Albania revisited ... and other places - part nineteen

Funchal, Madeira, Portugal, final European stop before recrossing the Atlantic.

Coffee in some pleasant café; a sunny sidewalk table for lunch; memories of warmth to carry me ...

… and others through the coming winter.

Funchal (perhaps unintentionally here) is a painter’s palette.

Part of town has wall …

… and door paintings everywhere.

In Sao Tiago, the shoreside yellow fortress you can see near the top of this post, I find a 1959 Opel ‘Kapitan’. It looks oddly similar to some versions of those clunky, handmade ZIL limousines produced for Soviet leaders. 

Although Madeira's first car arrived before the Great War, it was only the 1950s when cars in any number appeared. And until Spain joined the EU and billions of euros were pumped into Madeira, motoring outside Funchal was something of an adventure.

What are they looking at?

A card players' haunt outside the entrance of the main market. Gambling isn't legal, but police largely turn a blind eye.

I walk into a city centre park and find a ‘Bird of Paradise’. 

I also find Christmas cottages popping up like mushrooms and ...

and Papai Noel (why a panda?) is looking a little too toothily friendly … time to get outta here.

Last look at land. More than a week to Fort Lauderdale.

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Saturday, December 19

Back home.

Albania revisited ... and other places - part eighteen

Casablanca, Morocco. We arrive as Donald Trump calls for a ban on Muslims entering the United States. Some passengers don’t disembark.

First stop, the Cinéma Théâtre Rialto, an art deco gem opened during French rule.

Although down-at-heels now, stars, including Edith Piaf and Josephine Baker, were once on its stage. 

I wonder about the sun bleached Casablanca poster, but it’s just a embellishment. The Rialto does show other films on an increasingly rare single screen.

Fading European architecture admired, I set off to get deliberately lost in the vast Ancienne Médina. 

In fact, I don’t have to get deliberately lost as the labyrinth just makes it happen.   

Even in the throng, people are polite. On eye contact, many smile. The vendor above assures me he has the ‘meilleurs produits’ (best produce). Another offers congratulations for having ventured so far from the more Westernized city centre.

Eventually, I have to use the hazy sun to uncertainly extricate myself from the Médina. I pause to watch people checking the news. One of those alleged to have been involved in the Paris attacks is of Moroccan descent. Terror suspects have recently been arrested here and, in this century, there have been occasional terrorist incidents.

Western countries have travel warnings for Morocco, although thousands of Westerners safely visit. Holland America, which doubtless gets advice from the U.S. government, would soon cease port calls if there were major concerns. 

I’ve had a really good day and felt as safe as I’d feel in … Paris or New York or London.

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Casablanca 2014:

http://trainsandboatsandplanesandtheoddbus.blogspot.ca/2014/12/mediterranean-2014-part-thirteen.html

Albania revisited ... and other places - part seventeen

Cadiz, Spain, where Byron stayed in 1809. ‘Cadiz, sweet Cadiz! ... Cadiz is the most delightful town I ever beheld …’

Near the city walls, I stop for coffee and churros …

… watch passersby …

… then, as last year, meander towards the flea market looking for pictures.

The vendors always make for a shot or two …

… as do the customers …

… and the merchandise is sometimes worth a browse. For instance, El Ruedo (‘The Bullring’) a now defunct weekly magazine from the height of the Franco era in 1963.

Perhaps not El Exorcismo, which sits uneasily next to Enid Blyton.

I go on a monochrome bender. 

Albania revisited ... and other places - part sixteen

Cartagena, Spain, a city I always enjoy.

The Mercado de Santa Florentina, local market and usually good for a shot or two. An impressive number of men seem to be doing the weekend shopping ...

… or perhaps they want to patronize the lottery seller in peace.

Late denizen of Spanish waters.

Locals bustle about on their Saturday morning tasks …

… and I find a way to work off far too much eating on the ship.

Whatever my conflicted feelings about Christmas, this year I’m fortunate to see the municipal nativity in the Plaza de San Francisco.  Staged since 1975, more than four hundred figures fill a vast, covered space. 

This is a delightful mixture of Spanish touches, such as a traditional windmill …

… combined with scenes from the time of Christ.

Many of the figures, for instance, a man putting bread in an oven, move.

Mary and Joseph find themselves at the inn …

… kings arrive …

… and parents and child depart for Egypt.

Finding myself a little too nostalgic for my own good, I depart for a stiff restorative drink.

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Gibraltar’s population is less than thirty thousand, so perhaps they don’t make their own manhole  covers.

I’ve been in Gibraltar a number of times, but this is first I’ve seen a Royal Navy warship. As we arrive, HMS Ocean, an amphibious assault vessel, departs.

Other than the Romans, the one country to dominate the Mediterranean - from here to Suez - was imperial Britain, hardly a Mediterranean country. By domination I mean mastery of the waves, not - as in Rome’s case - mastery of all the shores. Even within my lifetime, Britain still held, not only Gibraltar, but also Malta, Cyprus and, effectively, Egypt. 

And it is here that I must eat humble pie … grovel! grovel! Last year, I confidently told a fellow passenger that Prudential’s Rock of Gibraltar depiction is from the seaward side, that is, the side facing south towards Africa. It is not. I was wrong.

It is, as you can see above, the landward side facing the Spanish frontier. The Spanish were always more of a threat than anything that might come from the sea. Having made my confession, I can now walk towards Spain …

… past an airport built during the Second World War …

… and not just past the terminal, but across the runway. With so little level land, the British were forced put the airport a few feet from the border. 

Fortunately for pedestrians, it’s not busy … unfortunately for me, there are no arrivals or departures while I’m here. Note RAF fighter, possibly a Tornado, in the distance.

Here’s the frontier and, knowing the Spanish habit of occasionally venting their frustrations and slowing entry into Gibraltar to a crawl, I decide to stay on the British side. Mind you, it’s Sunday  and most businesses are closed; the place reminds me of Toronto sabbath in the 1950s.

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Cartagena and Gibraltar 2014:

http://trainsandboatsandplanesandtheoddbus.blogspot.ca/2014/11/mediterranean-2014-part-twelve.html