A Quickie for the records...

The above was the pool off of our room in the lovely Comporta- a beach town 90 minutes north of the house in Portugal. It was sublime, (also the name of the hotel) if a little weird. One does not often swim in green water with lily pads so happily; but you got used to it.

Sadly a lot of the romance was taking away by hearing nothing but my people- particularly from New York yaking about business on their little docks as I was trying to float. Americans have definitely discovered Comporta.

It was one of those hotels that is meant to be all about rest and relaxation: very zen and a tad judgy as these places are. But it happened to be the semi finals at Wimbledon: Federer v Nadal, and we were not going to miss it. The room had a television, but it was small and did not have the BBC. So I called the front desk and they told me to, in essence, get over it. I realized they were rolling their eyes at the uptight American, but I didn't care.
"So it is the same story in the bar? there is no BBC?"
"There are no televisions outside of the room Madam."

Luckily I married a graduate of the ETH who said some sort of native American chant over his ipad, and we got to watch it that way. Something about VPNs (?) and fibbing in response to questions about our exact location, and we were in business.

But if anyone wants to really relax, and avoid any tennis on television- I can highly recommend it.

Groovy Comporta chandeliers

Then we flew Barcelona where we were treated really well at a rather posh hotel Peter recommended. It was almost comical, the second we entered the hotel, they rushed us upstairs as if we were somehow important and had to be out of sight of our rabid fans. The only other time I was whisked through a check in like that was when we were in Jordan. Perhaps they thought we were someone else. 

Barcelona is town everyone loves, but I have somehow never bonded with it. It is so lovely; a large, beautiful European city on the Mediterranean. So I have no idea why it's one of the few places on earth where I don't wander around briefly fantasizing about living there.

Chico arrived looking rather tan and fit, and taller- finally, than his parents.

The hotel had a fabulous roof bar (see below) with a tiny pool used solely for girls to pose for selfies in bikinis.

We saw a good deal of Gaudi houses; and the Picasso museum where we were behind Steve Carrell of The Daily Show and the Office fame, and Frederick was beside himself. Then the usual walking over hill and dale, tapas, ice cream, hip one star restaurant and of course five hours of huddling by the scared Ipad for that Wimbledon final. We are a predictable trio.

Anyway, for those who are following (and I don't blame you if you have given up after two bloody months of our wanderings), we were back in Portugal for a week and are now in a rainy little Swiss village for Michael's birthday. On to Lech day after tomorrow where we will stay with the enemy: in the Post hotel- (obviously the Almhof is closed in summer, hence our traitorousness.)

I told K and G to get the trumpets tuned in honor of our arrival, but no word yet...

At a Gaudi house near the hotel. 

After the usual 20,000 + steps, but in the wrong shoes. 

Sagrada Familia, the reason we went to Barcelona- Chico had long wanted to see it, but we didn't get tickets!

being boiled in the Swiss Alps, then cooled in a cow trough below. 

Killer Caterpillars

"The Unites States has a fantastic, world leading national soccer team. And it also has a men's team." 
Rachel Maddow

on the sacred yoga mat

Behold the present condition of my legs. It looks far better in this picture than it does in life: in reality people are staring on the street.
We are not sure if it is the usual allergy to the shit they spray on the golf courses, or it is the work of a poisonous caterpillar.

Poisonous caterpillars are apparently a thing here. They have little hairs that cause large allergic reactions in people, and more terrifyingly- in dogs, whom they can kill (a caterpillar!) But it is not the season, so it is probably just the golf, or the pollen. I heard from the physical therapist here (yes we see her constantly) that the newly born caterpillars descend from the top of the pine trees to look for a place to go underground where they will become butterflies and then fly to the top of the tree and start the whole thing over again. Once on the ground, they choose a leader, and then follow that leader, occasionally to their deaths. They have been seen in a hopeless circle where they are stuck, because the leader is a moron and didn't find a place underground, but instead just found the guy at the end of the line. Or if the head guy gets run over by a car, the followers keep walking until they are all on a pile on top of him where, inevitably, a car runs over all of them.
Good riddance I say. It's kind of creepy anyway the whole turning into a butterfly thing. I asked her what they are called in Portuguese and she said: Caterpillar. This was such a disappointment. I thought I was going to be able to add to my pathetic list of Portuguese words that total: Cake, rain, thank you and tomorrow.

Interestingly I only get these rashes after one of our epic, hot sweaty walks. I know what you are thinking: this could affect my step count.

In other news: we are going to Barcelona on Saturday after spending one night in Comporta a hip beach place that is long on Madonna and short on golf. We will stay in Barcelona for a few days, then bring prodigal home for more Portugal, then Switzerland, then Lechy lech.

The big news is we are swinging by Puerto Rico on the way home. Because it's there, and it's a tax haven; also they hate Trump, and maybe they need more paper towels. Who knows.

In the "It's not all bad news out there for the United States", column may I submit the following:
Rachel Maddow's interview with Megan Rapinoe: the greatest girl crush interview of all time. And remember how the handsome Turk told me the only two groups of people who tip at all, much less so generously are the Americans and the Irish? Well we were walking around Faro the other day and a guy was playing guitar and he was truly good. But he wasn't really good with the customers; he was just so into his own head. So I stopped to throw in some money and what do I see? The only other cash in his guitar case was a ten dollar bill. usa.usa.usa.

Playing guitar downtown Faro

I worry sometimes that I am missing out on the best parts of a U.S. summer. We don't have barbecues much here and it is hard to find corn. But then we see this sky last night- one that looks exactly like cotton candy clouds, and I am ok again.

Will send photos of Comporta tomorrow. xx

no filter. In front of one of the many very high tech enormous houses being built here. 

Bear Your Portion of the World

The part of Portugal not seen in the guide books

Chico is back in the fold and sleeping like a person who has spent 10 days as an apprentice with super fun Russian oligarchs. He is now conversant on the decor of the better known VIP lounges in  Ibiza, and slightly less skeptical of the idea of champagne at lunch.
But he arrived home ready for peanut butter and sleep. 

We have been playing tennis of course-usually for two hours, three days a week with the Portuguese guy; but have added personal training with a Brit whom I can distract from the workout by asking about the rules of cricket.  

Meanwhile we eat at beach restaurants or one star places run by Dutch people. Both are excellent. 

Not on the list: golf or the sea. I don’t know why we haven’t done much golfing or swimming, but somehow the day slips by. 

We are still aiming for steps when we can. At one point we were walking through a deserted construction area and I wondered what my friends on the Mediterranean were doing. Walks with Thomas are sometimes more like the obstacle course portion on a reality show featuring disabled green berets. The beach is apparently for sissies

I am enjoying watching the debate assessments, which varied from “total absolute disaster- the Dems promised to do things that will get them killed in the general”, to Rachel’s careful, granny wrote your review- in which she highlighted every single person and the good thing he/she said. 

So it looks like we are all going to die, or live to fight another day because no one in America was watching. 

I am sort of sanguine now. Maybe it’s the lawn mowers or the port, but I can’t seem to worry about anything heavier than my backhand theses days.

How about those US women soccer players? Adorable and awesome at the same time. I really abhor bad sportsmanship, but is the tea thing really that bad? I mean it is almost July 4th….anyway since when do we care what Piers Morgan thinks? 

Finally I am reading the most wonderful book: Letters to a young writer. I will leave you with a portion here because it relates as much to writing as to life:

“Do the things that do not compute. Be earnest. Be devoted. Be subversive of ease. Read aloud. Risk yourself. Do not be afraid of sentiment even when others call it sentimentality. Permit yourself anger. Fail. Take a pause…..Have wonder. Bear your portion of the world. Find a reader you can trust. They must trust you back….Do not allow your heart to harden. Enjoy difficulty. Embrace mystery. Do not tread water. Transcend the personal. Have trust in the staying power of what is good. Restore what has been ridiculed by others. Write beyond repair. Make justice from reality. Sing. Make vision from the dark. The considered grief is so much better than the unconsidered. Be suspicious of that which gives you consolation. Share your rage. Resist. Denounce. …Dilate your nostrils. Fill your lungs with language. A lot can be taken from you-even your life-but not your stories about that life. 

So this, then, is a word, not without love and respect, to a young writer:

write. “

I don’t know what it means to "bear your portion of the world"….but I am committed to doing more of it.