juanzqui

April 21, 2011   Toledo

Rain. Rain has been falling for the past six or seven hours and it appears ad if it will go on all night. And, if the weatherman is right, it might be with us tomorrow and the day after that. 
It rained hard in Madrid last night but, fortunately, it came down after I had reached my hotel room for a break. By the time I went out for dinner, the raid had mostly stopped, but it rained later in the night. I did a very Spanish thing last night: I had a late dinner. As in after 10:30. I had thought about having dinner and then checking out a place that, according to the New York Times, is great for flamenco dancing. It may be, but I’ll never know:  The Times said the performance started at midnight but when I checked out, around 10:30, I was told it had taken place at 9. That’s what I get for relying on a two-year-old article. 
Dinner was not that great. I ordered way too much after the waiter assured me that what I wanted to order would barely be enough to satisfy my hunger. For once I had the sense to not eat it all. The place was neatly empty, as were most restaurants. I think most locals were home watching the much-anticipated soccer game between Real Madrid and Barcelona for La Copa Del Rey. If I understood the news report accurately, RM had not won the cup in 18 years. It won by one goal, scoring just as I turned on the TV when I got to my room. 
The celebration started immediately.  Car horns blared for hours and I could hear bands of fans chanting and singing through much of the night. Apparently there was a rally not too far from my hotel. I woke up at one point hearing a strange noise, like that of a muzzled kazoo. For a while I thought my next door neighbor had a snoring problem and wondered how his wife could put up with him. Then I realized that the sound was that of someone speaking through a loudspeaker. I couldn’t make out much of what he was saying but I could understand, from the cheering if a crowd that interrupted him periodically, that what I was listening to was nit a neighbor snoring but a city celebrating. 
I didn’t do much this morning except have my morning coffee and muffin while reading the paper, then packing and walking the few blocks to the train station.  I stopped to rest for a few minutes in the square in front of the Reyna Sofia Museum. I suddenly found myself wishing I’d had mire time in Madrid to visit this museum. 
The train station is a beautiful, soaring structure. A busy one too. My train was scheduled to depart at 1:50 and it departed at exactly 1:50. While not one of the high-speed trains that crisscross this country, it moved mighty fast. And smooth. And quiet. And it arrived in Toledo a minute early. 
I’m staying at the hotel Pintor El Greco. Part of it dates back to the 17th century and part of it is only three years old. My room is in the older section. Although it has all the modern amenities, there are two old brick arches, one in the main room and one in the bathroom. They look as if they were fireplaces at one time. 
I set out almost immediately after I checked in to explore and I right away fell in love with this small city. It is one photo op after another, just the opposite of metropolitan Granada. Unfortunately, the rain started soon after I set out, and it kept on raining most of the afternoon. I wouldn’t have minded it if the rain had kept indoors most of the thousands of tourists that have descended on Toledo for the Holy Week holidays. It’s almost impossible to move without bumping into a tourist. 
I had lunch at what appeared to be unpopular place, but I don’t know if it wad popular because it is good or simply because people wanted to get out of the rain, which wad my reason. The food was good if not spectacular. Grilled steak with shoestring potatoes, a salad and tiramisu. And a beer. 
Defying the rain, I continued to explore the city, trying but not always succeeding to find streets and alleys (hard to tell the difference, really) that were out of the way. I ended up at the cathedral several times and the last time I got there they had started to let people in for Maundy Thursday (I think that’s the right word) services. I followed the crowd in and resisted all efforts by the ushers to force me into a pew. I wanted to be able to move and to shoot some pictures even though I new photos weren’t allowed (my motto when it comes to picture is, there’s always a way, especially if you have an iPhone). Because the interior was so dark, it was difficult to get good shots but I managed a few decent ones. 
But the photos were not the evening’s reward. It was the mass. A high mass with the bishop presiding, it was filled with pomp and pageantry. The choir –  an all male choir with boys who appeared to be milord than 9 or 10 all the way up to young men in their 20s – sang beautifully and stirringly. Half of the liturgical sings were in Spanish but all the oldies but goodies –  the Kyrie, the Gloria, the Agnus Dei and others – were in Latin. Beautiful, stirring Latin, the Latin from my youth, the Latin that brought joy and humility to my heart. And I remembered the words. Or most of them (…qui tolis pecata mundi, miserere nobis) and I found myself wanting to sing this beautiful melodies along with the choir. But I refrained, wisely. 
There was one particularly stirring moment, during the Gloria, when an acolyte began ringing a set of bells in the choir loft. The bells were mounted on a wheel and they looked like a waterwheel as the attendant spinned it round and around and around. 
I though of my grandfather, Alejandro Palomo, who was the official ringer of the bells at our small parish. He’d rise early every morning of the year to make the mile walk to the church in time to summon worshippers to mass, pulling on a thick rope that hung from the steeple. He was proud if his role and he guarded it jealously. 
And I wondered what he would think if he were present At a ritual such as this, and of the bells that were being brought to noisy and joyful life by some young young seminarian or alter boy. 
During most of the mass, the rain and the thunder could be above the singing and the massive organ’s strains. I worried about getting back to the hotel, but by the time the ritual had ended, so had the rain. I hung around for a bit, hoping to hear that the planned procession through the city’s streets of the ornately decorated floats, carried on the shoulder of local parishioners, depicting crucifixion scenes would take place. It wasn’t to be. The threat if rain was still present and the organizers weren’t about to take a chance that their handiwork might get ruined by additional rain. 
So I walked back to the hotel. I was disappointed that i would nit get to witness a procession, but elated by the spectacle I had just witnessed in the vast cathedral. 
What really lifted my heart, though, wad the beautiful light that was filtering through the still-ominous clouds. It was the kind of light photographers dream of , and I found myself stopping every few feet to shoot yet another picture. I’ll share them with you later. 
(Because of the difficulties in connecting to the internet and posting to this blog, I ended up writing this post on my iPhone.  I’m way too tire to go back and look for typos, of which I’m sure there are plenty. My apologies.)

Wednesday, April 20, 2011 | Madrid

IT HAD BEEN long day of walking up and down the narrow streets of this beautiful city and I was tired. I was heading home – to my hotel room – at 4 p.m., a time when most Spanish people were heading back into the streets after the traditional siesta hour. Suddenly, what had been empty streets were filled with throngs of people, tourists and locals alike. I walked down a couple of streets that had been closed of to vehicular traffic and both were wall-to-wall people. A lethargic city had turned into a city filled with vibrancy and energy (maybe this is normal, or maybe it has to do with the giant futbol match this evening between Real Madrid and Barcelona), but I was tired and all I wanted was to figure out a way to make it through the maze of streets to the hotel.

Suddenly, however, above the roar of the crowd and the traffic, I heard the clear and distinctive tinny blare of a mariachi band. It took me by surprise but only until I reminded myself that mariachi music is popular the world over. I moved towards the sound until I found the group, in the middle of the Puerta del Sol plaza.

I stood there, taking in the beautiful and nostalgic sounds and watching the reactions of the people gathered around it. Then I noticed, seated behind the group, an old woman, with a smile on her face and her head nodding slightly to the beat of the tunes.  She was neatly dressed, wearing a checkered blue-and-brown coat over a light-blue sweater, and she had a blue-and-white scarf around her neck. Her reddish hair was held back a blue-and-white striped band, exposing her white roots. The band played mostly slow music – waltzes and boleros – but towards the end of their performance, they started a medley of faster-paced favorites. Polkas, mostly.

That was when the woman got up from where she was sitting and began to dance across the plaza, in the semicircle between performers and audience. She danced smoothly and with grace, with an ever-so-slight smile on her face and her head held high, almost defiantly so. Her fingers were wrapped tightly into a fist, as if she were holding on to invisible hand. She danced like a woman who had danced all her life, either with her feet or in her mind, and enjoyed every minute of it. I wondered what memories were going through her mind. Of first boyfriend? Of a husband long dead? Of girlfriends dancing the night away when there were no boyfriends around? Of weddings and other celebrations? Of evenings in clubs, moving across the floor as talented and talentless bands played away?

Whatever it was, the memories were sitting well in her mind, and her mind was telling her to dance. And so she did. She danced through the entire medley and she danced through the final two songs of the mariachi band’s set, and she would have danced the rest of the afternoon had the mariachis not taken a break.

And when the last note had faded into the narrow streets and the crowd expressed its appreciation with applause, she stopped her short walk to take her seat, turned around to face her audience and took an ever-so-slight bow, the smile still on her face.

SCENES SUCH AS this, my friends, are why I love traveling.

Madrid | April 20, 2011
 
AT A STARBUCKS near my hotel, having my morning coffee and muffin. Yeah, I know: I fly all the way across the ocean to have breakfast at a Starbucks. But I’ve not seen any other coffee shops in the vicinity and anything I buy at the hotel will be super expensive. I’m sure. I was going to sit outside, but there’s a couple of tourist buses with the engines on right next to the curb. Not appealing at all.
Sorry about not having written anything sooner. The first day of any trip, especially after you’ve flown across six or seven time zones, can be exhausting, and I was pretty much functioning on a near-empty tank most of yesterday.
I got here about noon yesterday and fortunately, the hotel had a room ready for me, on the luxury top floor that has been recently renovated. Nothing terribly fancy about the room; what you would expect to find at any nice Westin hotel, which is what this is. The Westin Palace, built, in 1906, along with the Ritz, on the other side of the plaza, as a result of a national embarrassment when guests for some royal coronation or another had not been able to find decent accommodations.
It’s a beautiful hotel, in the center of everything. The Prado is only about a block away, and the Plaza Mayor, which I discovered by accident last night, is about half a mile away. The Plaza Mayor is a huge square, surrounded by buildings, similar to the Zocalo in Mexico City, except perhaps not as large. There are shops and restaurants on the ground floor of all the buildings and I assume the other floors have apartments and offices. The Plaza wasn’t abuzz with activity when I walked through it last night on my way back to the hotel. But the area around it was. Block after block of relatively narrow streets and wide sidewalks were packed with people, of all ages — tourists and locals — walking around or in small tapa places or other restaurants and bars.
I had my first meal in the city there. A bit disappointing, but it was probably my fault. I was looking for a place that was not crowded and that had an outdoor eating area. I was also looking for a place that had more locals than tourists, not necessarily the best criteria, I learned. It wasn’t bad, but the paella was nothing to write home about (yet, here I am, writing home about it!). I ate it with a beer, which wasn’t bad and felt good, and while reading the International Herald Tribune. No matter how much I try, I can’t completely divorce myself from my world, and reading the HT, finding out what was happening in the rest of the word  (even if the news was mostly negative), made me feel  good.
While at the restaurant, I noticed a building across the street, called the Mercado San Miguel, I think. It has glass walls but all I could see of the insides was produce section, so I assumed it was like a farmers market or a mercado in Mexico where you mostly buy food to cook at home. After dinner, I decided to walk through it because it looked colorful and lively. It was, and it was much more than what I had imagined. Yes, it had  produce, but it was also packed with small restaurants, bars, tapas bars, ice cream stores, bakeries, candy stores and wine shops. And it was packed. Again, there were people of all ages. Lots and lots of young people, but also entire families that included young kids as well as grandparents. The thing about this place is that there are not chairs or tables. Just counters. People go around ordering beer or wine and whatever food  they want to try and they eat it standing up at the counter. The food looked and smelled amazingly tasteful. I wanted to kick myself for having eaten the paella. I was stuffed and my digestive system had not yet adjusted to my new schedule, so as  much as I wanted to, I forced myself to not give in to the temptation. Tonight, though: I know where I’m eating.
OK, FIRST IMPRESSIONS: Clean, beautiful. Not terribly friendly, but not exactly hostile. Too many tourists, which surprised me, but it must be spring break all over Europe, because there are hundreds of high school and college students speaking all sorts of languages, wondering around in throngs, getting the way but otherwise well behaved. There are a lot more Latinos — as in from Latin America — than I expected. Some are obviously tourists (there are daily flights into Madrid from every Latin American country, which makes sense: Spain is to them what England is to the United States), but many others evidently make this their home. And, not, I’m not assuming that every dark-skinner person I see here is a Latino. You can tell, for the most part, who is from Latin America: the dark skin and the broad noses and faces and high cheek bones. (Of course, if you count the European-looking Latinos who blend in easily with the Spanish, there are even a lot more Latinos here.)
I am fascinated by all this I want so much want to stop some of these people and ask them all sorts of questions: Where are you from? What brought you here? What’s it like living in this country? How are you treated? Do you miss your native land? Where is your family?
THE FLIGHTS HERE were relatively pain-free. The flight to London, in particular, was actually pleasant and not too terribly tiring. Despite my best efforts and determination, I drank too much of the free champagne and wine, but it didn’t affect me too terribly. The food  was excellent. Best of all, I was able to sleep. Not a lot, probably two and a half hours, but enough to make a difference. After the meal and after a bit of reading, I adjusted my seat until it was a most flat and gave myself over to the sleep gods and they welcomed me with a warm embrace. I slept soundly until they turned the cabin lights on, signaling that it was almost time for breakfast before landing. It was still dark outside, but very quickly the dark began giving way to the light. Looking out one of the windows near me, I noticed a reddish tint on rim of the plane’s engine, a reflection of the rising sun’s rays. I looked out the other window to see what the wing would look like was magic. Not only was the wing also bathed in red light, but above it loomed a beautiful and bright full moon. Beneath it was a layer of dark blue clouds, and above those blue clouds was a wider layer of puffy, reddish clouds. They appeared to be thick but they couldn’t have been because the moon was clearly visible through them, and it appeared as if the clouds were actually behind the moon. As I said, magic. A good omen, I thought to myself. Not that I believe in omens, but it’s something good to write about.
The flight from London to Madrid lasted two hours and proved uneventful. I so much wanted to stay awake to look down at the French and Spanish countryside, but there was too much haze and too many clouds, and my eyelids were  very heavy, so I slept most of the way. I awoke in time to be able to look down at the Spanish countryside as we neared Madrid. Beautiful agriculture area, all green broad valleys and plains surrounded by mountains and dotted with small towns and their red-roofed houses and other structures. Each town had about a dozen roads leading to it from all directions, making them appear like giant graceful spindly legged white spiders on green background.
Going through immigration at the airport was quick and easy, and it was even easier to go through customs: there were no customs checks at all! One disturbing incident, though: as I was walking, along with other passengers, to the train that would take us to  the baggage pick-up area, I noticed a uniformed policeman standing there. I paid no particular attention to him and simply kept walking. A few seconds later, I heard a loud, “Señor!, Señor!” I turned around and realized that I was the señor being summoned, except that there were now two cops. I walked back and the other cop inquired as to where I was coming from. When I told him, he said, “Esta bueno, sigale, sigale.” No explanation. I wondered if I had said Cali or Caracas or Mexico City,  if it would have made a difference. It was disturbing, a clear case of profiling based on looks.
My intentions when I checked into the hotel were to take a quick shower and start exploring the city, but after taking these shower, I laid down on my bed, for what was going to be only a few minutes.  I  ended up sleeping for more than an hour, and I had to force myself to get up.
MY FIRST VENTURE out was to the area near the Prado, the enormous park area that surrounds the museum. I had intended to skip the museum, but as approached it, but the words of Bonnie, a former Houston Post colleague, kept ringing in my brain. In comments she posted after one of my initial posts, she couldn’t believe that I would miss the opportunity to see the wonderful Goyas. So bought a ticket and went in. It took a while but eventually found them. The wonderful Goyas. Thanks, Bonnie.
I walked around a bit more but my exhaustion quickly took over and I came back to the hotel for another long nap before going back out for my evening walking tour. As enjoyable as that was, that too war tiring so I was back in the hotel by 10. But tired as I was, I couldn’t sleep so I turned on the TV and ended up watching but not paying too close attention to what appeared to be a wonderful Spanish romantic movie, featuring a actors I know I’ve seen before. I had the sound on too low and even though my mind kept telling me that all I needed to do was reach for the remote to turn the sound up, my  hand would not react, so I ended up watching but hardly hearing the action. I’d like to see that movie  again, one day when I’m fully alert.
OK, MY IPAD battery is down to its last 9 percent of its juice and I need to see if I can post this before it is  completely drained. Unfortunately, the converter I had been so careful to find and pack is nowhere to be found. I blame it on the London security bag who insisted  on inspecting one of bags. I know I saw them pull out the small bag with the converter in it, and I assumed they had put it back, along with the other items they took out, but they  apparently didn’t. Damn Brits! Now I have to go buy a new converter.
 

April 18, 2011 | Dulles Airport

AT THE BRITISH Airways Lounge. Fancy digs. I could get used to a life like this. Already I’m feeling like George Clooney in that movie where he goes from airport to airport. Except that the women don’t do about face when they see me. Neither do the men. I’m invisible, and I like it.

Bourbon on the rocks. Just two. That’s my limit. The first few times I flew overseas I would tell myself that if I drank enough, I would fall asleep. It never worked, and I arrived at my destination hung-over and sleepless. That ain’t gonna happen this time.

Michelle Bachman is on CNN on the lounge’s giant-screen TV, but thank God there is no sound. She’s gone now, thank God for that too.

We should be boarding in a little more than an hour. I got here way early, as I tend to do. I hate hurrying through airports.

I tried to sleep only a few hours last night so I can sleep on the flight over tonight, but I simply couldn’t get up when I woke up at 4:30, 5 and 5:30. So, we’ll see what happens tonight. If I don’t sleep, I don’t sleep. I’ll sleep when I’m dead, as Warren Zevon sang.

I spent most of the day cooking. I looked in the fridge this morning and saw too many things that would go bad in the three weeks that I’ll be gone, so I decided to cook it all and freeze it. I had some fresh tomatoes and tomatillos and lots of fresh garlic, so I roasted the garlic, cooked the t and t and roasted a few of the dried chiles from last summer’s harvest and created a batch of salsa. Froze most of it and set aside some for my upstairs neighbor, Toni.

I had some fresh zucchini, bell peppers and chayote, so I steamed them and put them in freezer bags. Ditto for the carrots.

I had two sweet potatoes, so I peeled them and cut them into strips, sprayed some olive oil on them and sprinkled them with garlic, chili powder and salt and put them in the oven.

I had about a quarter pound of chorizo, four eggs and a small bag of small potatoes. Made some chorizo con papas y huevos. Had a bit for lunch, set aside some for Toni (same for the sweet potatoes) and froze the rest. Oh my God: the chorizo looked and tasted great. I was sorry that I had no tortillas to make some tacos. The panful of chorizo and stuff reminded me of when my mother used to pack tacos de chorizo (among other things) before our long journeys up north each summer, or when we returned to Texas.

I was tempted to go out to buy some flour tortillas to make the tacos and bring them with me and then stand outside the airport to sell them. Could have paid for part of my trip!

The kitchen is a mess, but I don’t care. My cleaning lady is supposed to come by while I’m gone and she can take care of it, being that I’ve kept the place pretty clean while she has been on vacation.

That is it. See you on the other side.

April 18, 2011 | Washington

IN AN ODD coincidence, the travel issue of The New Yorker arrived a few days before my departure. I am looking forward to reading the rest of the issue, but right now I am reading a fascinating piece by Evan Osnos, who booked himself on a “Classic European” guided tour with a busload of Chinese.

Among the pieces of advice the tourists were given was this gem:

He who can bear hardship should carry on.

Ancient Confucius bit of wisdom? Hardly: It’s just the tour company’s advice to carry their luggage on the airplane, if they can, instead of checking it in.

I think, though, that I’ll make that my mantra for this trip:

I can bear hardship; therefore I shall carry on!

April 16, 2010 | Washington

In 48 hours, I’ll be flying on a British Airways jet somewhere over the Atlantic, on my way to London, where I’ll catch another flight to Madrid, the first stop in my three-week Spain/Switzerland/London vacation. Two nights each in Madrid, Toledo, Sevilla and Granada, four nights in Barcelona and three days visiting friends in Switzerland before catching a flight to London where I’ll celebrate Cinco de Mayo with friends then hop on another plane the next day for my flight home. Whew! It is probably a lot. Most people I know go away for two weeks at the most, but I couldn’t go to Europe without visiting my Swiss friends, and I can’t visit them for just a day or two, so I had to tack on that extra week, otherwise I wouldn’t get to see much of Spain. Not that I’m going to see a lot. There’s so much of that country that I’ll probably never see.

Yo no nací pa’ pobre

Me gusta todo lo bueno

That’s from an old José Alfredo Jiménez song (Tu y las Nubes). That’s my attitude for this trip. I’m flying business class across the ocean and back. I’m staying at two relatively fancy hotels in Madrid and Barcelona, thanks to BA frequent flier miles from when our company credit card used to be tied to BA, and to a hotel chain points program. (Not flying completely free: even though the fare is free, I still had to pay all sorts of fees and taxes, so my flight is going to cost me slightly more than what a regular coach seat would have cost me.) And I am taking an overnight train from Barcelona to Geneva — first class, complete with a private berth, dinner, drinks and breakfast. The other hotels aren’t exactly four-star hotels, but they are much better than the relatively cheap touristy hotels I’ve stayed in during my previous European trips.

The way I figure it, because of the way the economy is going, and because my retirement is not that far off (and my income is going to be much lower when I retire), this could well be my last trip to Europe, so I’m going first class – or as close to first class as I can get. I know I’m not supposed to say this, but I’ve worked hard and I’ve earned this.

I’m excited about it, of course, but I’d probably be just as excited if I were getting ready to get in my Ford Fusion and driving west, to Texas, New Mexico, Utah and California. Unlike my older brother, who would spend the rest of his life exploring every corner of the world, I don’t really care if I never see the Far East (although Mongolia, I find very intriguing), Africa (except for Morocco) or India. I do want to see most of South America (I say most because I don’t want to go anyplace where they have snakes fatter than my fat legs!), and I will do that, later and probably on the cheap. And even though I know Berlin and Budapest and Istanbul are wonderful cities, I’m resigned to the fact that I may never see them except in pictures. Unless I win the lottery, of course.

I’m not sure how I feel about Spain. I’m going to Spain because of its color. I see it, in my mind’s eye, as a colorful, colorful country, filled with interesting colorful shapes and forms that I can record with my camera. I’ll probably skip the Prado, just as I’ve skipped the Louvre when I’ve visited Paris. Museums are too time-consuming and I don’t have that much time in any of these cities. My idea of a good vacation is getting up in the morning, having a good hotel breakfast then spending the rest of the day walking around, exploring shops and side streets, parks and people, having a cheap lunch on a park bench then doing more exploring, shooting everything in sight until it’s time for a short rest in my hotel room, which is followed by more exploring and dinner somewhere. Not at fancy restaurants, mind you: I don’t do fancy restaurants alone.

I don’t feel any emotional attachment to Spain, not the way I feel attached to Mexico and even most of the other Latin American countries. I am sure, somewhere in my family tree, particularly on my mother’s side, there are some people who once lived in that country, but there’s no historical record of that. I have no idea where the Spanish Palomos came from and I have no great desire to find out. It’s not important to me. So I’m not on some pilgrimage in search of my roots. I know very little Spanish history and what little I do know (the Inquisition, Franco), is not very appealing. I like Flamenco but it’s not a passion, and while I might get excited about the pageantry surrounding bullfights, I can’t stand the thought of watching someone kill a bull for sport.

I do love the food, though, or what little I know of it. But if I end up having paella and it’s not as good as my nephew Emilio’s, I will be sorely disappointed. My only exposure to tapas has been in Washington and I must say I haven’t been terribly impressed. But my mind is open, and I will be adventuresome when it comes to food.

One thing I am really looking forward to is the Holy Week and Easter pageantry. I’ll be in Toledo on Good Friday and in Sevilla on Easter Sunday, and I am excited about whatever pageantry I can find. Even though I consider myself an atheist, the rituals and pageantry of Catholicism that were a part of my early life are still very much engrained deeply in my heart, and I am still in awe of the magic and mystery of Holy Week and Easter. Nothing like it. Not even the best midnight Christmas mass can hold a candle to the simplest, humblest Holy Week ceremony.

The funny thing is that I know nothing about what awaits me in Spain. I’ve got some guidebooks and I’ve done a bit of Internet research, and friends have sent me some articles, but I can’t bring myself  to read most of it. The fact is that I never read tourist guidebooks before I arrive in a country or city. I just can’t do it. I have to be there, and if I have any questions, then I’ll turn to the guidebook. The bad thing about that is that I could very well end up missing some interesting stuff, because I didn’t bother to read about it beforehand, but I’m willing to take that chance.

Given that I have developed a nasty habit of blogging on my vacations, people of course want to know if I’m going to do it again. My usual response is, “We’ll see.” But that’s a lie, I know. Of course I’ll write about this trip, and of course it’ll all go into this blog.

I realize there is a great deal of arrogance to believe that anyone would want to read about what I see and do (particularly since I’m usually bored shitless by other people’s travel writings), but I also know that this is strictly a voluntary thing: if you don’t want to read it, you don’t have to. I make no claim that what I write is better or more interesting than what others write. In fact, I know that my travel writing pales in comparison to what some of my friends produce, but that’s OK. It is what it is, and if you enjoy it, fine. If you don’t, that’s fine too.