yes, on the lobster salad, but I prefer women who drink root beer floats.” – Daktari

Hampton Beach Seafood Festival

We take our bikes off the rack on Rena’s car and pedal down route 1A to Hampton Beach (5 miles) to take in the Seafood Festival. It’s impossible to drive to Hampton Beach during Festival weekend. Plus parking is $25!

The Seafood Fest website says it’s rated by the IRA Motor Group as one of the “Top 100 Events in North America”.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” I warn Rena as we pay our $5 to get in. “ If you see gangs of young men wearing cable knit sweaters with strong Irish accents let me know.”

“Right,” says my partner in crime. “I make it a rule not to mess with the IRA –even the pedestrian ones.”

The Seafood Fest is not in my top 100 events list, but there is music, the beach is open, and the lobster macaroni and cheese is to die for. I find a shell bracelet in the sand. Rena buys Sophie an outfit. That kid needs a bigger closet! We bike back, hop in our car and whisk home as the sun sets.

“He who enjoys doing and enjoys what he has done is happy.” – Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

Nelson Island and Sawyer’s Island
Another bright sunny Wednesday in North Essex County, Massachusetts. Our morning is spent at the Registry of Motor Vehicles in Haverhill getting new drivers’ licenses. What’s with these cameras at the registry anyway? The photos make us look ten years older. How depressing is that! We need outdoor recreation therapy.

Rena and I drive to a small parking lot in Rowley to take a hike to Sawyers Island in Great Marsh. The North Shore's Great Marsh is the largest continuous stretch of Salt Marsh in New England, extending from Cape Ann to New Hampshire. Its 25,000 acres of salt marsh grasslands, tidal creeks, and estuaries make up one of the richest habitats on earth. (A downloadable map of the Great Marsh is available on the Great Marsh website.)

The original colonial settlers hayed these acres and used the hay to raise beef cattle for the markets in Boston, Portsmouth and other nearby ports. Most of the ‘salt beef’ that fed the crews of whaling ships and trading clippers was itself fed on salt marsh hay from the Great Marsh.

For adventurers there’s lots to explore in this great tidal ecosystem. We walk along a nice road applying bug-spray liberally as we go. Even ‘Ultrathon’, a miracle spray for malaria that I use in Africa, barely dissuades the voracious killer mosquitoes in this swampy lowland.

Oh no! Our adventure ends abruptly about 500 feet from the island. The tide is in and the road is under about a foot of water. I suggest to Rena that we take off our shoes, roll up our pants and wade. No dice! There are some things a lady just won’t do. Subjecting a fine pedicure to swamp water in a salt marsh is one of them.

Note to Daktari: next time check the tides before visiting the Marsh.

Essex River Cruise

We salve our disappointment with a cruise on the Essex River – traversing the Great Marsh by pontoon boat. Our friend Jan is celebrating her birthday and we’re taking the Sunset Cocktail Cruise. The price of admission is a donation to Partners for Development – a favorite charity of Jan’s. She hopes to raise enough to build a house for a family in Guatemala. Pictures of the family and a short talk by P.I.D. founder Gail and the house in Guatemala is well on its way.

The cruise is delightful – great views of the Great Marsh and the barrier island beaches (Crane’s Beach). The birthday cake is cut, the Champagne flows and the sun sets on the Essex River estuary. The absence of root beer floats goes un-remarked except by Lord Byron and Daktari. Who wouldn’t want to live in New England in September?

“Nothing written for pay is worth writing,” – Ezra Pound.

Until my next adventure-
Daktari

Go GO OGO- August 24, 2008

OGO on TRACK

INTO THE HOME STRETCH

INSIDE THE OVOCYTE

BUNGEE RAYS AND RAINBOWS

NO POINTS FOR THE DISMOUNT

A PERFECT TEN

GROWN-UPS ARE SO SILLY!!!

The physics of this latest adventure are straightforward. Imagine a transparent soft-plastic sphere. Inside the sphere place ten gallons of water and two or three thrill-seeking adventurers. Surround the inner sphere with a bigger transparent outer sphere. Now, suspend the inner sphere inside the outer with dozens of opposing bungee cords.

What do you have? It’s an OGO – acronym for Outdoor Gravity Orb.

Now take your OGO to a good size hill and roll it down an 800 foot track. This will generate about 20 OGO revolutions and a top speed of 28 miles per hour in about 41 seconds. The resultant sport is called ‘zorbing’ – very popular in New Zealand.

Want to get in on the action? Believe it or not, there are exactly three OGO’s ready to roll and waiting for you right here at the Amesbury Sports Park in my hometown. Check out the video at: http://www.amesburysportspark.net/

I check it out myself on Thursday and negotiate a special rate for an end-of-summer fundraising event. One day only, Sunday August 24th, $15 for summer tubing and an OGO ride for anyone who donates to my favorite charity -Amesbury for Africa.

Rena is definitely not up for this adventure. My description alone gives her the weebie-jeebies. So I give my young friend Kat a call:

“Hey Kat are you up for an adventure tomorrow.”
I go through the physics for her. I can imagine her eyes glazing over as she listens to the phone.

“To make a long story, short,” she summarizes, “you want me to get into a puddle of water, inside a giant sponge ball and roll down an 800 foot hill?”

“Well, sort of,” I respond. “But it’s for a good cause.”

“Count me in.” she says. “What’ll I wear?”

“A bikini would be nice,” I tease.

“In your dreams, cowboy.”

Next day, we’re at the top of hill. No going back now.
The attendant puts a hose into the inner OGO and starts running water.
“Is it cold water?” Kat asks.
“You betcha,” says our guide. “Take off your shoes and hop in.”

To my trained medical eye, the OGO looks like a giant human ovocyte.
The attendant directs me to dive headfirst through a narrow round tunnel connecting the inner and outer spheres (or is it connecting the cell membrane and the nucleus?) I feel like one of the human sperm paratroopers in the Woody Allen movie ‘Everything you ever wanted to know about sex (But were afraid to ask.)’

“Good thing nobody took a picture of that!” shouts Kat as she tumbles into the freezing cold water.

The gate at the top of the track flies open and the OGO starts to roll.
The screaming starts immediately.

As the OGO rolls forward gathering speed, Kat and I rotate up the back wall of the inner sphere until the wet surface slides us back to the bottom. Soon we’re sliding on our backs down a continuous curving sheet of water while this giant translucent sphere revolves faster and faster around us. As the OGO goes into overdrive, we are transported to the center of a scintillating prismatic spherical universe. Rainbows refract from the OGO’s glistening surface while the bungee cords become flashing radial arrows all pointed directly at us. It’s a wonderful behind-the-waterfall world. We’re still screaming when we hit the pillars of the air corral at the bottom of the run.

I feel like I’ve just been down a roller-coaster in a front-loading washing machine. The attendant unzips the entrance tunnel and slopes it toward the ground. I’m expelled from the OGO’s inner sanctum in breech position with a gush of watery fluid. My feet hit the ground first and then the butt. It’s a near-birth experience! All that’s lacking is to be hoisted up by both feet and smacked on my bum by a large invisible hand. A few minutes later, out squirts Kat for a perfect 10 on the dismount. We're both soaked through - like drowned rats.

The second run Kat goes down with her friend Donna. Originally, Donna was just along to provide moral support. Then she sees that every person coming out of the OGO ball, without exception, looks like she’s having the time of her life. So Donna decides what the heck, it’s only water – and jumps into the ball wearing her street clothes!

That’s the kind of enthusiasm that a ride in the OGO generates! Until my next blog, be sure and have a ball. An OGO ball, of course.
And may all your adventures be fun ones.

DAKTARI