Copenhagen

Another city of boats, barges and canals in a country known for progressive attitudes and great public transport. Our new berth would be on a restored barge turned house boat moored in a quasi industrial area on the outskirts of the City proper. The area was across the river from the city proper on Amager Island at the end of Revshalen. In advance, we had obtained Copenhagen Cards, which gave us unlimited use of all the public transit options and most of the attractions and museums. For simplicity, we took a taxi from the cruise ship to the house boat but immediately observed both conventional bus and water bus stops in sight of our house boat.

On a cruise they feed you morning, noon and through the night. On the houseboat we would be on our own. We met our hostess, Jette, with her advice, after unloading our baggage, we proceeded to the local market by bike. Thereafter we would take the bus. Although we were out of town at the end of the line, the bus shelter was outfitted with a time of arrival display. Buses ran every 10 minutes, one was coming our way. We displayed our Copenhagen Cards and hopped on board.

On our fifteen minute trip, we crossed waterways with paddling ducks, small but lush grassy meadows with scrub woodlands and red brick houses, passed by the Opera House, through a college complex and noted two more waterbus stops before arriving at the market. It was lovely; here we were in an industrial zone, on the outskirts of a major metro area and everything was clean and green with NO TRAFFIC CONGESTION!

Confession: I love a foreign grocery market. This is how folks really live. What is the selection? What is popular? What is affordable? What new product can I try? The little market did not disappoint. Copenhageners like rich food. Particularly they love meatballs! There were more varieties of meatballs than I have ever previously seen. The dairy products were labeled with the exact amount of butter fat. Not just non – low – full but the precise percentage, staggered by half-percentages. Copenhageners do not prefer non-fat or low-fat dairy. Forget about milk substitutes, they want the real deal. The sole alternatives were goat and sheep milk. There were ample varieties of cheeses and pastries but few prepared foods, aside from the plethora of meatballs. The wide variety of beautiful vegetables came in small packages, no bulk purchasing going on here! With a load of bread, wine, produce and dairy we headed back to the houseboat.

Our houseboat accommodation was the bow third of the barge. When there were no rental, it was literally, the mother-in-law apartment. We met Mom upon our arrival. The owner's family of four resided in the main stern portion. Our section consisted of a small living room with a ladder down to a small kitchenette, bath and adjoining bedroom. The owner had rebuilt the boat using recycled materials. No surprise as he operated an architectural recycling company! While the random and slapdash carpenter, distressed Francis' fine woodworker sensibilities, I found myself impressed by the wit and ingenuity of some of the modifications. The bedroom door was a steel boiler-room hatch! White walls, ample portholes below and a windows above kept the small spaces from feeling cramped. A window wall formed the bow of the living room, when we weren't exploring Copenhagen I would watch traffic on the water and activities all around the dockside

Our houseboat was in an enclave consisting of an interesting mix of moored barges, functional vessels and stable houses on pilings. At the end of the pier was the waterbus stop, which was surrounded by large scrap metal sculptures, and the opposite side of the pier was a permanently flooded dry-dock, home to a partially surfaced submarine! On the other side in the navigable waterway was an impressive series of red brick buildings housing a nautical military school. Every evening at sunset they fired off a vintage cannon.

At the very end of the cove was a small Italian Bistro. The Bistro itself was tiny, just a kitchenette with three rustic tables, in which the chef owner and his girlfriend prepared beverages, plus the option of a single daily meat, fish or veg entree. While internally tiny, externally the Bistro had it's own floating docks and a handsome wooden barrel-stave sauna, than the Bistro itself. The sauna was a small rotund cabin with a glass wall facing toward the waterside. Throughout our stay we could see happily sweating young people through the glass partition in the sauna. Quite unselfish-conscious, they would strip off their clothes before entering the sauna naked or in minimal underwear. After warming themselves, they would jump into the very cold water of the cove. The good food from the Bistro augmented by liberal quantities of beer and ale appeared to fuel the process. The action on the water was just as entertaining. Boats of every size and power came into the cove along with aquatic birds. There were scullers by day and sailboats at dusk. Ocean kayaks shared the waterway with immaculate wooden lap-stakes and well-worn functional fishing skiffs.

On into town

Down to the waterline, the waterbus barges came about every 45 minutes. We were the next to last stop on the waterbus. It was slow trip into town, not only because a ship moves more slowly through the water but also because the waterbus seemed to be first choice of families with strollers. Every stop had them loading and unloading, carefully negotiating the slippery mesh ramp into the ship. Often the parents would them have to carry the stroller down a few steps into the seating area, or face the wind and spray from as we proceeded through town.

While our location was industrial with a makeshift loading dock and found scrap metal sculptures, the rest of the stops were in established, historic or upscale locales. We rode across the river to a stop which we discovered was just behind the royal garden and design museum. Our return trip would make a circuit from the museum, to the new ultra modern opera house, a fancy touristic shopping district and the historic Nyvern canal. Why take the high priced and crowded canal boat tours, when you can ride the waterbus with the locals?

Housed in the former royal Library building a surrounded by small royal garden, the Danish National Design museum was everything you expect of Scandinavian design. Francis who loves chairs, was delighted to discover a hall of chairs, displaying both seating from ancient cultures juxtaposed with the modern designs they inspired, fascinating. My favorite Hans Wegner Wishbone chair was, no wonder, sitting next to a Chinese bow-back. A main presentation was a retrospective of Danish influences on industrial projects, beautifully made toothbrushes, vacuum cleaners and audio equipment. It was Ikea at MOMA. There was also a retrospective of less practical but quite whimsical modern designs, ranging from an all wood bicycle, one made of bamboo, a sculptural face dress of woolen knit and a chair of newspaper. Upstairs were examples of 15^th through 17^th century Danish porcelains and enamels. A bit ornate for my taste but exquisite never the less.

Next door to the design museum was a sponsored artist's workshop. Each month a craft artist would would setup a pop-up workshop in the space. Explaining their techniques and selling their product. This month it was a screen-printer, making lovely hand printed linens for the home. Delicate florals and woodland grasses loosely spread across natural fibers in gentle colors. Very Danish design. The excellence in design extended to the manhole covers on the street. They were not plain utilitarian metal but were cast with interesting Copenhagen motifs.

Energized by a boat ride and eyes filled with beauty, we wandered off in search of a good but inexpensive place to eat. Hmm, the latter can complicate the issue. When we found a small outdoor bistro on a quiet street serving regional specialties, we deemed it perfect. Even more ideal, there was yarn shop across the street! My perfect souvenir, a skein of real Danish wool milled in Denmark from Danish sheep and it was in shaded tones that resembled the deep blue sea and lighter waves on the Atlantic. While on the cruise I had modified a wave lace pattern to make Jette, our Copenhagen hostess, a scarf; now I could make myself one.

The tables faced a fantastic carved water butt of spouting dolphins and other sea creatures. There was very little auto traffic but we could watch the people ride by on bicycles. There are more bicycles than cars in Copenhagen. Older individuals on three-wheelers with large capacity rear baskets. Mothers on tall street bikes, guiding their children alongside. What is better than a scenic view and people watching to go with your lunch? A charming and helpful waiter is bonus. He not only advised us knowledgeably about our meal options but chatted about his travels in the US, on both the East and West coasts. He was finishing his degree programs and would soon shift from waiter to therapist.

Our boat ride back to the houseboat turned out less calm. Upon disembarking the water-bus I realized that my phone, my new phone, had slipped from my pocket. After having our hostess try to call the office, we found it was closed. The office was located adjacent to our wharf. Biking over only to find it was predictably shut. Back to the water-bus pier, to wait for the next boat. It was a different vessel. There were three in circulation. Explaining my plight, the captain said he would radio the other captains. By this time, I was mourning the loss of my lovely brand new phone. Losing such an article on any U S public transport, it would be long gone, picked up by another passenger. Never the less, I returned to the pier for each subsequent water-bus. After all I had nothing further to lose! Hours later the same vessel I had ridden, pulled in. As they docked the first mate approached smiling. He said in a teasing voice “Are you missing your baby?” and handed me my phone! Oh my, that would not happen on the Staten Island Ferry!

Royal Horses, Kitchens and Costumes

We tended to take the regular bus as it ran so frequently. The next day we walked past the Tivoli Gardens but our goal was the Maritime Museum and Royal Stables. As it turned out the stables were their own virtual palace and were adjacent to the actual palace with fascinating royal kitchens and theater open for inspection. A historical retrospective of carriages, saddles and royal riders were on display but the most marvelous part of the royal stables were the royal horses. Beautiful mellow white mares and stallions, pressing their soft noses against the barricades in hope of a friendly scratch. They would turn their heads to give their admirers better access - - a little bit behind the ears, if you please. There were signs advising not to touch the residents but neither the four footed nor their two footed visitors were having any of that.

The royal kitchen was set up to resemble the preparations for a 1937 gala. In the huge vaulted cavern of the royal kitchen proper, hung series of copper pans shiny bright and the massive ovens glowed roasting mock tenderloins and poultry for the feast, while the original menu and recipes were posted at the various work stations. In an adjacent storage area, a video documentary narrated by the current chef and assistants described how modern banquets are prepared and served for state dinners. The royal theater was dwarfed by the kitchen but the extraordinary costumes on display more than made up for lesser proportions. The theater was still in use. Now presenting plays for the general population not just the royal family.

Francis was most interested in the maritime museum. This was a study in contrasts, military armaments clashed with the plight of refugees. While it seemed more oriented to conflict in general than seafaring in specific, Francis did find the souvenir for which he had been searching. A “monkey-fist” is a complicated ball-like sailor's knot which he wanted to use as a keyfob. In full size the monkey fist would be a throwing weight on a ship's heaving line. The museum gift shop had a supply of diminutive “monkey fists” perfect for this application. He was satisfied with his find. The next day we would take the train to Elsinore, where there was a new maritime museum built into a former dry dock.

Elsinore

Our Copenhagen Passes gave us free rein on the local trains. The bus from Refshaleven stops right in front of the Copenhagen train station. It was nearby the Tivoli Gardens, Through the Gardens fencing we could see brightly painted structures and rides. It was not a season of full bloom but it still was a colorful atmosphere. Catching our bus downtown to the main station, we found the platform for Elsinore. The train was right on time, a nice commuter style diesel with comfortable bench seats. We settled in for the hour train ride through suburban and exurban towns along the coast. Everywhere the environs were tidy, very little trash along the tracks, light industrial developments gave way to clustered houses and then larger seaside structures. Modern architecture contrasting without conflict with older traditional Scandinavian buildings. Both styles seemed perfectly sited in their environment.

Arriving at the end of the line in Elsinore, the train station was a Victorian gingerbread edifice at one end of town. Surrounding the station were kiosks of flower sellers and small shops leading to a warren of small streets into the town proper and off towards the harbor, Kronberg Castle and Sweden. Right across from the train station was a guitar shop. We wandered in and discovered the owner working on some guitar electronics. He was clearly a heavy metal fan, judging by his background music. Striking up a conversation, we found out he had lived in NYC for decades and now spent his Winters in the Florida Keys. We traded contact information, amazed at the small world coincidence.

Our primary destination, the new maritime museum was very modern in architecture and focus. It concentrated on the 19^{th and} 20^th centuries. Exhibits ranged from media portrayals and images of seafarers to a dreamy video by Peter Greenaway about the loneliness and sexuality of the sea. One of the most interesting and evocative exhibits was a series of ship models of sunken vessels. Ships models usually show the pristine ships as they would have appeared in dry dock. These models depicted a wide variety of ships sunk during war times and enumerated the lives lost with the ship. The hall was darkened and somber as was appropriate to the subject matter. Large pedestal display cases had individual spot lights highlighting the ship models which were shown at odd angles to reveal their method of destruction.

A the end of the corridor of loss was the Greenaway video. Entering a room filled with ships heads and sailor's romantic memorabilia, you passed into a multi-media showcase outfitted with cots for seating. A screen featured interviews with sailors of various ages, races, genders and gender preferences talking about their isolation. The interviews were interspersed with short films of swirling schools of fish and similarly swimming underwater naked men and women. After these strangely meaningful displays I felt the need to clear my head and decided to take a walk around Kronberg castle. How could I go to Elsinore without seeing Hamlet's Castle? While Francis watched ships passing the harbor I wandered towards Sweden.

While best known now as Hamlet's Castle from Shakespeare, Kronberg was of strategic military importance being an outlet to the Baltic Sea and the closest point to Sweden across the Oresund. In town a few interesting street sculptures echo the Hamlet theme and tours of the castle proper are conducted by Horatio, billed as the sole survivor of the play. Walking the ramparts looking towards Sweden, watching hardy Danish sunbathing along the rocky coast and the ferry running between the two countries, I was indeed transported back to prior centuries.

We caught a bus back to the train station, where all the flower stalls had shut down for the evening. Our return train ride was as pleasant as the trip out but we were ready to return to our cozy houseboat. We had one more place to explore in Copenhagen, Christiania.

Christiania was a former military barracks taken over 50 years ago by hippie squatters. After attempts to remove the inhabitants, the city fathers threw up their hands and with typical tolerance let them stay as a "free" city within Copenhagen. Residences in Christiania are still not bought and sold but distributed by a resident council based on need. While Copenhagen overall is immaculate; Christiania is full of graffiti and trash. The particular attraction of the area being that recreational drugs are illegal in Denmark, in Christiania they are sold openly on Dealer Street. On card tables a wide variety of products ranging from loose leaf, to hash buds, to pre-rolled joints are displayed. There is a huge kitch T-shirt and head-shop market as well. Many small stands selling vegan and vegetarian carry-out line this impromptu commercial area. 

 After just a few days in Copenhagen, it was time to repack our possessions for our next destination, Iceland. 

Ship of Fools

My darling adorable diminutive Granny Sammy was born in St. Petersburg, Russia. Her Parents emigrated to the USA when she was one year old. Her Father was well educated man. They did not settle in the lower East side tenements but bought a house in the Bronx. Often I would wonder about that transatlantic voyage. Days at sea, no sight of land, confident that your destination was favorable but not really sure.

Two years ago a cruise line sent me an early booking bargain offer of a transatlantic trip. It was a well fitted ship with nice amenities. The boat was departing Florida, from our most convenient port, at precisely the time of year we would head North. It seemed serendipity.

Further research revealed, interesting possibilities for overseas accommodations and return airfare. The ship would dock in Copenhagen, Denmark. We could stay on a canal houseboat. Our former neighbors had touted Icelandic stopovers between the US and Denmark. Hot springs, volcanic smokers and the rift valley between the American and European plates, 'all near Reykjavik! To lure Francis into this travel plan, we would visit the Maritime Museum in each port and stopover.

It would be a total of 27 days, the longest time we had been away from home. Certainly the longest time either of us had ever been on the road. Even our cross country RV trip had been of shorter duration. 26 nights in strange quarters. The sole defect to our week in Havana was sleeping in someone-else's comparably uncomfortable bed!

Since I'm always tired and my interest was the ocean voyage, I'd be content to stare at the endless water but what would Francis do for two+ weeks at sea? Realistically at sea there would be minimal contact with friends or family, no phone and internet slow and spotty if available. Francis talks and texts with his buds everyday. Would he find an alternative support system on the ship or, with an unlimited “beverage” package, would he drown himself in a vat of Mamsey in desperation?

The Ship

The Getaway is one of Norwegian Cruise Lines newest and largest vessels. Last Spring, we made a Family Spring Break cruise on the Sister ship, the Breakaway. The two ships have almost the same layout. For the long haul I booked the same room in the same location. We had a comfortable quiet berth, high on the prow of the ship with a balcony overlooking a mezzanine deck and the ocean.

The ships can carry about 4,000 passengers and about half that in crew. That is a whole lot of people! The demographic for the previous week trip during Spring Break and the upcoming multi-week trip during the school year would be very different. Thank goodness. No school age or college break kids on this cruise. The kids had been Francis' nemesis. Given the over two week duration, probably few working age folks either. If the mode age was under 60 I'd have been surprised; I was not surprised.

On a big multi-national ship there are enough bars with live entertainment, restaurants with good to very good food and talented performances in a variety of styles to fill a month of evenings. I was ready to relax.

In preparation for the trip we hitched ride to Miami with Rebekah. Her apartment overlooks Biscayne Park, in the distance you can see the cruise ships. We set up her new computer and printer at the apartment, then she dropped us off at the pier. Alerting the dock personnel to Francis' back, we quickly released our luggage and were whisked off to an early boarding line. Settling in to our cozy room, was not an issue after we complied with the mandatory safety presentation. With Miami fading in the background, we wondered what would the next couple of weeks hold?

Days at sea

The first day at sea, a crafty woman urged the activities director to post a notice for a knit / crochet / handcraft liaison. The response was 40 women congregating by one of the bar areas the next day and every sea day thereafter. Off and on from 10 AM to 3 or 4 PM, people would drop in or out at random, comparing projects, sharing tips and occasionally supplies. That was my perch in the late morning / early afternoon. Huddled with an international group of women working on hand crafts, evoked the atmosphere of my fore-mothers. They probably spent their days at sea just this way, while the menfolk took to themselves smoking and chatting. Chatting with his fellow smokers being Francis' preferred activities.

The air was cold and the seas were rough. So chilly and rough that the outdoor activities had minimal appeal. A few hardy souls basked in the hot tubs as water splashed out onto the walkways. Staff were constantly on mop up duty. There were no lines for the water slides or climbing wall, in fact most days these attractions were closed due to the movement of the ship. The gentle sway appealed to me but I'm sure not everyone agreed. 

Indoor entertainment was continuous. During the day there were classes ranging from the practical language lessons in Mandarin, Tagalog and Portuguese to absurd, a Michela Jackson “Thriller” zombie dance class. There were Bridge and box games in the Library and the ubiquitous Bingo in the great hall. The evening presentations were designed to appeal to a variety of tastes and were uniformly entertaining, exhibition dancers, comic jugglers, jazz combos and a couple of Broadway-style shows.

Our plan had been to tour the Maritime Museum in each of the five ports of call: Ponta Delgada, Azores; Brest, France; Southampton, England; Zeebruge, Belgium; and Rotterdam, Netherlands. The seas, even on fancy cruises, will have her way with the plans of men! Approaching the Azores, the sea was rough, 15 to 20 foot waves, such that the Captain was advised not to attempt landfall. Our first stop after a week at sea, canceled. Many cranky passengers, now also feeling a bit trapped!

The next stop was delayed by a lamentable disembarkation process. The only facility was a steep narrow steel gangplank intended for youthful staff and stores. It was wholly inappropriate to older and often unsteady individuals. Amplified by a light rain, the sleek steel surface was slippery as well. People fell, often injuring themselves on the crossbars; often just one patron escorted by two or three staff could exit at a time. It took hours, we had but two hours ashore in Brest, France, 'barely enough time to tour the Musee National de la Marine and rush back to the ship.

The Musee was worth the bother. Sited in a historic fort, overlooking the port, both the building and the contents were fascinating. The hike to the fort and around it's grounds were a bonefide pleasure after a week on the ship. It was early Spring, flowers bloomed along the hillside around the fort. Their vibrancy and color framed a wonderful contrast to the ancient dark stone walls. If it had not been raining and I was not curious, I might have been tempted to stay outside and appreciate the landscape.

Indoors, the exhibits were no less of interest. Our American view of the age of exploration tends to be Anglo-centric. Here the French equals of the English explorers and their discoveries were touted, along with ship replicas and items from their travels. The ship models were Francis' favorites, extraordinary detail in miniature of every beam and line of a massive ship. The contemporary portraits, copies of the ship's logs and master's journals recreated the era, back-dropped as they were by the setting among the fort's turrets.

Another section of the old fort displayed the history of the town of Brest. It's development as a trading port through the middle ages, it's destruction by Allied bombing during World War Two and it's rebuilding after the war. Only two structures remained from the medieval town, the fort and a bell tower. The remainder of the city was rebuilt as quickly as possible after the war. As a result while it was modern bustling seaport, there was little historic charm in downtown Brest. From the ramparts we could look across the river to the energetic modern town. We had neither time nor inclination to tour it.

A both ironic and equally lamentable re-embarkation process marred returning to the ship. There had been severe warnings NOT to return after Four PM and NOT to line up along the quay. The reality of the inadequate gangplank required returning guests to line up along the quay and queue for hours. To further dampen spirits and raise folks' ire, it began to rain. A chill steady drizzle, fell along the stone breakwater. The grey sky and grey stone surrounded by the grey Altantic. The bright Guy Harvey mural on the sides of the cruise ship did nothing to cheer this crowd, if anything it's promise of delight only annoyed them further. We were one cranky and miserable lot. Francis was in such obvious discomfort, a staff person grabbed him by the elbow and steered him to the front of the line, up the gangplank and onto the ship. Merci, merci, merci!

Engine problems then delayed our arrival in Southampton. It was five o'clock by the time we arrived at the Maritime Museum. Guess what time they close, 5 PM! The engine issues also canceled the stop in ZeeBruge, Belgium. We did overnight in Rotterdam, Netherlands and toured that interactive museum before docking and disembarking in Copenhagen, Denmark.

At the Museum

Two hours is the least time you would want to spend touring the fascinating French Maritime Museum in Brest, France. Housed in a historic fort on the seawall, it not only has the expected ship models and nautical exhibits but also an excellent view into the French military, through the history of the fort itself, and the effects of WW2 on coastal France, through a before and after photo montage.

We docked in Rotterdam in the evening rather than the following morning as originally scheduled. Sure skip two ports you will catch up to the schedule. Our berth gave us a perfect view of the Erasmus Bridge, called the Swan Bridge. It is an amazing engineering and architectural feat, and a splendid preview of Rotterdam's whimsical architectural design.

One of the fellow knitters and her spouse asked if I'd like to walk around town. We wandered across the Erasmus bridge to a little pub where we sampled local beer and cider respectively. Her Husband returned to the ship while we wandered along the river until well after dark. Along the way we saw an amazing sight, a floating hot tub boat! Now that is life on a canal! 

We walked farther than we had planned, from the Erasmus Bridge to the Willemsbrug Bridge and back along the other side of the River Nieuwe Mass. Well-maintained and well-restored classic canal houses alternated with creative modern infill construction. Similarly residential alternated with commercial revealing a vibrant and livable urban community. Along the way, we passed by the Rotterdam Maritime Museum, my destination for the next day with Francis.

The Rotterdam Maritime Museum in contrast was modern and interactive, focusing on historical Dutch sea exploration and modern North Sea installations. When you arrive, your entry ticket is a punched name tag and you are encouraged to grab and lanyard for your new “employee pass”. You then proceed through a Off-shore Oil Refinery safety lecture, with opportunities for you to dress in real sou'westers, boots and slickers for your first testing and training day. As you climb stairs between derrick platforms there are videos, displays and games for you to try your hand at standard oil rig tasks. Drill through the sand and bedrock to the oil shale. Stack the shipping containers of supplies. Pilot the ferry to the rig. After failing my entrance exams, I proceeded to the historical displays. The history of Dutch sea explorations in the 1800's was compared with current explorations of outer space. A Dutch Astronaut was featured in many of the exhibits.

Exiting the building there was a canal dockage with actual Dutch canal boats and North Sea ships to explore. A docent was sitting on the completely outfitted live-aboard canal boats. She was keeping herself occupied by knitting socks on double pointed needles. Historically and gender accurate to the era. Around the boats are amusing sculptures: cats on the deck; rats climbing the mooring lines; and on the dock a horse in a crate, being hoisted aboard by a crane.

Live aboard tulips and falling fruit

Rotterdam is renowned for its creative architecture. Rebuilding after WW2, they opted for unique modern designs rather than recreations of former eras or banal postwar practicality. In amusing juxtaposition are wildly imaginative buildings and public facilities with the traditional Dutch canal row houses and wooden barges. The most extreme are clustered around the Blacck neighborhood and euphonious subway stop. The stop itself looks like giant cruller or perhaps a scallop shell. Instead of sugar crystals or diatoms, blue uniformed police clumped around the edges. Ostensibly on crowd control they were much more attuned to their cellphones than their two way radios, as they concentrated on the process and outcome of the national soccer championship.

On one side of the rail station is a residential complex called the cube houses. A series of bright yellow cubes set on end supported by pale columns. While viewed from a distance the effect is of a child's building blocks, viewed from beneath you feel you are walking through a grove of giant picelated yellow tulips. Inside the apartments, each wall slants out at a 90 degree angle and then veers back as a triangle towards a pyramidal central point, every room a dormer alcove.

On the opposite side of the station is an equally unique structure. An enormous saddle or bowbacked tunnel, glass walled on the two ends with offices and rooms in the built sides but completely open through the vaulted central space. A variety of photos had indicated the scale of the building but i had never been able to discern what was decorating the interior vault. While the doors were locked, closed due to the soccer game, walked over to peer inside. Floating fruit! Giant bananas, strawberries, apples and an assortment of fresh fruit were floating and tumbling through space, surrounding any dwarfed humans. What a fun place for a food court.

The cruise ship dock had displays of local products, crafts and souvenirs, while a group outfitted in navy blue and white striped jerseys was singing sea chanties in Dutch and English. What a lovely welcome back. Rotterdam had everything going right! The football game was concluding as we returned to the ship. Cannons and fire crackers could be heard all over the town and the cheering resonated from every corner! Rotterdam won! Finally Amsterdam defeated! That night as firecrackers and cannons celebrated the win, we packed up our baggage ready to disembark in Copenhagen the next morning.

Sunday 2/26/2017  Floor Show, Shopping & Adios 

Francis feels miserable,skipping dinner last night and going to bed hungry has caught up with him. Cafe this morning will be insufficient. He wants to linger in but I am up for an exploration. The taxi driver last night didn't have CUC for change; he gave me CUP / MN. Exactly what is needed for local agricultural markets. As we enjoy our cafe on the porch [albeit Francis is not enjoying anything at the moment] a man rolls by cart crying “Pan Mantequilla, Pan Suisse”. Perfecto, 1 CUC for a half dozen beautiful fresh rolls is probably overpriced but sounds grand to me. Cafe and soft rolls will revive Francis.

After another cup of Monica's excellent expresso, I tuck the MN into my pocket and head off to the market. The sight of people carrying bags of produce indicates the stalls are open for business. The market takes up a city block. Two banks of stairs lead from the street to an open air but roof covered space. Rough tables line each side of the space and rectangle of tables is positioned in the center. The vendors stand behind their table space, fruits and vegetables spread out before them. Along the most enclosed wall are the sellers of meat. Indistinguishable cuts of unidentifiable beasts are lined up on the their tables, with the predictable flies investigating. If I came closer and examined the haunches I might be able to identify the animal by the hooves, but I have no intention of getting that close!

The fruits and vegetables are ripe and fresh with the occasional bruise or hallmark of organic produce. There are hands of baby bananas, golden pineapples, many sizes and contours of mangoes, round spheres labeled “camilo” and mamey! Mamey is my goal, ripe Mamey! Several vendors have pyramids of hard fruit, “manana, no hoy”. “Hoy”, today is what I need. A third stall has perfectly ripe mamey, those mysterious camilos and a hand of apple bananas for Francis. She has chocolate pods which she tells me has a sweet pulp around the bitter chocolate seeds. Interesting but I've expended my 20 MN. The 20 MN bag of fruit equals about US 70 cents.

Last shopping item, water from the kiosk on the other side of La Rampa. It does not sell plain water but has gaseola. Four bottles of seltzer and a bottle of white wine for Francis and I consider my shopping trip successful. As I return to Monica's the b-ball game now is a group of paunchy middle-aged men. They are no less competitive in their game than the younger groups, we have observed every night. While I can not understand the exact wording of their shouts and catcalls to each other the trash talk meaning is quite clear.

Noon, Sundays on Callegon de Hamel, a cul de sac in the old town, Santeria is celebrated with dance and drumming. It is the roots of Rumba. Dawdling as we have been today, we may not arrive during the show. The street itself is reputed to be unique, decorated by street artist Salvatore Gonzalez with Santeria inspired sculptures and frescoes.

 Our daytime taxi driver knows the destination. He drives directly to the location, or as close as direct as any trip in old Havana can be. We are indeed too late for the live dance show but the area is an attraction enough. The frenetic alley resounds with drumming and rumba echoing off the walls. A young hawker approaches selling CDs of the local musicians to support the community art. Enormous scrap art structures loom overhead along with slogans in Spanish and discombobulated nightmare / dream paintings. Even without any dance it is a sensory overload. With a CD for later reflection, we decide to wander back through Havana Vieja to look at the architecture and check out a bookstore.

The town houses are interesting, art deco next to colonial. We pause to inspect a monument in a small plaza. Francis sets down on the curb. He looks so fitting in Havana. While I am trying to translate the inscription on the monument, our compadres from the musical experiences, the couple from DE, hail him. They say he looks so appropraite to the locale, they did not recognize him at first. They at first thought, look that Havanese has a tow-tone straw hat just like Francis, Oh it is Francis! In turns out they are staying at a B & B just around the corner from the monument. We are all looking forward to our evening regroup at Casa Densil although none of us at quite sure of the activity.

They wander off to rest at their casas particulare while we go off in search of bookstores. On the busy tourist street we make the mistake of grabbing a bite to eat. The people watching in the restaurant makes up for mediocre pan pizza. There appear to be two owners, brothers. Each portly balding gentleman is in classic bistro waiter attire with a long white apron over a white tuxedo shirt and black trousers. The taller one runs the room and serves the tables while his elder sits on a high bar stool at the open door, inviting every passerby to come in and dine. In the brief interval that we are seated he greets and chats in half-dozen languages. One minute he is speaking, Japanese, the next French, frequently calling out in English, German and Italian. Konnichiwa, chao, bonjour, hello, mange! Impressive!

We check two bookstalls but there is nothing in English. Back to Monica's, we will nibble on fruit and nap until it is time for our last music experience and dinner at Casa Densil. We dress for dinner at 8. After dark it is harder to identify and flag a taxi, even on busy La Rampa. There is also more competition for the taxis, with several people on each street corner waving at every passing car. You never know which could be ­a gypsy cab. Several taxis pass, several are scooped up by others. We finally succeed and get a price of 7 CUC to Casa Densil.

We suspect he will have trouble finding the destination. Even more so than last night, tonight's driver has absolutely no idea where he is going. He drives well past Perseverencia on the Malecon until I gesture back, “mas lejos” too far. He turns around and finds the wrong street, turns again, still wrong. At every corner he asks and is pointed along. Finally he turns onto a street with the Casa Densil sign visible, “aqui”! Success, we give him 10 CUC for his trouble.

The young girl who buzzed us in last night is waiting by the door tonight, with the lights on and doorway wide open. We can hear drifts of music from the roof level. We follow our ears up the stairs. At each landing the lights are on and we can into the rooms as we pass better this evening. Casa Densil definitely effects a luxurious European style. There are swagged drapes and velvet sofas, gilded wood and mirrors galore. The open air roof terrace is more to my taste and something smells quite tasty as we emerge onto the roof.

Meiby is there with a crew. The dignified Italian gentleman and the girl have now been supplemented by two svelte guys and a voluptuous gal all with dancers physiques. Several residents of Casa Densil are here as well. The bistro tables have been arranged in an arc with chairs facing towards a raised platform. Meiby greets us and introduces her crew. They will perform while we wine and dine. After dinner there will be a short group dance lesson.

We relax with traditional mohitos or local beers, nibbling on a variety of little snacks. They are, according to Meiby, representative of the Cuban obsession for all things deep fried. Healthy or not they are perfectly crispy. As the dinner courses proceed, Meiby and her crew dance and sing, with stylistic variations and costume changes. Meiby croons a romantic Celia Cruz ballad, while her friends perform a graceful modern ballet. One of the fellows then sings a peppy modern song with the dancers popping and hopping. Cross-dressed in a costume resembling a blue bird of paradise, the male dancer gives us a performance with high kicks, hip-shaking and splits to make a Vegas Showgirl jealous. Change of tempo to another slow romantic ballad featuring the female dancer.

During the show we are served a multi-course dinner of braised chicken, local spiny lobster in a criole sauce, salads and the ubiquitous moro rice with black beans. The chicken is full of flavor and the spiny lobster, which is often tough, is delicate and sweet. The best I've ever tasted; I need that recipe! Wine is served with the entrees and a tot of rum with the cafe and flan for dessert. Then it is everybody up on your feet to try a few dance steps. Meiby and friends demonstrate rumba and salsa moves and keep us all trying our best. We certainly are not as artful but we are as enthusiastic.

We have been wined, dined, entertained and trained and we are ready to retire. A block down we flag a late night taxi and slink back to Monica's. Tomorrow is our last day in Havana.

Monday 2/27/2017

Our last day in Havana. We need to print boarding passes. Our companion last night has recommended cigar purchase at the Havana Libre, the former Hilton. He reports that Cigar Aficionado advises the Montecristo #2. The cigars and a pair of souvenir cases are easy to obtain but the hotel has no business center. We will head back to Cohiba Melia Hotel on the other side of town. There we erase emails and tell folks we will talk with them Manana. We decide to return to the mall across the street. Can one buy a bottle of analgesic in Havana? In the grocery store there is only strawberry flavored ibuprofen on display but no cashier. A line has already formed awaiting his or her return.

All week I've been admiring the gorgeous lace hose women wear with their tailored office attire. Intricate designs suitable for a mantilla wrapped around their legs. The girls tell me the stockings can be found on the top floor. We head upstairs instead of waiting in line. From shop to shop I ask for socks, long socks, until I am corrected. Men wear socks, the lace tights are “melia”. Happily melia-ed we head back to the pharmacy counter where the patient Havanese line has grown waiting for the errant clerk. We are not so patient.

Our only other goal is to explore the Fort across the bay from the city proper. We flag a taxi and ride along the Malecon and across the river. Our taxi driver asks if we would enjoy a traditional Cuban meal and drops us off a restaurant in sight of the Fort with a wonderful view of the City from a new angle. 

The food is excellent and a traditional three piece combo is playing old songs. They repertoire ranges from revolutionary "Che Comandante" to “I want to hold your hand” in Spanish. At one point a musician pulls out a Melodian to accompany the guitars. Francis has little energy for tromping through ruins. We decide to linger there for the afternoon, enjoying the meal, the music and the scenery.

The nest morning we enjoy our last cafe on the terrace and head to the airport. Carlos, a friend of Monica's is giving us a ride. Down the urban blouevard to the suburban highway eventually passing in to rural farmland. Cows and rows of banana palms and fruit trees line the roadway. Good signage points the way to the airport  and the terminal. Carlos checks that we are in the correct location. Indeed, the gate is not open but we are in the correct area. Inside several others also wait for the gate to post. 

An older couple sit with a cart laden with bags. They are returning to Cincinnati after having spent the entire Winter in Colimar. They show us pictures of their rooms and the town, lovely! They tell of a performance at the Teatro Alicia Alonzo. Ms. Alonzo attended that night and the entire theater erupted in a standing ovation in respect for her. More reasons to return to Cuban! Later as we go through security, the guards expedite them and ourselves through the line in respect for our age. The couple are held to the side; apparently their visa was for 30 days and they stayed months. A few stamps and small fee and they are also on their way to their plane. Very polite bureaucrats even at the airport! 

That's it. A wonderful week away. My Spanish is 100% enhanced by the practice. A return trip to Cuba, to see the countryside? Maybe next year....