Chasing the Cup - Chapter Four

Buses and trains were the preferred modes of transportation for my father, and our intention - at least that of my brother’s - was to complete this trip in the same way and timing that my father did each year for going on twenty years.

We boarded the bus for Fuengirola, and made our way down the large avenue to the larger bus station. We waited for the bus to Ronda in the small bustling plaza and boarded with many others, locals and tourists alike.

Ronda was an oasis for my father, the proving ground that at 82, he was still capable, in fact more than capable, of navigating and completing the challenge of the 'valley'. Attached to the town is a very large, scenic valley up and down which is miles long, depending on your path.

The town was the adopted home of Rilke and rumor had it that Orson Welles had asked to be buried down the well in town. Not sure if that is true, but it was a destination. Its narrow streets were busy with hundreds of people, which seemed odd, given the long bus ride which seemed to leave us in a town in the middle of nowhere, on top of a mountain range. It seemed to me to be as Shangri-La might’ve been, isolated yet thriving and happy. Ronda was - and is - a wonderful town, with a busy tourist area, incredible views of a mountain valley and Spain’s oldest bullfighting ring.

We stayed in a wonderful hostel which was more like an inn, with the unfortunate problem of not having an English speaking staff person. No matter, my father managed to piece together enough Spanish to communicate. It was from there that we found ourselves in the plaza where the café was, where we started our story, with Dad declaring his presence in one of his favorite way’s – sneezing.

Rosie ate gazpacho, the cool, clean taste of fresh tomatoes mixed with herbs, perfectly balanced, just a hint of cucumber in the background. Dad and Mike went onto complete the history-making walk in the valley, which I had decided might be too much for Rosie on such a hot, dry day. We scoured the stores for fans, pottery and flamenco dancing dolls, and made our way to the bullring.

It was impressive – the white of the stucco, against the red clay of the ring, the blue of the sky all met in a symphony of colors and experience. Walking among the seats, under the overhang, cool in the shade but feeling the heat of the sand beating up on our faces, I thought of the hundreds of faces who would come, year after year, to see the challenge of man against bull. I thought of the brightly colored matador costumes, sparkling in the sun, adding a strangely refined luxury and decoration to brutal and frightening confrontation.

We ended our day by taking a horse-drawn carriage through town, narrow streets and blue sky above us. We met up with Dad and Mike who had suffered in the heat all afternoon, walking xx miles to achieve Dad’s quest – his personal windmill in the land of Don Quixote. Like Don Quixote and his sidekick Sancho Panza - whose character in the film version happens to bear a stunning resemblance to my brother - Dad and Mike walked up to us, definitely worse for the wear. Another windmill defeated.

We walked for what seemed like another mile or so up the hill to a hotel, one which I had planned during that fantasy I had researching our trip on the internet. There, we had a drink, deciding the dinner was too expensive. For once, I actually agreed, so you know it had to be so. We sat on the patio, surrounded by the sun setting over the valley, an incredible, albeit windy, perch to take in the most beautiful setting Ronda had to offer. There were statuary in the garden overlooking the valley, including one of Rilke himself. I sat and wondered how often he had sat in this same spot, looking out over the valley, ordering another drink and pondering his next work.

Time to retire for the evening and board the early bus back to our new home, Los Boliches.

Chasing the Cup - Chapter Three

The trip to Dublin was merely a short stay before leaving for Malaga, Spain. As we flew over the hills of coastal Spain, the plane made a sharp right turn towards the Malaga airport. This was the stuff of dreams – the bright white and pink of stucco buildings nestled in the arid hillside, rolling down into the incredible blue of the Mediterranean. I couldn’t wait, as this was a part of the world I had not seen and was a favorite of Dad’s. I anticipated Spanish food, the warm sea air, and even warmer crystal waters lapping the hot sand of the beach.

But first, there was a price to pay. Finding the hostel. The first was bringing of all the luggage from the airport to the train station, which would take us to Los Boliches, outside of Fuengirola. There was a long, hot walk (we had dressed unfortunately for the brisk May of Ireland) to the train station over the highway and up the stairs. We looked completely out of place with the rest of the flip-flopped, reddened faces of the mostly English crowd that made their way from one town to another commuter style on the train.

We arrived in Los Boliches only to find a disappointment, the Amigos Hostal, which Dad dearly loved, was closed. Apparently those plans I had made, then cancelled, and begged would be made at some time before our departure, were of no help now.

We moved along the narrow streets of Los Boliches, with one storefront, internet café, bank, and money changer after another. We came upon a small plaza and moved east towards the large avenue that connected the Costa del Sol towns. Eureka, or however one would say that in Spanish, we found a hostal – the Hostal Nevada. This would be our home base for two nights before we experienced the rest of southern Spain. The room was wonderful, albeit with a tricky set of terrazzo-floored stairs up which we had to pull the seemingly expanding luggage. The room had a small kitchen, sunlit eating area, a small living room with TV and two bedrooms as well as a bath twice the size of the kitchen.

We were hungry enough so we walked to the beach to find lunch. Dad brought us to one of the numerous beachfront restaurants, each of which seemed the same as the one 50 feet down the beach. The restaurant had an overturned dinghy with grilled fish laid out for everyone to see. The other boat was modified to operate as a huge grill, which was tended by a passing waiter and emitted wonderful smells and embers to thrill the passing beach goers.

We took a table outside, with a wonderful, beachy breeze, and ordered – I craved something grilled so I got a selection of meats which were perfectly cooked, with just a touch of herbs and olive oil. The next fixture of southern Spain introduced itself to us, in the form of African men selling knock-off wares in a very aggressive manner. Dad was once again thrilled – unsolicited interaction with other members of the human race! It was the time that the young man took my daughter’s arm, clasping a watch to it, that I stepped in on this particular social experiment. "That’s enough," I said, "NO thank you." Dad was mortified, I had seemingly insulted his new friend. The young man didn’t back off, but neither did I, and it ended abruptly. Apparently, it was only his living; was his method "against the law?" I was asked. "Yes, against MY law," I chided him back. That was that. If nothing, my father and I could reach an understanding as quickly as it broke to pieces.

We then went our separate ways, Dad and Mike back to the room to rest and Rosie and I to the beach. The rest of the day was spent in idyllic rest under a large umbrella of palm leaves and watching my daughter experience the Mediterranean. The next two days were spent working on our sunburn, and then we moved onto Ronda – the raison d'etre for my father and his many sojourns to Spain.

Chasing the Cup - Chapter Two

We wake up the next morning (all have slept, except for me) to arrive in Shannon as our first stop before finally arriving in Dublin. The morning mist must surely herald the most magical time of day in Ireland, with its myriad shades of green covering its undulating hills which reach out from the ground to embrace you. Arrival in Shannon is peaceful, and quiet. We must change planes, which is not so pleasant, because that entails pulling luggage through customs and lugging it around until the time of the flight. But the landing was magical, and I hold onto the vision of the green rolling hills positioned next to the jagged coast, small fishing boats making their sleepy way out for the day’s work.

Once in Dublin, a million memories flood back to me, not one of them pleasant. I refer back six years to 1999, when a three-year old Rosie and I flew into Dublin to meet Dad for a month-long stay with him. His girlfriend at the time, a crusty Bavarian woman named Hertha, was supposed to meet Rosie and me to see us to the train to the West. Well, as if to ensure that no companion of Dad’s would disappoint us in the reason they connected so well to him, she had met two young Bavarian students that morning and took the train with them… I didn’t know this until we had made our way from the airport to Heuston Station. There I was, exhausted with way too much luggage and the most cheerful three year old there ever was, in a strange country and not sure how to get to where we needed to be. Needless to say, we figured it out.

But, as I stood there with my brother, my now nine year old, my father, and only slightly less luggage than before, I shuddered as we moved towards the bus stop to get to Heuston Station… with luggage (which seemed to have immediately expanded in the seconds between terminal and curb)… and now a sleepy, not so happy nine year old… at the height of the morning commute. The delighted trio of them found a spot upstairs, while I waited with the precariously balanced luggage downstairs. I pressed up against the luggage, nose to the glass which unfortunately welcomed the now very bright sunlight flooding into the bus. So, in the wake of no sleep, stress over the social experiment of taking the bus instead of a nice, roomy (albeit expensive) cab, I was still beyond excited to be back in Ireland and on our way.

Dublin was as I remembered it, and the social experiments that my father wanted for us were to continue. As would become a pattern in our journey, his goal was to find those places which either existed in his memory or were mythical but as real to him as the nose on his face. We searched for hostels he remembered or restaurants, until we screamed for Relief, the patron saint of trips with one’s elderly, but by no means docile, father.

The first holy grail was Bewley’s. Now, Bewley’s is a wonderful café that served wonderful coffee and tea, as well as breakfast. I remembered its large ceiling and black and white tiled floors, dark wooden tables and small booths (but I wonder now if that is true or just what my mind attached to the experience). But, first to the hostel to leave our things. Grace allowed me the small concession of a taxi from the bus stop at which we had been left.

We gratefully found our hostel, next to the James Joyce house. The small, rather vertical hostel was what one would call clean enough, but almost dingy or Spartan. This was a very student-friendly, if you catch my meaning, and matched the mood one had when reading Joyce. Apologies to all those who feel Joyce is not dingy; I do not intend to offend.

Dad was, indeed, offended, when I insisted on locking our bags together in the luggage room since our room was not ready, it being 9AM. He felt I had insulted all international backpacking students, whose morals, apparently, are above reproach, even though those same students (or the few bad apples among them) had stolen plenty from him over the years he traveled in this fashion. So, we moved past his disappointment in me, and as punishment, he made us walk at least two miles to find breakfast.

Which brings me to another habit of my father that endears him to his children, over and over again – asking for directions. Most women complain that men do not ask for directions; they would not be so disappointed in Richard. But, my father does not limit himself to one person, he truly embraces this as an opportunity to meet the world. Every sixth or seventh person was such an opportunity. He asked each nicely dressed Dubliner, on their way to work or play, the way to Bewley's. Each answered with the same quizzical look, surely, Bewley's was closed due to business troubles, so there was no café open at the time, but the old location was ever shorter up Collins Avenue over the Liffey River Bridge.

Alas, when we arrived at the location, the windows had been plastered with signs telling the awful truth, that Bewley's was closed, the tile entrance leading to the great wooden doors now a home for scattered papers and trash being tossed lightly in the morning breeze.

So, our now two mile walk at an end, a new adventure presented itself, Dad had to find a new place to eat. This was wonderful! A brand new reason to introduce oneself to the rest of Dublin, at least those poor souls on Collins Avenue who found themselves unlucky enough to be interrupted in their morning routine.

Thankfully, the cafeteria at the local department store was open, comfortable, and the best breakfast we ever had. We must have looked quite the sight, a crew of four, pretty disheveled, speaking only in sparse words to one another, because bonding was the last thing on our minds. We had been reduced to the primal self, the carbon unit in search of food. Like cavemen huddling over the recent kill, we ate in silence and each thanked God for small favors.

Chasing the Cup - Chapter One

"What? Is there a law against it?" I heard for perhaps the thousandth time… this week. My father, Richard is the King of the ultimate rhetorical question. Often times, indeed, when he asks this, the action in question is against the law. One cannot steal a block of cheese or a puzzle book, merely for the thrill of the chase or naughty for naughty’s sake.

There wasn’t a law against what he was currently on about, which was sneezing and emitting such a noise to accompany it that it caused the patrons around us to cast a most unwelcoming glance in our direction. I had prayed for that wonderful table in the corner under the canopy, but alas, it was the center of the patio for our motley crew.

We four, Dad, myself, my older brother, Michael and my nine-year old daughter, Rosie are sitting at a bistro table in Ronda, Spain, on an ancient plaza, enjoying the soft, warm breeze of late May in Southern Spain. The sky was an indescribable blue – shades of robin egg near the horizon, and rising with momentous and vast expanse above us into a deep indigo. The sun is not visible, but clearly with the sharpness with which each corner of stucco is lit, it is surely not far away. Rosie has chosen gazpacho, a delicious but dubious choice for the child whose repertoire is limited to chicken nuggets or meats approaching their size, consistency, and taste (which doesn’t leave a lot) or a food that the Spaniards clearly do not appreciate – macaroni and cheese.

Rosie has had an interesting reaction to this country, declaring within the first 24 hours of our arrival in Los Boliches that she was "allergic" to Spain, since her nose was continually running. She felt Spain was dusty and aggravating to her delicate senses. But, as she is reminded by me too often, this is "grandpa’s trip" so experiencing Spain as he prefers it be done is the ultimate goal.

We have embarked upon a thirty day trip through parts of Europe that play an important role in my 82 year old father’s life. A life deeply influenced by the meager way he began his life. Our trip began in Boston, would take us to Spain, Ireland, and Bavaria. As we came together, my brother Mike and Dad from Santa Cruz, California, and Rosie and I from South Portland, Maine, we all held visions for what the trip would mean to each of us. Even in the planning stages, this had been a truly "Dad" travel experience – my brother Mike trying to balance extravagance with the wishes of his father, whose idea of extravagance is indoor plumbing. I am trying to ensure that while we experience the true Dad itinerary, we still incorporate the tourist level accommodations we look forward to on a holiday.

In true fashion, I have made too many plans and not been successful in communicating my progress, which causes my older brother Mike to encourage me to cancel all that I have done, based on the fact that the itinerary will and has changed, and that what I consider basic, they consider luxurious.

All that being said, it all works out for the best and we get on the plane in Boston at 7PM one Sunday evening in May.

The Cowboy Says Goodnight

Recently, I watched my elderly father fall deeper into illness and die at the end of June. I'll be telling many stories that involve him and indeed, ones that he wrote, but let's begin his story at the end of his life.

He was and is one of those "larger than life" characters. Words don't do justice to the impact he had on me, even though I would immediately say that my mother was a greater emotional connection for me. I spent her final years drinking heavily and that clouded my ability to truly appreciate the depth of her love and help her reach out and not be held back by her own sadness. With my father, I enjoyed the clarity of sobriety and was able to form a strong relationship with him, so much so, that his loss has created a huge hole in my heart that I don't expect or even want to fill.

The funny thing about watching him succumb to illness was that it felt as if I were watching a movie. He had beaten bladder cancer for years, it almost as if by sheer will he survived it. So, it never really entered our reality to any great degree, although I'm sure he held it close.

Over the years, he continued to beat it and travel the world, going to Ireland, Spain, and Costa Rica for months at a time. He wasn't wealthy. He stayed in hostels, loving the connection with traveling young people. He was proud of living on the cheap, and focused more on the experience of travel, than the splendor. I travelled with him frequently, but we'll get to that in future entries.

So, keep in your mind this mental picture of a strong, wonderful-looking man who lived life out loud. Illness didn't really resonate, until last year, after he turned 85. Slowly, he became more forgetful, and didn't move as quickly. Time between trips became longer, and he stopped in whatever town I lived in less often or for longer than usual. I moved back to California after years on the East Coast to see him more frequently, remembering with great pain the overnight flight to see my dying mother. Flying into California to be at her bedside, only to come upon a woman numbed and silenced by morphine, whose eyes teared at my arrival, but who I could no longer hear say a word. I wasn't going to live that again.

Dad and I spent every weekend together. We watched "Walker, Texas Ranger". ate meals at our favorite cheap eats, went to bookstores, and the local drug store to wander the aisles. We drove the coast, listening to Willie Nelson, Waylon, and Johnny. We saw movies, but over time, his tolerance for violence or fantasy became horribly low and our choices were limited.

In the last year, things went downhill in slow motion but with determination. At first, the man who rode his bike the few miles from his apartment along the ocean to his favorite bakery could no longer do so. Diabetes put him at risk and in the hospital for a few months. Prior, the doctors had found a few lesions on his pancreas, but at his age, had discussed and ruled out procedures. Quickly, it became clear this was cancer although there was never a diagnosis. The bewildering part of this process was the end.

I thought I was perfectly poised to handle this - I had spent years working at a grief support program, albeit as a fundraiser, but deeply involved in the philosophy of the program. Immediately, I was faced with choices. At one point he would appear to be on death's door with hospice looming in the days ahead. The VA stopped giving him fluids as a sign that they were pretty much done with him, he was 86 now and clearly in the final stages. I, channeling Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment, insisted loudly that they give him fluids. Of course, he perked right up and our world was turned upside down again. We took him home and began the painful last weeks of his life.

Wild swings in blood sugars, coughing up blood which confused him, and a slow slip into morphine silence were our future. My heart ached with the fact that this man, so in control, was no longer so. Indeed, up until the end, he outwardly expressed that he wondered if this was a death sentence as a doctor at the VA had told him months earlier and when he would next go to Europe. He didn't talk in terms of finality.

Months before this, I sat in the office of a neuropsychologist at the VA with Dad. She was wonderful; she talked to him as a person, and seemed to intuitively know how he was thinking. She explained to me that Dad, as a prisoner of war in WWII, was suffering from PTSD and his entire life after that was shaped by that experience. The cold, distant father of my youth, and the loving but stoic man in front of me now, who would cry at memories of his dead brother or my mother, was a deep lake of feelings and motivations that I would likely never understand. I cried driving home, realizing that all these years, he was trapped by his own experience. He needed to maintain control in order to cope with the complete lack of control he had suffered in the war.

So, now at the end, we sat together and looked at pictures. In the final days, as the morphine really took hold, we found he couldn't swallow, which panicked him and me both. After I got the nurse at his assisted living to find an alternative to pills, I did something I had never done before. I sat at his bedside in a darkened room, held his hand and told him through choking tears how much I loved him, and how much he meant to me, and what a wonderful father he was. Without words, he tilted his head and softly punched me in the arm, as a sign he understood but was overwhelmed by the deliberate nature of my words. It was as close to an unfettered expression of goodbye as we had ever come and I am grateful to have made the choice to do it.

So, call your Dad, and your Mom, and tell how much you love them. Life is too short.

Let me tell you a story...

While I am not a fan of blogging as a substitute for news, I am a fan of sharing our stories. And that is what I intend to do here. You will read stories from my travels, my family, and those which pique my interest. Most will be true, some may not, but I'll try to let you know as we go along.

I hope that on your journey, you can stop to sit under this "digital" shady tree with me and read a story. Call it, a "literary meditation" if you will. I hope you will enjoy them, I know you won't enjoy every one... heck, I didn't enjoy living some of them. But, as we tend to say, "that will make a great story one day". So, hopefully, that statement is true. Enjoy.