San Francisco. July, 2006

Part of the pleasure of a vacation for me is the freedom from having to drive. I love taking public transportation. Not only because I never have to look for a nonexistent parking place, but because it can provide a theatre-like experience sometimes. Characters, stories, situations. An unexpected treat on this trip to San Francisco was learning that BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) has a wonderful “Spare the Air” policy that benefits both public transit riders and the environment. When the air pollution index is expected to rise toward a certain unhealthy level, travelers can ride the BART trains for free in order to encourage everyday motorists to leave their cars at home and take the train. What a great idea. And while I wasn’t too pleased at the air quality news, I loved using public transit for the days I was in the city. To and from the airport and Union Square. Out to Berkeley and back. The city’s MUNI bus system and other regional transit systems participate in the program, too. Terrific.

Venice, Italy. October, 1986

Imagine my surprise as I walked through the narrow alleys of Venice, coming upon this eyeglasses shop and seeing a friend in the window. Well, a picture of a friend, Ken, a model with 20/20 vision, the college roommate of my pal Jacques. Small world. Ken, whom I remember as the toast of Provincetown during the summer of 1979, had befriended Divine, who was appearing there onstage with Holly Woodlawn in The Neon Woman. (At the party after the final performance, a cake depicting Divine was rolled in and Ken, knowing my fascination with the 300-pound bombshell, cut off the face -- to the silent horror of those assembled -- and saved it for me. I wish I could say that, like Dickens’ Miss Havisham, I have kept it to this day. I have not.) Where is he now? The Spanish have a wonderful expression to convey “small world”: El mundo es un pañuelo. The world is a handkerchief. And one, it seems, that keeps on shrinking.

Málaga, Spain. November, 2010

When our cruise ship docked each day along its Barcelona-Lisbon route, many of our fellow passengers hopped on waiting buses to take advantage of local excursions the cruise line offered. We never did. Our reason, aside from not wanting to be on a tour bus, was that most of the ports we called at were so interesting that it was a pleasure just walking around on our own, getting lost, making discoveries. Take Málaga. Our first stop, as always, the central mercado to revel in the local produce and seafood on display. (We bought two of the most beautiful and delicious bosc pears because good ones are so hard to come by in the States.) Then a visit to the Picasso Museum here in the town of the artist’s birth. (He left at age 10, never to return again.) The museum, unlike the one in Barcelona, is small and uncrowded, filled with an admirable collection that will satisfy but won’t exhaust you. A picnic lunch in a small park, a stroll through backstreet neighborhoods, in one of which we spotted this tiled tribute to the city’s two patron saints, Ciriaco and Paula. Martyrs who refused to renounce their Christianity during the fourth-century Roman (pagan) rule of the region, they were stoned to death on a site not far from this brickwork.

Kadiköy, Istanbul. June, 2007

Meet John Travolta. Well, not really. But before I went to Istanbul the first time and was engaged in my travel research, I found an online site in which a young woman had mentioned a certain waiter at Çiya, the wonderful restaurant on the Asian side of the city. She had written that his co-workers jokingly referred to him as Travolta...and it caught on. Sure enough, when Nick and I arrived one afternoon, there he was. And when we greeted him by “name,” he was all smiles and became our waiter for the afternoon, suggesting dishes, bringing us samples of things...including this complimentary pillow-like bread. Fortunately “John” knows a little English, a bit more than I know Turkish, just enough to figure out what would be the ideal selection for us. And when we returned a few days later, there he was again, ready to do the same. The perfect host, he even let us take his picture. (And he remembered me when Jay and I returned in October, 2011, showing us to a coveted outdoor table and another excellent meal.)

Lisbon. November, 2010

A general strike was slated to hit the city a few days after we left. And for the few days that we were there, we saw signs for the strike everywhere. Cars with loudspeakers mounted on their roofs, broadcasting pleas for support. When I asked our cab driver on the way to the airport if the strike would include him, he said, “Everyone.” Stores, trains, buses, cabs, restaurants, bars, everyone. (He also told us that “your Barack Obama” was scheduled to arrive the following day along with the other heads of state for the World Economic Summit. I’m sure they hotfooted it out of town before any inconveniences began.) My only other brushes with European job actions were in France in 1972 when I’d arrived at Fountainebleau only to find it closed, its staff “en greve.” And in Agrigento in 1984, when I’d bought enough excellent local produce in the small Sicilian town to get me through the next day’s sciopero. I needn’t have worried. That strike was pretty casual with bars and restaurants remaining fully in operation...but with their door grates only open halfway.

New Orleans. March, 1991

I once asked a female friend why women seemed to love shoes so much. Much more than men seem to do. She said she suspected that it was partly because a woman’s shoe size generally never changes, no matter how her age, body type or other aspects of her appearance might. True? Who knows? The same “permanence” may fuel my ongoing interest in manhole covers of many lands. Seems like every place I go, I snap a photo of one. Solid markers that indicate the geographic location...and much more. Most times there is some pride of craftsmanship, some decorative whimsy, too. I love the moon and stars in this beauty from The Crescent City. I’ve also got some nice cover shots from Istanbul, Berkeley, Barcelona, just about everywhere I’ve been. The only problem, and it’s a very slight one, is the confusion often registered by locals when I seem to be ignoring all the beauty around me and focusing on the pavement instead. I can deal.

Barcelona. November, 2010

Happy New Year to you. And happy one-year birthday to us here at SLS. What better way to honor the occasion than with these zero-calorie birthday cakes, found in the window of a funky linens shop in Barcelona. Just don’t try to eat them unless you like the taste of terrycloth. Many thanks all year to our followers, our daily readers, our encouraging friends and enthusiastic commenters (especially the repeaters.) In addition to just having fun with this each day, I’ve also been touched by hearing regularly from blogspotters as far away as Portugal, Turkey, Indonesia and Homer, Alaska, and as close as, well, next door. All best wishes for a wonderful new year, filled with travels, meals, memories, much happiness and many dreams-come-true.