I Think Corporal Klinger Had An Easier Time Getting To Toledo Than We Did

Well, the headline is a bit misleading.  Getting to Toledo (Spain), obviously not Toledo, Ohio like Max Klinger pined for, wasn't that hard.  Getting around the city wasn't easy though, thanks to our baggage.

We took the 10:15am train to Toledo from Madrid, after walking the mile to the Atocha station from our hotel, dragging the luggage up and down the hills.  The train was easy, and we pulled into Toledo right on time -- 10:46.  

There are many of these stained glass

arches in the Toledo train station.

Toledo is on a huge hill above the Tagus River, which provides a natural defense against invaders.  That defense didn't stop the Moors in the early 700s, or stop the Reconquista in 1085.  But it could have stopped us if not for some quick thinking by your favorite travel blogger.

But first, we didn't have access to the VRBO apartment we had rented in the Jewish Quarter, so we had to find lockers to store our luggage.  We each have a backpack, then Carol takes the rolling carry-on, and I get to haul the big bag that is quite heavy.

When we rounded the corner and saw the beautiful medieval buildings, we were intimated.  Not by the city walls or the significant buildings, but by the steepness and length of the climb.  We crossed the ancient bridge through the two massive gates, peering up.  With the tonnage we'd be pulling, it would take for ever.  There's talk of escalators, but they are so well-hidden that few can find them. 

We crossed that bridge when we came to it.

The Alcazar from below.

One of many, many churches.

The crest on the bridge gate.

As we were standing, dazed and confused just after crossing the bridge, looking up at a potentially heart attack-inducing steep hill to climb, I noticed a taxi coming along the road.  Unsure whether or not it was occupied, I threw up my arm in desperation.  He stopped so my heart did not.  We gratefully climbed into the cab and were driven the 0.9ths of a mile up the steep, windy, and narrow road.

He could not take us all the way to Toledo Locker, where we planned to store the bags, but he was able to get us within a block.  It's a storefront with no workers, so we got buzzed in and parsed through the directions to be able to store the bags.  We were delighted that the big bag fit into a large locker, albeit just barely.

Then we headed off for some sightseeing before lunch (most restaurants don't open till 1pm).  The promised free ruins of the Alcazar never materialized (I'm not saying they don't exist, but I am saying "good luck finding them!"), so instead we went to Santa Cruz Museum, which is an old church turned into an art/artifacts museum.  The facade has bullet scars from the Spanish Civil War, but the highlight is the eight El Grecos.  It also had a beautiful cloisters (of course).

Part of the facade of the Museo de Santa Ctuz.

A cherub on the facade.

The hands clasping a sword in death.

An El Greco -- his work

can be pretty dark.

Another El Greco.  Note that

I'm allowed to take photos of

these paintings.

The cloisters.

Portuguese tiles in a Spanish church/museum.

Roman mosaics.

Another church.

This lion thinks he's tough.

One last close-up on the facade.

Then we went to the Rick Steves recommended Restaurant Bar Luneda, where we regained our strength.  I had the Carcamusas, which is the famous local pork stew and Carol had salmerejo and then salmon.  

(Editor's Note: If "Carcamusas" is so famous, how come I've never heard of it before?  Writer: Well, obviously you've never been to Toledo, Spain!).

Then we headed back to Toledo Locker, grabbed our bags, and lugged them through the streets, up and down hills.  Mostly up, or so it seemed.  It didn't helped that it was over 80 degrees (25 Celsius for my European friends!) and relentlessly sunny.  It was a beautiful day, except for tromping up hills dragging heavy luggage along.

Our VRBO apartment was at the end of a short and quaint street.  But it was like being at the end of a box canyon, with no internet access.  I was thus unable to retrieve the entry instructions (note to self, get the entry instructions before leaving the prior place, and text them to Carol so we both have them).

I walked back out to the main street, and met our guide, Javi.  We had connected with him thanks to swim team friend Michael Miller, who had posted last December from Toledo about what a great guide/great guy Javi is.  We had access to the apartment at 3:00pm, along with the first two hours of our five hour tour (the next three hours would be the next morning) with Javi at 3:00pm.

Not being able to get the info on  how to get in, I was pretty flustered, but Javi was not immediately put off by my confusion and flustered nature.  After I couldn't communicate well by phone with the landlord, Javi called him, spoke with him, and then got us into the apartment.

Apartment number 12 was all the way up three plus flights of stairs.  Javi looked at our huge bag and offered to carry it up for us.  Normally I would have said no worries, but I was worried it would take me quite some time to haul it up.  It was incredibly kind of him to do so.  Then, after we got into the apartment, he kindly suggested we take ten minutes to regroup and then meet him downstairs.  Javi went above and beyond for us, and he, not surprisingly, turned out to be both a great tour guide and a very nice guy to talk with.

Some Quick Restaurant Reviews

I already mentioned Botin in Madrid, but I want to cover some other very good restaurants we have had dinner at first.  Where we eat lunch doesn't really matter, so much so that I don't even keep track of the names of the restaurants.

And, I don't post pictures of my food.  More power to those who do, but that's not how I roll.

Why do I write about the restaurants?  Well, believe or not, I get letters.  (Editor's Note: Emails!  Writer: I was channeling Perry Como.  Editor: That will mark you as hip among the all important "18 year old to not quite dead" demographic!  Writer: Hey, it's hip to be square!).

Anyhoo, those emails ask for suggestions on trips.  I never really focused on restaurants until 2019 Barcelona, but I try to do a little more in case someone asks for information on a place we've traveled to.  So, here goes:

Madrid -- La Manduca de Azagra: Recommended by one of the top notch political journalists and man-about-town, Ron Brownstein, this was worth the nearly mile walk.  Ron raved about it, and Ron is rarely, if ever, wrong.  It was fabulous.  We shared both a salmon appetizer and white asparagus (apparently trendy at that time of year as it is fresh).  Carol had the Corderico en chilindrón which is milk-fed lamb "en chilindrón" (with tomato and dried red pepper sauce).  I had the Rape a la brasa, grilled monkfish.  I ordered one of my favorite bottles of Ribero del Duero at a price at least half of the price of what you would pay at a restaurant in the States.

(The price to quality ratio of wine at restaurants in Spain is outstanding.  Take advantage of the pricing and try wines from lesser known Spanish wine regions.  Editor's Note: Ribera del Duero isn't exactly lesser known.  Write: #True.  However, in my defense it is one of my favorite wines and was too affordable NOT to order!)

Verdict: Highly recommend.

Toledo -- El Botero Taberna: I don't remember how I sussed this one out, but it is fantastic!  It's primarily Spanish, but with some Asian fusion thrown in.  It's a bit of a hole in the wall at first glance, but trust me on this, you won't be disappointed.  Once we were seated and looked at the modern art, I realized it's a cooler place than I am normally allowed, but since I didn't point that out, they let us stay.

Carol had the best gin and tonic she's ever had at a restaurant, and then we shared a nice wine at a great price point!  Our Toledo guide, Javi, told us they are famous for their cocktails.  I had a great beer to start.  Q: What made it great?  A: It was cold, and that's exactly what I needed then.  With dinner we split a bottle of Toro (no bull, we did!). 

Carol and I split the duck dumplings (DUMPLINGS DE PATO CON HOISIN DE MANGO, PICO DE GALLO Y ALIOLI DE LIMA) and, as you can tell from the menu cut and paste I did, it was more than just duck dumplings (which would be enough by themselves).

For the main course, Carol had the presa (prey) in a stew with some Asian flavoring, and I had the secreto.

Verdict: Highly recommend.

And this is where I wax rhapsodic about Spanish grilling pork from Iberico pigs.  There are three main cuts in Spain that is hard to find in the United States -- secreto, presa, and pluma.  They are all fantastic.  I order them online, from either La Tienda or Campo Grande.  People who join us for dinner when I grill them are always delighted by just how tasty they are.  They are far superior in taste and quality than regular old pork, just as Spanish jamon is head and shoulders above regular ham in taste.  I can not begin to describe just how good they are -- so flavorful and juicy.  (Sorry, Maria and Van, Spanish grilling pork does not need to be cooked until blackened and burnt, medium rare works great).  When it comes up in conversation, Spaniards are surprised Carol and I know about the three cuts of Spanish grilling pork.

End of Spanish grilling pork sermon.  (Editor's Note: Now I want some!)

Toledo -- La Orza:  We learned in Stresa, Italy, that Michelin Guide restaurants are good choices, because the food and service is excellent, but without the high cost of a Michelin Star restaurant.  La Orza is also a Michelin Guide restaurant, and proved to be delicious.  We sat out on their beautiful stone patio and enjoyed the evening and the meal.

We spent some time talking with two Americans who were in Toledo for a business conference that they also turned into series of bike tours as well.  One was a professor at UCLA, while the other worked in Madison, Wisconsin and had some connection to the University there.  But they also were in private business, so it was interesting chatting with them.

We started with the cheese board, a great bottle of Ribera del Duero for a significantly lower price than I've bought it in the States.  For the main course, Carol had Bacalao (Atlantic cod) with a red velvet beet root glaze.  I had the venado (venison).  Dinner was fantastic, and relaxing.  The service was great, and we chatted several times with the son of the owner.  

Verdict: High recommend.

There Are Some Redeeming Qualities To Twitter, Especially Joaquin Sorolla

Several years ago, Carol came across an art Twitter account dedicated to the works of the Spanish impressionist Joaquin Sorolla (1863-1923).  Neither of us had heard of him before, but we were both drawn to his work.

(Editor's Note: What, did his work not include paintings of "fat, dead Spanish princes and their fat, dead horses?"  Writer's Note: Exactly.  His work made a positive impression on me.  Editor's Note: Sigh.)

So when I found out there is a Sorolla museum in Madrid, we made sure to go see it.  After lunch, we walked through Plaza Mayor (always a pleasant thing to do) to Plaza del Sol (usually pleasant, except when it is under reconstruction as it is now undergoing) and caught the Metro four stops to Iglesia.  It was the furthest out of city centre that we had ever been whilst still in the city.  We walked about four pleasant, tree-lined blocks to the museum.

(Side note: Art Twitter is the best Twitter.  Nobody trolls art twitter.  In fact, the rankings go:

1.  Art Twitter

2.  Travel Twitter

3.  Sports Twitter

4.  News Twitter

576. Political Twitter)

Formerly his house, the museum is stunningly beautiful.  First you are hit with the wonderful scents of the large beautiful garden and the relaxing sound of running water in the various fountains.  One of the fountains (picture below) is one of the most beautiful garden fountains we have ever seen.  The rooms of the house are all quite spacious, and there are some rooms furnished as they were when he lived there from 1911 until his death in 1923.

(Editor's Note: Based on what I've read, you can call it his "untimely" death, and yet you don't?  Writer's Note: Is there such a thing as a "timely death?"  Editor: Touche!)

Anyhow, we both really enjoyed the museum, and then spent some time afterward taking in the stunning garden.  What did we learn from this?  There IS an art museum in Madrid that I can go to and not wish I were doing something else, such as being in Barcelona instead!).  Meanwhile Carol is just happy I had no reason to whine.

Afterwards we took the Metro back to near our hotel, and celebrated with churros con chocolate at the famed Chocolateria Valor and spent time people watching.  The cafe life is great, having a drink and watching people go by, but the Chocolateria life is just as good.

(Editor's Note: "Chocolateria Valor" would be a great name for a rock band.  Writer's Note: I wish "Chocolateria" preceded the names of stores in the U.S. -- it just sounds like they sell tasty stuff that includes chocolatey goodness -- and they do!)

Churros con chocolate.  I rarely post

food photos, but c'mon people, it is 

churros!  With liquid chocolate!

We both are big Sorolla fans.

I guess you could say

I'm "drawn" to his art.

A striking window.

So this is a stunning fountain.

Note the tiles, the multiple

streams of water shooting into 

the main stream, the elevated

fountain toward the back,

and the geraniums along

the side.  Wow.

A fountain in the courtyard 

of his house/museum.

A Sorolla fan by some of the

beautiful tiles of his garden.

Retracing Our Steps

Day two, I slept in past 8am.  I guess the jet lag and ambien combined to knock me out.  That threw us off schedule.  We had hoped to get to the Temple of Debod by 9:45, but we got there just after it opened at 10am.  There wasn't a long line to get in, but the authorities only allow ten people in at a time, so the line moves very slowly.

Rather than doing something logical like giving people ten minutes to explore the temple, move them out, and bring ten more in, there is no process to move things along.  Once we moved out of the shade and into the sun (as people ahead of us gave up waiting), Carol left me standing in line while she sat in the shade.  After five more minutes with no discernible progress in the line from people finishing up in the temple, I bagged it too, 

From there we went back to Plaza de Espana and enjoyed roaming around the area, taking in the Cervantes monument, the fountain, and the church next to the fountain.  The fountain is called "The Birth of Water." The church was of minor interest, but the fountain is very affecting to me.  Big or small, the Spanish do fountains right (to be fair, the US has its share of fabulous fountains as well).  

We then headed off to the lower part of Madrid, down the steep hill to the Chapel of San Antonio de la Florida, the site of both Goya's body and imposing Goya frescos.  Yet another place in Madrid I was not allowed to take photos (in Toledo, where we've been the last two days, I was able to take pictures in every building.  I guess Madrid is just "special.")

Besides being named for both a city in Texas and a state in the Southeast of the US, the church is quite small, but the frescos pack a powerful punch.  We had the church to ourselves. . .for about two minutes, until a large group came flooding in.

(Editor's note: Fact check, false!  The state was named 280 years prior to the Chapel being built.  And the city was named 100 years prior.  Writer's note: Yeah, nobody's going to look that up, so why confuse them with the facts!)  

Not wanting to retrace our steps up the steep hill back to "main Madrid," we hightailed it to a Metro for a one stop ride that didn't result in copious amounts of sweat as the hike back up would have.  Besides, we ended up walking nine miles that day, so that's not a bad day's walk.

From there we retraced our steps through the Royal Gardens, and headed over to the Mercado de San Miguel.  It's a very cool market with any number of counter restaurants.  Unfortunately, that "any number" is not big enough.  We arrived by noon, but there wasn't an open seat to be found after making several rounds.  Mercado de San Miguel is pretty cool, but compared to La Boqueria in Barcelona, it is tiny.  It would have been full if it were twice the footprint size that it has.  

Between Monday's experience walking past many unopen restaurants, and then coming up with zilch at the market, I didn't expect lunch in Madrid to be so hard.  If it reads like I'm whining, you are reading correctly.  We gave up fighting our way through the narrow, crowded aisles of people similarly striking out.

So we popped outside to a small place that had an available outdoor table and lunched there.  As someone who can't day drink when at home/work, those lunch cervesas sure taste good in Spain.  I paired the beer with some empanadas and jamon/cheese sandwiches.  It wasn't as tasty as if we had eaten at a market restaurant, but it worked.

The royal crown over the palace,

symbol of the royal family.

A Modernisme-esque building

near Plaza de Espana.

Remains of an old army barracks.

Temple de Debod in daylight.  On the left you

can see part of the line of people waiting

to get into the temple.  

A monument to Goya near

where his body is buried.

San Antonio de la Florida chapel,

houses both Goya frescos and

his body.

A mural honoring Goya,

on Calle de Mozart. . .game

recognizes game.

The back of the Cervantes

monument in Plaza de Espana.

"Speak to the sky when ever

things go wrong And you

 know you're not talkin' to

the air, to the air And the

world will look better from up there."

(Editor: Are you the only one who connects semi-obscure song lyrics to art?  Writer: What, doesn't everyone?)

Cervantes, Don Quixote

and Pancho Sanchez.

On the ceiling of the church in the photo

below.  I forget the name of it, and am

too lazy to look it up. 

The Birth of Water; cool

name for a cool fountain

Another Modernisme topper. 

On the top of the Royal Palace.

Us and a couple 

of literary friends.

Glen Bolger, blogger (in front),

Carol Farquhar, Mrs. Iron Tourist, (next)

 Don Quixote, tilter at windmills, (over Glen's head)

 Sancho Panza, loyal squire (far right of pic).

This Is The Madrid We Were Hoping For

I will be straight with you.  I know some people reading this blog love Madrid.  Well, this is our fourth time in the city, and while it is growing on us, it certainly takes a back seat in our book to Barcelona, Seville, Cordoba, San Sebastian, and other Spanish cities/towns we've been to.

To be fair to Madrid, each successive trip we've been to the city has been better than the last, and this trip got much better after our first two misadventures of the art museums and the long slog to find lunch (okay, Carol enjoyed the art museums and the food was good after we had marched for seemingly miles through the city streets).

After our nap, we got ready to go to our 10:00 pm dinner.  But first we walked down to Plaza de Espana, a place we had never been.  It was quite nice in the late afternoon (sunset was 9:02 pm) as people were enjoying the beautiful weather, walking their dogs, taking their kids to play.  The park has some interesting modern art sculptures, as well as a large monument to Cervantes with statues of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.  There's also a Spanish colonialism theme to some of the monument, so it's likely just got another six months before it gets torn down.

From there we walked past a beautiful fountain and then to the Temple of Debod.  It's an Egyptian Temple saved by Spain and UNESCO during the 1960s during the building of the Aswan Dam.  Given to Spain by Egypt as both a thank you and a signal of Nasser's admiration for Franco, it is a similar concept to Egypt giving the United States the Temple of Dendur, except not as cool.

Here we are at the Temple of Debod.

However, unlike the Temple of Dendur, the Temple of Debod is outside.  So that's pretty near.  It's supposed to be spectacular at sunset, but the sun's azimuth angle wasn't lined up right with the Temple.  Still, it's neat to see one more Egyptian temple after our wonderful trip to Egypt earlier this year.  We walked over to the edge of the hill that drops off sharply so we could join several hundred of our closest friends and watch a spectacular sunset.

Sunset view from Madrid

We were partaking in a famous Madrid tradition, a paseo (an evening stroll).  We walked down to the gardens at the Royal Palace, and then over through another park before heading to dinner at the famous Botin Restaurante, noted by the Guinness Book of World Records as the longest continually open restaurant in the world, since 1725.  It's also famous as Ernest Hemingway's favorite restaurant in Spain.  The specialty is suckling pig and suckling lamb.

We had gone in 2001 on our first visit to Spain, and enjoyed it.  Again, the travel books suggest skipping it, as it is too touristic.  So what, eating at the oldest restaurant in the world, and one of Hemingway's favorites, to boot, is pretty cool.  We enjoyed it again, as I got the suckling pig, Carol got the suckling lamb, and we shared a nice bottle of Ribero del Duero. 

Outside Botin Restaurante

We felt better after the sights, dinner, and the fact that we walked home after dinner, boosting us to 10.8 miles total on the day.  With the exception of the Metro ride from the airport, we walked everywhere that day.

On the way back, I finally achieved an awfully late life milestone -- I bought my first illegal beer.  I didn't drink beer in high school, and with the drinking age at 18 back then, when I started drinking beer I was legal.

Well, apparently you can't buy beer from the little c-store in Madrid across from our hotel after 10 pm.  So the clerk indicated I needed to hide the beer as I walked out onto the street.  Honestly, knowing I purchased illegal hooch made the beer taste that much better.  

I drank the beer in the hotel, and slept the sleep of the jet-lagged.   

Ma-dread Strike Again, But It Gets Better

After running out of gas touring the overcrowded art museums of El Prado and Reina Sofia, it was time to get lunch.  So we bid farewell to Beatriz and struck out to find lunch, which we pretty much struck out at.

Everyone who has ever been to Madrid, or thought about going, will tell you NOT to get lunch at a restaurant in Plaza Mayor.  You'll really stamp yourself as a tourist that way!  

We didn't want to eat at any of the touristy restaurants just outside of the museum, so we headed to Calle de Jesus, along with being noted for its tapas restaurants, is not too far away.  Well, I don't know what's going on in Madrid, but very few places are open at lunchtime.  And those that are, are packed.  Standing room only at a time when we needed to sit. 

So we continued along Calle de Jesus.  Nine out of ten restaurants were not open until dinner, which means the every open restaurant we came to was impossible to get seated at.  Eventually we came to Plaza Mayor, where we knew we could get a seat.  And so we did.

And you know what?  The food was pretty good.  We had croquetas that were quite tasty, good Padron Peppers, and so-so jamon and melon.  It was after 3pm and we needed to just sit and relax.  My cerveza and Carol's sangria helped us chill a bit.  

Plaza Mayor selfie

After lunch, we walked back to the hotel and napped for a while, hoping that our least favorite city in Europe would take a turn for the better.  And it would.

In With A Whimper, Not A Bang

Before you start reading my whine about art museums and art tours, do understand that Carol loved it all.  I, on the other hand, did not.

In 2001, we went to El Prado, the most famous art gallery in all of Spain.  And I whined about it the whole time -- it was like Carol had four single digit midgets with her.  My favorite complaint was that "I was tired of looking at fat dead Spanish princes and their fat dead horses."

I figured I owed it to Carol to suck it up and try El Prado again.  So I booked a nice tour guide through Tours By Locals, figuring I might soak up some knowledge and find El Prado more interesting this time.  Beatriz, our guide, has us for three hours for both El Prado and Reina Sofia, another famed art gallery.

For Carol, it went great.  For me, not so much.  

We landed around 6 am, and, as is our want on these trips, took the Madrid Metro to our hotel.  That was great, as their metro is easy to use.  That early in the morning, there weren't hoards of commuters, so the stations were easy to get around, and we easily found seats on the subway without having our bags get in the way of other people.

Our room was available at the hotel, which was great.  We stayed two nights at the Aloft Madrid Gran Via.  The metro was right outside, but we ended up walking almost everywhere because of the convenient location.  By a fluke of room location, we had a much bigger room than most people (the hotel took a weird turn at our room, so they couldn't do anything else with the space but make it large).  So we napped a bit and set off to walk just under a mile to El Prado to meet Beatriz at 11 am for our tour.

The first painting Beatriz took us to was both fabulous and a disaster (for me).  We went to see Hieronymus Bosch's famous triptych, known as the Garden of Earthly Delights.  Unfortunately, it seemed like everyone else in the museum was in that same room.  I had a hard time seeing what she was pointing out in the painting, and I had a hard time understanding her talk between the crowds and her heavily-accented English.  That's when she lost me.

I was overwhelmed by the number of people in the room, and not being able to follow along.  I should have just walked out of the room and found a quieter, less crowded place.  But instead I didn't want to let Carol down.  Between the crowds and the jet lag, I proceeded to go downhill quickly.  Beatriz took a liking to Carol, primarily because Carol was quite interested and wasn't on the verge of being comatose.

Anyhow, she dragged us from room-to-room, painting to painting, with Carol soaking it in and my catching about ten percent of what she had to say.  Honestly, I don't remember what else we saw, but at least we didn't see that many fat dead Spanish princes nor their fat dead horses.  We saw some Goya, some Picasso, a different version of the Mona Lisa, painted currently with the one in the Louvre, as well as other classics that all ran together on me in my dazed state.  

My favorite part of the tour was stopping for a cold bottle of agua con gas, which helped.  My least favorite part is that no photos are allowed, even though I could take pictures in all of the other major art galleries we've been in recently.

And, I did have my hopes up high.  I had enjoyed most of the recent art museums we had been to, including Salvador Dali in Figueres, Picasso in Barcelona, Van Gogh in Amsterdam, and mostly the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam (especially Rembrandt and Vermeer).  (Didn't care for Joan Miro in Barcelona, some of his work was interesting, but a lot of it was just crap).

The highlight of Reina Sofia was Picasso's classic work "Guernica."  I was able to understand most of what Beatriz was saying (it's awkward when she's speaking accented English and I have to ask Carol to translate for me.)  After that crowd, Beatriz took me to an exhibit that had a bench, so I sat there for a while.  Needing water, I got up and wandered off, but never could find an elevator to get back down to the cafe level.

It certainly was a mistake to try to power through the museums while jet lagged.  I felt bad for Carol, as I complained about how miserable the whole thing was -- overcrowded (and it was a Monday!), under-hydrated, and unable to understand much of what the guide was saying.  The happy news is that Carol really enjoyed it, and that's what counts -- the art lover in the Bolger-Farquhar couple got a lot out of it.  She even knew about the first Bosch painting.  I on the other hand, only thought Bosch was about kitchen appliances and had never heard of the painter nor the painting.

By the way, you could easily see how Bosch's early foray into surrealism (around 1500) was a major influence on Dali's style.

(Don't worry dear readers, Madrid gets much better for us, albeit not immediately.)

It's Not An Adventure Until The First Thing Goes Wrong*

My text to my daughters from Frankfurt on the way home from Amman read this way:

“The three German Polizei who interrogated me did not arrest me, so that’s a win for today.”

I suppose that needs some explanation, so I will attempt to explain in an unbiased way.  Except it’s coming from my point of view, so it will be pretty biased, but from where I sit (not in a German prison, so it’s not all bad), my version of the truth is the correct one.

Carol and I didn’t even try to sleep Friday night, as our pick-up from the hotel in Amman to get us to the airport was scheduled for 12:10 am.  Since we all had the same flights, Neil and Mary joined us on the journey that would take approximately 26 hours, from hotel pick-up to getting home.

Getting to the airport was not a problem, as there is not much traffic in Amman after midnight.  I slept maybe the first hour or even 90 minutes, waking up in time to see a desultory breakfast being served, spinning over in the my chair, and trying to doze even further.

Underdressed for the trip, with just an overly thin quarter zip and a short sleeve shirt, I pretty much shivered the entire trip.  The Lufthansa blanket was too small to do any good.

We landed early morning in Frankfurt, with six hours to kill between flights.  So I was pretty cranky when the whole Backpack Security Incident of 2023 (The BSI as it is already known) went down.  

In Frankfurt you have to go through security when passing from the arrival bus drop off to your next gate.  And that’s where it all went bad.  Not really bad, for example not as bad as “the Polizei are pulling their guns and yelling at me in German (the friendliest of languages) to get my hands up” but I believe I could see that happening from where we were, especially when I trolled them with some of my answers to their questions.

But bad enough that I attracted the interest and intense questioning of not one, not two, but three police officers, as well as various and sundry TSA-equivalent folks.  I’m pretty certain seven German officials were involved, but there may have been more.  By the way, even though it was all nonsense, the police in particular, once they took over the scene, were quite nice and calm to me.

Editor: Were they friendly?  

Writer: Let’s not get carried away.  The two Annas, Franz, and I aren’t going to be exchanging Christmas cards.  

Editor: I can see it now: “Dear Anna, Anna, and Franz, remember that fun confrontation we had on February 11th over nothing?  Yup, good times!  Anyhow, Merry Christmas and (German phrase for Merry Christmas)!”  Writer: Ain’t happening.

The TSA-equivalent geek was slow, but when my backpack was going through x-ray, he went on a hunger strike or something.  He sat there, looking at the x-ray of my bag and doing nothing, except every so often talking excitedly to no one in particular.  

Minutes passed.  Eventually a few other TSA-types drifted over, and they all conversed excitedly.  (There was a lot of excited talking going on.)  I commented to one guy they ought to search my backpack.  They didn’t want to do that.  I offered to open the various backpack pockets myself, but that was dismissed, probably because they figured this 60 year old white guy with a laptop and a iPad in his hand really had a hankering for blowing himself up (spoiler alert, I didn’t have that hankering and didn’t even have a bomb in my backpack).

Meanwhile, I indicated to Neil and Mary that they should go to the Lufthansa lounge.  They indicated they were staying.  Their reaction (they were far away) indicated they were supporting me, but I KNOW they really were just curious whether I would be perp-walked in handcuffs.  I wanted to yell, Russell Crowe-like, “Are you not entertained!”  But I restrained myself so I wasn’t restrained.

Eventually a policeman (Franz) showed up.  Then Anna.  They started questioning me, and I kept recommending they actually look in the backpack.  They couldn’t do that until their supervisor showed up.  When Anna 2 (not their real names, but German enough) showed up, the three of them looked like combined, the three of them added up to 60 years old.

Before Anna 2 got on the scene, I realized I could be in trouble just based on the answers I gave.  Oh, the first couple were easy.  “My passport is in the backpack.”  “Here’s my driver’s license for ID” both meant I passed with flying colors.

The next two questions were fine, but it was my answers that caused me to feel like it could be an even longer day of misunderstanding.  When the answer to question 3: “Where did you fly from?” is “Amman, Jordan,” you realize you are naming a country in an area of the world not known for stability.  When the answer to question 4: “Where are you flying to?” is “Washington, D.C.” you realize you are naming a place that occasionally is considered a likely  terrorist target.

 

Channeling Ralphie, I thought to myself “Oh fudge,” only I didn’t say fudge.

At that point, I would have actually understood it if they took me into the secret soundproof room in the deepest part of the airport and beat the ever-living snot out of me.  Heck, in their shoes I would have taken that very action based on my two answers.  (By then, I figured it was easier for them to take me to the beating room than to actually open my backpack.)

They didn’t take kindly to my repeated suggestions to open the bag and look, or for me to do it for them.  Then, of course, when they asked me to tell them what was in the bag my mind went blank. I felt like Ralphie when Santa asks him what he wants for Christmas, little boy!  Then I slowly stammered out the answers.  My camera.  Some chargers for my iPad, iPhone, and laptop.  Paperwork for the trip.  Pens.  

And then, just to be snarky, I mentioned my notebook.  I thought that was a pretty damn good troll, and I got the response I was stupidly looking for – Anna 2 rolled her eyes, sighed, and opened the various pockets and looked into them.  I got a lecture that everything is electronic and I was supposed to pull it all out.  

Not willing to let resting dogs fall asleep (it’s the overlooked stage before “letting sleeping dogs lie”), I noted that I’ve never had to pull my camera out at other airports.  Anna 2's response?  A coolly delivered “This is Frankfurt.”  It crossed my mind to high five her, but I refrained and simply chalked one up for her.  I mean, even in a confrontation I have to give props when props are due.

At some point early in this fiasco, Carol came back over and tried to keep me from losing my temper (I wasn’t going to.  Okay, I walked up to that line, but when German police are involved, I’m not THAT stupid).  And, to give her credit, her hand gently rubbing my back did keep me from blowing a gasket.

Meanwhile, I would occasionally look down the way to Neil and Mary and mouthed “go, save yourselves” but I’m pretty sure they had lit a fire to make popcorn to watch the show at that point.

Eventually, a good 20-25 minutes after my backpack entered the x-ray machine, I was told to go on my way and remember what to do the next time I fly through Frankfurt.

Yes, I thought to myself, I’m going to take every damn thing out of the backpack, even if it slows the line down.  And, after all that, we still had five hours to kill.

*Faithful readers of the blog know that John Passacantando deserves credit for the always great “It’s not an adventure until the first thing goes wrong” line.  It’s an adroit on-point reminder that stuff happens when traveling, whether overseas or in the wilderness.)