A Week in Havana

Havana

Monday 2/20/2017

Francis had been talking about Cuban music since we met and he had a major milestone birthday coming. The well advertised cruises, while a week long only give you a day or two in the country. Both cruises and less advertised land tours seemed quite expensive for a developing country, indicating a less than native experience. Using the internet research and AirBnB and we were soon booked to Havana.

Our departure city from the US would be Miami. We left our home in Marathon for a Miami apartment on the night prior to our flight. We fly out of Fort Lauderdale airport. We have the cheap seats on the cheap airline, Spirit. The charge for each checked bag was higher than the charge for each airline seat and the taxes and fees exceeded the cost of transport. 

Tuesday 2/21/2017

We are the first to arrive at the check-in. Apparently the “arrive three hours early for international flights” is no longer compulsory. Our early arrival has it's benefit. Not only is there no line but also the counter attendant at Spirit is chatty and upgrades our seats to the front double seats instead of the three in a row middle of the plane we had booked. She tells us of her own trip to Cuba and advises us about the dual monetary system, as she checks and reorganizes our documents for us. Once she is done we are ready to fly. We will be chillin' at the gate for a while, literally chilling the FLL airport is about 40 degrees. The light, less than half filled, flight leaves and arrives on time. During the brief 45 minute trip we are given Cuban health and immigration forms to complete. Do you have a fever? Mucus secretions? We have already paid a fee for supplemental Cuban medical insurance. 'Guess they want to make sure we don't have to collect!

Arriving right on schedule, we march through a very efficient immigration system. Carefully checking passports and visas, the officer scrutinizes the difference between current appearance and my passport photo but decides I am me. She takes my photo and passes me onto security. Bags go through another xray, then a hand-off of the medical form to a white uniformed nurse. Around a corner, stands the customs officer, some Italian fellows are trying to understand the process, apparently Italia neglected to distribute the paperwork. We have nothing to declare and our forms are ready; we hand them over and proceed through automatic doors into the Havana sunshine. 

The first order of business is cash. Few businesses take credit and US banks have not made currency arrangements with Cuba, as yet. There is a 10% tax on US dollar conversions. It is a cash economy for both Cubans and visiting Americans. A taxi into town requires cash. There is a dual monetary system, CUP or MN for locals, CUC for non-natives. We must convert our American dollars into CUC. Never the less, I get in line and wait my turn. It takes an hour for the line to proceed through the 28 folks in front of me. Today $500 US dollars becomes $437 CUC. Next I try the Cubatel booth for a sim card to use my phone in Cuba. It sort of works. In an emergency, I could make a phone call if I had the presence of mind to recall the unlock code and access key!

Francis has been patiently waiting with our bags. We may travel light but clearly some Cuban travelers use the luggage as import. Francis sees a fellow loaded with computers and TVs hauling away from arrivals. 

Our flight touched down at 4:30 PM, by 6 PM we can proceed out of the airport and into the city. A line of well maintained newish yellow taxis line the departures area. The going rate we have read is 20 - 25 CUC into Havana. The first driver in line says 25, works for us and off we go. Marti airport is surrounded by farmland. We pass black and white spotted cattle grazing in fields. As the open land changes to more urban uses, there are factories, then broad boulevards with impressive monuments. Our destination is Calle B. It is just off of a major Avenue #23, called La Rampa, and only two blocks off another major boulevard, Paseo. The taxi turns down Calle B and our Casa Particulare at #512 Alto is on the left.

On the side walk in front of #512 a card table has been setup, and a lively game of dominos is underway. Across the street at the corner is a playground with even more energetic basketball gamers going on under the lights. It is a pleasantly busy street, lots of activity but not much noise. The kind of urban setting that gives one the confidence to wander the streets at night and feel comfortable coming in late.

Casa Aida y Monica is in a well maintained Colonial townhouse facing a others in various states of repair.

Entrance is through a gate, along a passage and up the stairs to the house proper. Up a steep flight of stairs into a beautiful immaculate space. The ceilings are at least 10 feet high, with plaster cornices and deep three dimensional crown moldings along every ceiling edge. Many of the details are painted in contrasting color highlights. The floors are intricate intaglio tile work with decorative porcelain tile in the bathrooms. Monica has collected and hung a variety of interesting photographs, prints and painting along the walls.

A front terrace overlooks the domino game and the neighbors, while a small kitchen terrace looks out over various other backyards. The bedrooms, while simply furnished, have the same high ceilings and beautiful plasterwork. It is a classic and delightful place.

Monica greets us and show us to our room. We relax on the terrace and meet two Norwegian women. After discussing our varied travels, they advise us to seek out a couple of restaurants a few blocks away. It sounded so simple but we wandered hungry and quite confused for several blocks before returning to Monica, who told us we had been just a block from a good place. Ravenous after a long day, we ventured back out to finally find the little cafe at 9 PM. Oddly, it was called Havana Retro but it served Italian cuisine.

What an unexpected pleasure, the pizza was better than in New York! And a glass of wine for Francis! We brought half our meal back to the in-room fridge thoughtfully provided by Monica and crash into bed.

Wednesday 2/22/2017

Awaking at 9:30 AM, we have no interest in breakfast but yearn for coffee. Monica makes us pots of expresso with steamed milk, which we enjoy on the back terrace. We linger in the shade, enjoying the city scene. The queues are in full swing at the next mid-block bus stop, the basketball game is underway and there is pedestrian traffic along Calle B. Across the street is a building with a switchback spiral staircase framed in wrought iron from the ground to the second floor. What a dramatic entrance. Every building along this street has a plain often somewhat neglected ground level and beautifully ornamented colonial upper levels. Some of the houses have been renovated and upgraded others are in the process. The jerry rigged wiring and waterlines snake from one level to another across narrow alleyways and speak of the residents ingenuity.

 

By Noon, we venture out along La Rampa. We walk past amazing pastel buildings, like Monicas, concrete confections to rival a wedding cake. As we stroll enormous belching articulated buses passby, each crammed with passengers, every seat and strap taken. Between the long lines at the bus stop and the heavy passenger loads, we will take taxis on the trip. The queues are not reserved for the public transport. There are lines at every shop, carryout and kiosk. The cafes, called cafeterias, are open air and often promote italian dishes. No queue at the cafe. In cafes, we find out, you will wait after being seated. Not matter what you want, you must wait for it, seems to be a Havana tradition.

As we wander towards the Malecon, the seawall highway, we cross the Avenue of the Presidents. It is another broad tree lined boulevard. This one has a small park around a historic monument on each block. Francis waits on a bench and watches a fellow working on his car, while I walk down the hill. The monuments are busts, half statues of various political leaders who have supported the revolution. Omar Torrejose, wearing a rustic cowboy hat with star and holding outstretched clasped hands is touching but the “Supreme Jefe de Equador” brandishing a machete beats him for drama.

An old man sitting in the shade asks from where I have come? Americano? Donde es usted? Estados Unidos? Cuidad? Si, Florida, Miami. He asks if I like the city. Havana esta bonita, I say not knowing the word for beautiful, muy bonita, and he concurs. He has a brother who imigrated to Florida he tells me. Many Cubans in Florida, I agree. Mi Esposo espere, I explain and head back to Francis who has watched an entire vehicle maintenance tableau unfold. The cars and houses are old but the are working to keep them running.

As we approach the Malecon, we pass Coppelia Parque. It is not just an ice cream parlor, it is a “cathedral to ice cream”, not my phrase but the Supreme Jefe Fidel's. It is set in a city block Iot landscaped park with a variety of paths leading to an immense concrete parasol structure. On the support pillars of the parasol are plaques explaining the history and architecture of Coppelia.

Under the parasol are a number of open air ice cream kiosks with adjacent shaded seating areas and at the center an enclosed second floor dining room. All only serving ice cream. The kiosks have signboards announcing the flavors, tropical fruits, vanilla and chocolate, and styles available in that location. Judging by the passing cones, chocolate is the favorite.

Gotta go with Fidel on this one, it is the perfect alternative for the masses in lieu of mass. Mid-day and mid-week, there are throngs of creamy worshippers. Many walk away carrying their cones happily licking at the drips, while the tables are full with those enjoying sundaes and more substantial treats. There are lines at every kiosk and twice as long, the lines for the upstairs dining room.

We need something more than a sweet treat and proceed along La Rampa to the Malecon. This end of the avanue has the big old hotels. The Havana Libre, former the Hilton, and the Hotel Nationale, famous for housing big Mafia meetings. As we appraoch the Malecon I see the entrance to “La Zorra y el Cuervo”, a historic and famous jazz club. We will see a performance here over the weekend. Who is playing on Saturday? Yazek Manzano y su grupe. We have never heard of him before but we will Saturday night.

At the intersection of the La Rampa and the Malecon is a gas station. The only one we have seen. Cars, taxis, service trucks and citrons all wait in line. The citrons are cute. Bright yellow round semi-enclosed three-wheeled motorcycle taxis with two or three seats behind the driver. Gas is rationed. It probably goes a longer way in a two-cycle engine.

We walk along the Malecon for a block or two, admiring the parade of historic cars, often filled with tourists, and watching the surf splash on the seawall. In addition to the older American models, there are Russian Ladas, looking rather worse for wear. The buses are in the worst condition, not only spewing diesel smoke but appearing to never had the benefit of a body shop. When it comes to the bus service, they keep the vehicles going but are not keeping up appearances.

Set high on a bluff, the Hotel Nationale looms over the Malecon. It is an impressive structure. In contrast to the 1950s modern former Hilton, it is an elegant traditional Spanish colonial. It looks more like a presidential palace than a hotel. It is also the first complete and impeccable restoration we have seen. We walk around and come upon the exit driveway. The security guard initially balks at our approach, gesturing for us to walk around to the entrance. A German tourist has walked up with us. She doesn't want to walk all the way around either. She points at Francis with his obviously bad back, waving her hands and gesturing “are you going to make him walk around?” The guard relents. We all walk up the gentle incline and not a single car comes down. Thank you, assertive backpacking tourist. We have walked up the down and now enter through the pool lounge, up the stairs into a spacious lobby.

The vaulted white plastered ceiling is supported by massive 12 x 12 blackened beams each, at least 20 feet long. They stretch and cross between equally impressive pillars, each a broad as an old phone booth. Suspended from the two or three story heights of the ceiling are crystal chandeliers a half dozen feet in width and hanging longer than that. The lobby extends into the far distance.

As wide and immense as is the lobby, it is filled with luggage and tour groups. Tour guides exhort their patrons to stay together or to march hither and yon. Uniformed staff attempt to clear the way and corral the budging bags but there are too many groups with too much luggage. German and Dutch instructions echo with an occasional English voice cutting through the underlying Spanish hum. The French school group in matching red t-shirts, Internationale Ecole Cooperative or something like that with a sunburst logo, cuts through the melee. They add their teen chatter in French to the babel.

We back away from the chaos and admire the propaganda. The sub halls are full of posters and art celebrating communist history. A huge poster of Fidel is particularly striking. Larger than life size in full camo uniform and holding a heroic pose as those climbing the battlements to attack any remaining capitalists. Ugh, revisionist history perhaps, he never won a battle. Beside the poster is a black and white photo display. A series of enlargements depict the Castro brothers meeting and greeting international politicians. Even more ironically, facing the propaganda display are head shots and publicity photos of movie stars and celebrities. The politicians and the celebrities are all capitalists. What is your message Fidel? Or do these represent changes in place now due to Raul?

We ponder the politics as we take the back exit and head into the garden. The rear garden overlooks the Malecon, where we had just walked. It is lovely spot. Francis wants to rest and a glass of white wine. He takes a seat to figure out whether it is a walk up bar or table service while I wander. To the left there is a display of historical interest. To the right a wine bar / restaurant specializing in french wine by the glass and spit roasted pig. Slabs of roast pork and bread for 10 CUC seems fair given the location. In the center shaded benches and winding paths lead to the seawall.

Running along the entire rear of the hotel is the “Bar Galleria” with

comfortable upholstered chairs and sofas protected under an arched loggia and facing off to the sea.

We determine table service is available and take over some armchairs. The waitress is carefully serving a huge swathe of tables, one customer at a time. With the well padded armchairs and sofa providing a respite and a beautiful view, who cares if it takes an hour for coffee service? When the waitress finally arrives I tell her ”Ustedes caminas una millon kilametros al dia” [you walk a million miles a day], she laughs and nods in agreement. While we admire the view a resident wanders by inspecting us.

After coffee we duck back through the lobby to the ground floor cafe “Ricon de Cine”, fried chicken and grilled fish for an early dinner. The waiter was very attentive and the quality and preparation of the poultry was excellent. Of course, no factory farms here, everything is free range, natural and organic. We had an excellent meal and snuck out through a mad crash of incoming tour groups. Along trhe way we found some intriguing Cuban paintings! Is this the Judge of Bread?

As we had entered the hotel a beautifully restored baby blue convertible with white leather upholstery was parked behind the tour buses in front of the hotel. As we exited it was parked there again. Taxi, asked the driver? Cuanto cuesto a Calle B, asked I? 10 CUC was the response, a fair price for a ride through town in a classic car. The driver proudly told us it was a 1953 Chevy, with a Russian motor.

The leather upholstery was protected by clear plastic slipcovers making me think of my Great Aunts Rose and Hannah's sofa. Well back in 1953, they might have ridden in just this model Chevy. We ride in style back along the busy avenue to Calle B. Now we are those tourists in the cool vintage car on promenade.

Back at the Casa Francis wants his vino. His pre-travel readings had said “no wine in Cuba”. He had wine in the cafe, there were wines in the tourist shops we passed, both high priced French and lesser Chilean. At home he drinks Chilean Frontera. We ask Monica for advice. A tienda would be found at the corner of Calle A and 27^th not more than five blocks off. Off we head past the basketball game in progress around the corner onto La Rampa, Avenue 23 one block to Calle A. Across La Rampa and down A, we pass more gorgeous building in various states of repair and disrepair. The cross streets are all odd numbers, it is only three blocks to vino!

At the corner of A and 25 is a mansion, without windows or roof, the hollow facade dramatic in it's size and ornamentation. It seems to be used as a parking for facility for some official vehicles, uniformed staff stand by white sedans and trucks. Be not too curious about anyone in uniform in a communist country. Facing the empty mansion is a perfectly restored townhouse housing a beauty parlor, with a similarly restored cafe across the street. Perhaps the mansion will be next, it deserves the attention.

The next corner is Calle A and 27^th, where we see two markets for residents but the beverage shop is not apparent. Several fellows are leaning over a car hood working on the engine, Francis pantomimes a drink and they point around the corner. Not exactly a shop, it is a little tin shed, like a newspaper stand. It is the local 7/11, literally, a sign states it opens at 7 AM and closes at 11 PM. The kiosk sells several kinds of beer, wine, liquors, sodas, candy and Nestle ice cream bars. We purchase a bottle of vino blanco, Frontera Chardonnay, and a bottle of vino rojo, Frontera Cabernet. It is the same stuff Francis drinks at home! Since It is Havana, I can not resist buying a bottle of Havana Club Blanco as well. They do not have bags for your purchase. “Tienes una maleta o una caja?” I ask. Out comes an empty beer case to cart home our bottles. Next trip I'll know to bring my own bag. The box works fine and off we go for a cocktail on the front terrace watching the continuing basketball match and the passing pedestrians. The domino game has temporarily relocated down the block.

Late at night there is a fierce tropical rain storm. Heavy rains fall from above while cool winds blow below. Later the wind blows a door open and shut several times, it is an eerie awakening but not an alarming one. We feel completely comfortable at Monica's. We fall back to sleep to awaken to the aroma of cafe and laundry.   

Space Cadets in hot water in New Mexico

We were very glad to depart Arizona. Since we had missed a trip to Mexico we opted for New Mexico. During our stay in Las Cruces, we had become interested in the space related activities centered around Alamogordo. In any case even Rv parks in New Mexico were breathtaking. A few days in Alamogordo, then North to explore Santa Fe and Taos before heading home was our plan.

Alamogordo houses the New Mexico Space History Museum. It is appropriately perched above the city, beside the university, in the shelter of towering sandstone cliffs. In this dramatic setting are a selection of rockets, missiles, satellites and the remnants of an exploded bomb. 

That's a pair of nose cones 

They are huge. They dwarf an individual and they were not created by any individual. The museum is international. The clear theme is the cooperative nature of science and space exploration. Along the hallways are pictures and information about members of the space hall of fame. It begins with  Hipparchus from 190 BC  who calculated the distance between the earth and moon, through Eugene Krantz, who was mission control on many Apollo flights. It made me think of Issac Newton 's comment about standing on the shoulders of giants. Newton is, of course, in the Hall of Fame. There is also a dome Imax theater, we made plans to return the next day for the Imax.

Francis happily watched larger than life planes race over and around his head. The parralax of the theater sent me into the hall, to a more conventional screening of the latest Nasa Mars Rover discoveries.

Welcoming and socially aware folks at Can't Stop Smoking

After enlightenment and celestial exploration, we returned to earth and discovered we were hungry. We went in search of divine smoke bar b que. We found it at a local spot called can't stop smoking. They not only had good food but also good works. They asked you to drop wooden nickels into cups identifying local charities. They made contributions to all in proportion to the customer votes. Nice concept.

Alamogordo is the site of White Sands National Park. A unique beach of gypsum dunes has formed along the normal desert.

In the middle of the high desert, there were families on a Saturday outing for sand sledding on the dunes while in the distance the wind spun up dust devils,  like towers of smoke,  in the fine white powder. We drove through the dunes with an errie sensation of displacement, were we at the beach or in the mountains? 

White Sands Missile Base is just across the highway. Closed to the public. While the formerly secret Los Alamos research base is a short drive away at a higher elevation. The Hollis Bradbury Museum explains both historical secret Atom bomb studies and the open current research. Hmm? Are all the Los Alamos programs really public?

    

While in Alamogordo we stayed at an RV park owned by a retired White Sands Missile Base Engineer. He was native to our neck of the woods in Pennsylvania and had done his best to recreate that environment in the New Mexico desert. He had a windmill pumping water for a pond surrounded by fruit and nut trees. It was an RV oasis complete with migrating ducks and a school of koi.

Alamogordo has the ancient as well as the modern. Near to town are 100s of petroglyths 10,000 years old. Scattered among the desert boulders it is hard to imagine that this was once a thriving farming area. Not 1,000s of years either, just a hundred years ago an unusually damp period tricked many immigrants into farming nearby. When their creeks dyed up they turned to livestock ranching. The Federal government took their land by eminent domain to build the missile range and Los Alamo.

From Alamogordo we went on to Santa Fe, where the emphasis was American History. The New Mexico Museum of History clarified facets of Westward expansion and settlement, while the Indian museums told the same story from a different perspective. Altogether, manifest destiny - - an excuse to invade a neighboring country and steal land from the residents, forget treaties, just a big land grab.

Not a wonderful phase in our history. The hand crafts in the Museum of Indian Art were wonderful. Traditional pottery and weaving, later silverwork and turquiose work and recent sculpture and paintings. A large painting in the Wheelwright Museum gave a different perspective, Buddha, Jesus, Yaweh and Shiva are playing cards but Coyote is the dealer and we all know the house always wins in the end

When we said we were going on to Taos, Johnathon told us about a hot springs nearby. A little research uncovered that their was an on site campground. Ojo Caliente is in the middle of nowhere, about 30 miles due west of Taos. The mapping software kept showing roundabout  routes looping out of the way north or south, but some maps indicated a direct shot.

At Ojo Caliente we found a beautiful rustic luxury resort featuring four different mineral springs in seven natural hot pools. Rooms started at $150 a night up to $400 for a private adobe. The cost for our RV hookup in a wooded glen was $60 for four nights was $60, more my price range. We decided to explore Taos and the mountains before taking the waters. Francis also wanted to find a hand woven rug.

The grounds at Ojo were as nice as the hot springs. You could hike by the Bosque River or hold events in a Round Barn with labyrinth.

Off into the mountains, we went encountering extraordinary geology and erosion. The terrain is in layers of basalt, sandstone, limestone and clay. The wind picks up sand and grinds the softer stone away leaving bizarre out-crops of the harder tuff. Cliffs stick straight up with horizontal cap rocks. Domed outcroppings are accompanied by strange lumpen pillars. Formations have names like turtle rock and camel hill. Throughout the landscape the hard volcanic basalt surface layer has fallen away in pieces as the softer sub-layer eroded. The black basalt tumbles like giant  children's blocks down the hillsides, piling into the ravines and arroyos.

Deciding to follow the little line on the paper map, unacknowledged by our gps,  we drove past abandoned adobe houses and through a strange little ghost town called Carson and found the Rio Grande River!

The West Rim Bridge had been called the bridge to nowhere as there was no road connecting it to Taos! Signs proudly promoted a recently completed 2 billion dollar roadway project. I walked across the bridge looking down to the Rio Grande about 5000 feet below. Perhaps not as wide and dramatic as the Grand Canyon but still pretty dramatic

Still gasping from the unexpected drama we drove on to Taos. The odometer turned 5000 mile in Taos, . time for the first checkup and oil change. We dropped by the local dealership and they agreed to do the work, while were toured downtown. Off we went for another dose of hubris, manifest destiny and native crafts

Returning to Ojo Caliente we took the Southwest loop route. As we left town a sign indicated a road to Carson. The sun was close to setting and a straighter route could get us back before dark. Off we drove wish fingers crossed, through an adobe and trailer village into a national park. The road followed alongside the Rio Grande River. After seeing the river from the bridge 5000 feet above, it was thrilling to view the water up close rushing and tumbling over boulders and to look up the cliffs to the mesa so far above. At one point there was a USGS observation shack and we could walk out just above the cascades to gaze down the winding river. As we drove along stopping to examine the cliff side and collect rocks we began to wonder where would we cross the river?

Nice road?

Carson was on the top of the mesa across the Rio Grande. Finally there was low bridge across the river, a dirt road led around a hill toward the mesa. And up and up and up, the gravel track climbed at about 30 degree. Our wheels skidded and spun until we went into four wheel drive, then we bounced up the rutted wash. With a single lane-width, minimal shoulder and  no railing, we hoped there were no wash outs, there would be no way to turn around. A van marked "Adventure Charters" came down the track, narrowly passing by us. I was glad we were on the inside! A passenger's wide eyes met mine as the van went by. Several more white knuckled miles and we emerged onto the top of the mesa. 

In the distance I could see the West Rim Bridge and breathed more freely. We took a break to look at a park map which described the route along which we had just traveled  Definitely an off road adventure for us.

While we were staying at Ojo Caliente record low temperatures were set. The coldest since 1917. It was hot water in the springs but frozen hoses in the RV.  The next day we went to the hot springs to warm up. In the water we were warm but every puff of air was painful.  The air temperature made the thermal pools even more impressive. There are iron rich waters, arsenic laden waters and soda  water. The lithic spring was closed as they were rebuilding the pump and pool. Around the pools there were open fires of pinon pine, the fragrant smoke mixing with the mineral mist created an unique incense which spread throughout the complex. There was also a steam room, a sauna, an Ayurvedic spa and in addition,  a restaurant, a yoga yurt, a interesting round barn for events and the ubiquitous gift shop. In the lobby soothing new age music played while  another pinon fire was kept burning in the round kiva fireplace.  One evening I sat in the lobby and knitted until they closed, it was such a pleasant atmosphere. We will definitely return to Ojo Caliente - - when the weather is warmer.

Taos and Ojo Caliente was the official end of the trip from our perspective. We would have seven states to travel through, there would be events along the way with a stopover planned in Memphis, TN

Dashing thorough the South

Dashing through the South

We had arrived in Fl in mid-February, driving off in our mobile home the next day.  Two weeks in the State of Florida we covered 2000 miles. Our next destination was Francis' oldest friend, Miller, in Pomerene, AZ near the Mexican border. Francis had said we would arrive on March 10th  at 2pm. Departing Duke's on the third of March we had seven days to traverse seven states. It would be a run through the South. We hypothetically said we would try to get to Texas, in one day. We didn't. Driving along the coast, the roads were bad and there were head winds pushing us back. Francis rarely drove over 60 in spite of posted speeds of 70 or higher.

The Southern coast is swamp land. The highways are  elevated, with warning signs about water on the roads and flooding. It is a somber landscape of drowned forests and dank weeds. We got as far as Louisiana, on day one and picked a RV park in New Orleans. It promised a river front setting. Technically, yes, we were in the middle of the industrial docks. The park was new; post-hurricane redevelopment funds, would be my guess. It featured a on-site cafe / Bar B Que restaurant with live entertainment. That night was open mike. The music ranged from R & B covers to Country with a few appropriate touches of zydeco. 

The Bar B Que was good, the waiter was cheerful. He had driven down from New Jersey a few months before looking for work. He had come South with his Spouse, two kids, a baby and a couple of  dogs in a sedan. He was probably happy to have escaped that car, landing a job was icing on the cake. We asked if we could get a glass of wine, without inquiring too deeply what we would receive. We were served prepackaged plastic "copa de vino" with replaceable vinyl snap-top lids. A great concept but a vile product, tasted like vinyl too. Our waiter offered to take them off our tab but we were so simultaneously appalled and amused, we wanted to keep the little containers as a memento.

The next day we drove through New Orleans. It was interesting to see the vernacular architecture, the suburban combinations of Spanish and French and Levitown influences. Reaching the highway, we resumed bumping along the causeway and sped as quickly as possible under the circumstances through the remainder of  LA. 

We were very excited to see the big signs, flags and stars signalling our entry into Texas. The huge visitor information center offered us maps, cups of coffee, coupons and big smiles. In Texas they had to do a better job maintaining their roads - - Yup, they do. Although the xx section of Texas is geographically identical to their neighbor to the East, the roads were smooth and the posted speeds kept climbing, 70, 75, 80. The refrain of a Lyle Lovett song rang in our ears, "we know you're not from Texas, but Texas wants you anyway"

It is 834 miles from Orange, Texas, the Easternmost point, to El Paso, the Westernmost point. That is about three trips from Walker Lake to Annapolis, a drive which usually took us about five hours. Yup, it's a big state.

My impressions of Texas came mostly from old movies. The coastal swamps were a surprise. Once we got away from the Gulf, the terrain was more like the big screen. Not the plains with herds of cattles but the marginal forest and scrub, full of mesquite and cottonwood. John Wayne could have ridden out from behind any Cottonwood tree. We passed many a well fenced ranch and wondered what was being kept out or in. Most of the ranches had massive entries with iron gates, just like the movies! Some of the arches featured iron silhouettes. Horses were a common theme, but also water pump windmills, oil rigs and other animals. There were deer, stags and does as well as big horn sheep. The ranches with the highest iron fences were hunting preserves  stocked with both deer and more exotic ungulates.

Driving through the rugged hillsides covered in scrub vegetation, was tiring. The roads were in good condition but the constant changes in elevation combined with strong winds made for high concentration driving. We decided to take a break  in a little town called Fort Stockton. It had retained many frontier era buildings and sections of the original Buffalo Soldiers fort. I had always wondered from where had that moniker had come. It was the designation the Indian tribes used for the Black cavalry troops in recognition of their curly dark hair, strength and teamwork  like the herds of Buffalo.  As the primary function of the Buffalo Soldiers was to hunt down renegade Apaches, if the title  had originated with the Apache,  I'm not sure it was intended to be wholly flattering.  There was also a local history museum housed in an old hotel. It was interesting reading about and seeing the detritus of lawmen and outlaws, who were oddly enough often one and the same. That facet was enlightening. A local miscreant would run for sheriff, be elected and use his office to promote his criminal enterprises. In Fort Stockton, the unsolved murder of  one such Sheriff was local lore.

Therese and Carlos at the cafe

We stayed over in Fort Stockton in part because the campground staff  were so pleasant. The little cafe at the campground served a simple menu of  Bar B Que, chicken fried steak and catfish. We tried it all and it  was  wonderful. The chef had been born in Cuba, had a MBA with many careers all over the world and had lived in New Orleans before going back on the road. His combination of the Carib and Cajun accents was delightful on the ear.  Therese, the waitress, was staying in the RV park and started waiting tables to keep buzy. She and her Husband, Nine-Fingered-Jack, travelled the Renaissance Fair circuit. She plied us with local wine, which Francis liked as much as his Cocha y Toro. He bought several bottles. They made our stay in Fort Stockton a truly delightful.

The next RV park was much less appealing. It was the zombie park. Tiring from a long driving day,  I called ahead to the only RV park I saw listed. It seemed alright it was affiliated with a motel. The woman who answered the phone assured me there would be space for us but did not require a deposit.  About an hour later we found our way to the Econolodge . It was next door to a closed truck stop and a burned down motel.  In the fading afternoon light, surrounded by the high desert, without vegetation or signs of life, just the scream of trucks down the next highway, it was eerie a great set for a “Walking Dead” episode.  All the lights were off outside the motel and in the motel  lobby.  Behind the counter the office machines blinked at me and a cat stared me down but no one was there.  Back outside I tried calling the listed phone numbers as a red sports car drove up. The driver began to wander aimlessly, as I.  He wanted a single room although a woman was clearly sitting in his car waiting. Down the hill we could see the RV park, just a few big rigs on the big lot. Finally I began calling the phone numbers again. This time the same voice as I had spoken with previously picked up, telling me she was waiting in  the lobby.  I looked around; she was now behind the counter sitting in the dark. How did she get there without my seeing her?  Pale, thin with a drawn face and a bluish bouffant, she informed me with officious tone that she was much too busy, she just managed the RV park,  the motel was their “bread and butter”. Down the hill we connected to the electric and water supplies and locked our door tight. All through the night I kept checking out the windows for Zombies to come down from the barren hills.  

After Zombie motel, we were ready to depart Texas. The Welcome to New Mexico signs were very welcome. As we crossed the state line we saw a rainbow on the horizon! The Puebla style buildings made us think of the adobe house Miller was building. We still had a several days before the deadline Francis had set for himself and we were only one day out.  

There were more choices for RV parks and  we drove into one  near the highway. It was beautifully landscaped with a building full of amenities for RVers, a lounge, laundry and bathhouse with private dressing rooms. When we walked into the colorful and brightly lit lobby, the cheerful girls behind the counter offered us cookies and coffee. The asking price for a night was the same as at the Econolodge park.  ‘Definitely glad to be in New Mexico. We decided to stay a few nights there in Las Cruces.   

Rainbow welcoming us to enchanted New Mexico

All along the highway we had seen signs warning about dust storms and low visibility. Just after we pulled into the park, a storm kicked up. Looking out our trailer windows all we could see was white. There was zero visibility, nothing at all. We thanked our lucky stars that we had gotten off the road just in time. The next day the skies were clear and there was a Craft and Farmer’s Market in Downtown Las Cruces. Vendors lined the main street, selling locally grown vegetables, Tupelo honey, baked goods and a variety of  artisan crafts. On each block a different band or duo was playing to passersby. On one corner a older man with long grey hair, few teeth and a battered guitar was harmonizing, if you could call it that with a similar remnant of the psychedelic era woman, on a Bob Dylan song. Down the next block a blue grass band of  tattooed but relatively clean-cut college agers was performing renditions of Dawg music. They were spirited and really good. Francis sat on a bench and listened while I wandered lusting after Silver and Turquoise jewelry. We also wandered to the historic town of Mesilla, which had retained it's original adobe buildings.

From Las Cruces, we were only a few hours from Miller’s in Pomerene, AZ. We had been to Miller’s rancho notorious once before. He had hosted a Django-fest and had convinced several  Gypsy Jazz musicians to perform as a fundraiser for the local Senior Center. Pomerene tends to be a dust bowl. In addition the breeze often blows across the nearby cattle farm bringing with it the piquant odor of manure. The plan had been for Miller to take Francis sailing on the Sea of Cortez in Mexico. Unfortunately both Miller and Debs, his wife, came down with the flu and the plan was curtailed. We visited for a awhile enjoying their company, until afraid we would also catch the virus headed back to New Mexico. We may not have stayed long but we arrive on March 10th at 2pm just as Francis had said! 

 an impromptu mandolin concert from Mills