Thursday, August 1, 2024 (Lammas/Midsummer); from Jinny in San Diego, CA to Sally in Taneytown, MD
Dear Sal,
My previous letter, from Barcelona, Spain, may have taken a very long time to reach you, if ever—my exposure to the local post office there was mixed, and somewhat language-impaired. There seem to have been really strict rules about what sorts of items could constitute a “letter.” Hope I eventually got it right and affixed the correct set of postage stamps in the first of two installments of the trip report on our first post-pandemic international travel.
After May 1, husband Jim and I had another couple of weeks in Spain. One evening, we got to meet the landlady of our apartment. We had a pleasant chat. Among other topics, we discussed the overall housing situation in Barcelona and surroundings. Marta and her two brothers had purchased the property they’d rented to us about a decade ago. They’d fixed it up as a tourist rental to provide some supplementary income for their aging parents, whose pensions were not enough for them to live comfortably. As nearly as I could tell, the family were conscientious landlords who didn’t gouge their visitors on fees. Still, from what Marta said, renting to tourists can produce about twice as much income as renting to locals.
Over time, the increasing proportion of tourist rentals has created a backlash, especially among younger Catalans who are getting squeezed out of a very tight housing market. We saw a few placards around town that (if I translated correctly) suggested in somewhat salty terms, “Tourists go home!” It’s a problem that doesn’t seem to have an easy solution. According to a local English-language magazine I picked up in our wanderings, about 15% of Barcelona’s economy is dependent on tourism. That sector dried up almost overnight during the pandemic and has been slow to recover.
Another local issue during our stay was an ongoing drought. Jim and I tried to be sparing with our use of water—limiting showers, laundry, and dish washing as much as practical. Several of the major streets in our neighborhood had banners stressing the need for water conservation. During the second week of May, we had one day of substantial rainfall, but not enough to break the drought. We heard occasional mutterings about the prospect of mandatory water rationing.
I’ll profile two of the many additional tourist venues we’ve seen—one very popular one, another somewhat less well known. We’d gotten timed tickets for 10:30 on a Tuesday morning for “Casa Battlo,” one of several opulent houses along Barcelona’s most fashionable avenue. Although we got there in plenty of time, the line was already long. The weather was hot. There wasn’t much shade. After the long, sunny wait, I was predisposed not to enjoy the experience, and didn’t much. I found the rooms and stairwells claustrophobic, the architectural touches and flourishes overdone. I signaled to Jim that I would leave the group and later meet him at the rooftop snack bar where the tour ended. Message delivered, I escaped past the rest of our group and found an open-air, relatively shady rooftop space to wait. I enjoyed the view of the surrounding rooftops—several with gardens and shade trellises. Once Jim arrived, we bought overpriced sodas, then took the elevator back to street level and found a mostly shady route for the walk home.
I enjoyed “Sant Pau” more. On the Sunday morning when we visited this 15-plus acre site, it was relatively quiet and uncrowded. Standing next to a more modern hospital complex, this early 20th century hospital/sanitarium was partly an experiment in integrating light, exercise, and gardens into healing spaces. It was designed by the same architect that produced the Palau de la Musica Catalana, and had some of the same touches, including a couple of highly decorated turrets.
Before we left via train for Paris on May 14, we’d visited several churches, a maritime museum, museums to Picasso and to locally connected artist Joan Miro, some nearby beaches, and a large upland park, “Montjuic,” topped by a castle and with glorious views of Barcelona’s harbor.
For our final supper in Barcelona, we went for the second time to an upscale restaurant in a boutique hotel near our rental. Partway through our appetizers, I perked up my ears when I heard American-accented English being spoken at the next table. I struck up a conversation—Jim and I were fellow restaurant patrons with a trio of 60ish women originally from the New York City area. The most reserved, celebrating her birthday with an overseas trip, had been an emergency physician in Long Island through much of the covid pandemic. Her experiences there had burned her out. She’d recently opted to relocate, joining the practice of her aging uncle in his lower-stress medical clinic in South Carolina. She didn’t talk much to us about her pandemic experiences—this was vacation, after all. Still, it was obvious that the trauma of trying to provide care under difficult conditions and extreme uncertainty had impacted her view of the world. We wished the trio a happy, healing trip before we headed back to our apartment to finish packing.
Paris! What can I say? I don’t remember how many opportunities you’ve had to see the “City of Light.” It must have been one of the cities that the Voris family visited on your whirlwind family packaged tour of Europe during the early 1970’s, the summer after brothers Bruce and Jim V. finished high school and you finished your sophomore year of college. I seem to remember that you later did a solo tour in Europe when you were young and single and just out of college (and that Mom carped at you for not saving your money for “more important things”). I don’t know if Paris was part of that itinerary.
At any rate, each visit I’ve made to Paris has been different and generally enchanting. This time we stayed at a small apartment on the Left Bank about a block from the Seine, almost directly across the river from the Louvre. We spent a couple of days trying to soak in as much of the Louvre’s artwork as we could, but found we enjoyed the smaller Musée du Quay d’Orsay more.
Orsay is in a repurposed train station. It concentrates on the art of the Impressionists. While we were there, we got to see a special temporary collection highlighting the 1874 exhibition that is generally considered to have been the official launch of the “impressionist movement.” The “Société anonyme des artistes peintres, sculpteurs, graveurs, etc.” that year produced a low-budget alternative to the official “Salon” exhibition from which they’d been excluded. Several of the original paintings at the Orsay were ones we’d had prints of at the Lawyers Hill house, probably courtesy of our art curator Aunt Anna. After our first day at the Orsay, we got tickets to go back. I’d find it impossible to see and appreciate all the art at either Orsay or Louvre. Having a chance to at least skim the surface at both museums was thrilling.
We spent more time outdoors than in museums, at a wonderful time of year. Paris is quite walkable and also has a good transit system. We were central enough so a good many of the sights we wanted to visit were within an easy walk. Both the Jardin du Luxembourg on the Left Bank and the Jardin des Tuileries on the right were an easy stroll away. On weekends, both were fairly crowded. Less so during the week. At Luxembourg gardens, families with young children could rent small motorless sailboats at a pond near the north entrance to the park. When the wind blew, the boats twisted and turned merrily on the water. When the air was still, the children wielded long sticks from the banks to push the boats around the lake.
As our stay evolved, we fell into the joys of hanging out most evenings on the “Arts Bridge” (Pont des Arts) between us and the Louvre. A pedestrian-only span, its wooden benches invited lounging. We often spent half an hour or more there just watching the world go by—in one direction we got a clear if distant view of the Eiffel Tower. In the other direction, we were just a stone’s throw from the île de la Cité. Tour boats on sunset cruises went by on the Seine every few minutes. The bridge’s slower pace attracted buskers and strolling musicians and artists.
Our favorite performer was the “bicycle poet,” a formally dressed younger man who’d attached a small manual typewriter to the luggage rack of his bike. He parked his bicycle mid-bridge, then posted a placard nearby announcing his services, in multiple languages: “A poem based on your name or theme, 5 euros.” Though we never bought a poem from him, we got a kick out of watching him create poetry on the fly.
We gradually learned our way around the Métro and bus system for jaunts further afield. One day we took the bus to the Jardin des Plantes, a botanical garden several miles from our apartment. Enjoyable and educational both. A different special time for me was a brief Métro-facilitated evening visit with friends from an earlier 1980’s overseas assignment—Helena and Samuel. Now retired and living near Geneva, Switzerland, they’d come to Paris to celebrate the 80th birthday of one of their Paris-based friends. Helena, just past 80 herself, had broken her leg a couple of weeks earlier, but had figured out how to be mostly mobile, with intermittent wheelchair pushing help from Samuel. Part of the aging process I especially dislike is the prospect that each visit with far-flung friends may be the last. At the same time, the possible fleetingness makes each visit more special. I’ll have good Paris memories of Helena and Samuel for as long as I’m alive.
Even further afield, we took the train for an all-day excursion to Versailles, the palace and gardens complex constructed during parts of the long reign of King Louis XIV. The indoor spaces were opulent, the gardens magnificent. When we visited, some of the gold leaf on the various porticos and eaves was being touched up in advance of the 2024 Olympics. Especially because some of the equestrian events would be held in the vicinity, modern French government officials were eager to show off this part of their history to best advantage. I had trouble not thinking how much this extravagance might have cost the average 18th century Frenchman in taxes and hard labor. I would have preferred a Louis XIV that cared more about others and somewhat less about his royal self.
We got back to the U.S. and to San Diego just in time to prepare for a first-time visit from son Scott, Morgan, and all four children in their blended family. Scott had rented a vacation home just down the hill from our place and Jason’s, so the logistics of visiting back and forth were fairly simple. The out-of-towners wanted to see as many of the area’s star attractions as they could; their energy level was much higher than Jim’s and mine, so some of the excursions were younger-generations-only. They did Sea World without us. We all went to the zoo together. As an extended family group, we spent a couple of evenings at Scott’s rental. One evening Jason babysat the younger kids while Scott, Morgan, and Kelly went together to a medically-themed comedy show.
Most of us here in San Diego who are less than thrilled with the prospect of a second Trump presidency were dismayed when President Biden badly fumbled an initial presidential debate toward the end of June. My guess is that your vicinity will soon be sprouting “Trump 2024” yard signs and bumper stickers if it hasn’t already. I’m not totally thrilled with the transition process from a Biden/Harris ticket to a Harris/Walz one, but doubt a better solution could have been arranged given the time constraints. The transition was further muddled when President Biden was diagnosed with covid in mid-July and needed to self-isolate for several days until he again tested negative. I hope you can maintain some sort of equilibrium through it all.
The giving garden here provides me with both solace and surprises. During the two months I was away in the spring, my gardener friend Carol faithfully watered my plot. She was reluctant to weed much, not being sure which plants were intentional and which were not. The upshot is that I now have a dozen fist-sized pumpkins on vines that sprawl all over my plot. The plants probably germinated from some compost I’d worked into the soil last fall. Not sure what I’ll do if the pumpkins all mature—at least a few may eventually be suitable for donating to the drop-in center.
Please take good care. Tend your garden as best you can. Lots of virtual hugs!
Love, Jin
