On a Sunday afternoon, people danced on Avenida da Liberdade in Lisbon, Portugal
These travel videos tell short stories about people and places you might want to visit.
The video below is from a community called Sitio Nazaré above the long, wide Portuguese beach. The singers Albierio Ferro on the right and Albierio Caserio play and sing fado on the square.
On a visit to the MAAT Museum in a district called Belém, about five miles outside of central Lisbon, Portugal, Nick Taylor and I had fun in an art installation created by Brazilian artist Ernesto Neto. These are among our latest and favorite travel videos.
You may never physically get there, but we hope the short travel videos give you a flavor of who we met, what we saw and what we enjoyed.
Drummers of a different kind played together on Rossio Square in Lisbon. If you want to know about the pattern of the tile that they are sitting on take look at this story.
In Porto’s Mercado do Bolhâo, you can make your own music.
In Stockholm the Royal Guard marches through city during the spring and summer months and puts on a good show.
The dancers of the Cubaldunes group used their waiting time in the Barajas Airport in Madrid in the best way possible.
Take a peak at Niagara Falls
Or visit the Badlands of North Dakota with us.
In Cagliari, Sardinia we watched a marching band play in a square below the castle.
On the island of Sant’Antioco off the coast of Sardinia, we found that locals fill up with wine, at the Sardus Pater enoteca, just like you do at a gas station.
When we wandered a long a canal in Venice, a singer on a gondola stopped the tourist traffic. Everyone wanted to listen and take photos and videos.
You can find small coves in Sicily with sand beaches and only a handful of people. We took a short walk on Realmonte, Sicily
On the island of Ortigia, off of Syracuse, Sicily, we saw a local man fixing his TV antenna. Sounds sort of ordinary. But then you see that the antenna faces the ruins of the temple of Apollo. So you have to wonder if Apollo put the hex on it.
In the Alhambra palace in Granada, Spain water played a central role in the architecture. You hear the gentle sound of water running into the pools and waterfalls wherever you walk. The Nasrid sultans also used the water to feed livestock and water the gardens. Today, the water still comes up from the Dano River to the portion of the fortress called the Generalife and gets distributed through an aqueduct.
Fountains envelope the visitor in the beauty and tranquility of the Alhambra.
Down the hill from the Alhambra, we found famed guitar maker Francisco Manuel Diaz.
We decided to visit Portugal at the last minute because we had a very narrow window for our vacation. We booked flights and made reservations just a week before we left on June 1st. We gambled that we’d have a great time during the nine days we had.
June is a beautiful time in Lisbon because the Jacaranda trees are in bloom. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
Our faith in spontaneity paid off. We found nice people everywhere we traveled in Portugal, beautifully prepared food, and excellent wine. The cultural history, interesting art, the cities, beaches and Douro Valley scenery were dramatically different and gave us the breather we needed from New York and the toxic politics of the presidential campaign.
We flew TAP, the Portuguese airline, because it offered the best rate and booked through AARP/Expedia because that was even cheaper. The six hour and 55 minute flight to Lisbon left JFK a little after 10 p.m., and allowed us to sleep a little on the plane.
Lisbon’s Humberto Delgado Airport, like others, is filled with shopping and duty free, but getting through it and passport control was relatively painless.
The surprisingly quick taxi ride from the airport cost about 12 Euros and we arrived in central Lisbon before noon.
A colleague, John Totaro, had recommended the 138 Liberdade Hotel and we booked directly instead of through a booking service.
That turned out to be a good move because we got to know the front desk people and it made our stay all the more pleasurable.
Inez recognized our name and said she was the person we talked to when we booked. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
After a short nap, we set out to discover something about Lisbon. On the way we passed our top-hatted doorman, José Semedo.
The Avenida da Liberdade provided a great introduction to the city. The wide avenue, with tree-shaded pedestrian islands between the traffic lanes, was built in the 19th century and modeled after broad Parisian boulevards. Some may love it for the upscale shops like Dior and Prada. But the real pleasure for us came with discovering the black and white mosaics called Calçada Portuguesa and their intricate designs.
Jardins da Avenida da Liberdade. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
These bold designs, modeled on Roman mosaics, date to 1755 and an earthquake that devastated Lisbon leaving shards of black basalt and white limestone that were reshaped and used as paving stones. Today this uniquely Portuguese art decorates sidewalks and public spaces in Lisbon and throughout the country. If you look closely you’ll see that there is no mortar between the closely packed tiles.
Several small restaurants dotted Avenida da Liberdade’s center islands and at one people gathered to dance.
We stopped to watch and enjoy the energy and the music and then headed on to the very busy Restorauradores Square. The praça or square celebrates the 1640 overthrow of Spanish rule.
A little farther on, we reached the real gem called Rossio Square.
Rossio Square, Lisbon, Portugal. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
A fountain and column dedicated to Dom Pedro IV in 1870 sit in the middle. The Calçada Portuguesa here creates a giant optical illusion of undulating waves along the surface. The pattern is called Mar Largo. Seriously.
Mar Largo, or wide sea pattern in the stone pavement of Rossio Square. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
Beyond the beauty of their mortarless pavement, the squares in Lisbon serve as direction points. If you ask for directions someone is likely to say. “Just go to Rossio Square and turn left.”
We turned left and climbed. Lisbon is a hilly city and the interesting old neighborhoods rise above the downtown squares.
At one intersection we found police sorting out a modern problem on the ancient streets: a traffic jam with a bus blocking the tram tracks.
A bus-tram traffic jam on hilly Lisbon streets. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
A collection of hills led us to Alfama, a neighborhood founded by Muslims from North Africa in the 8th Century. They ruled the Iberian Peninsula, which included what is now Portugal and Southern Spain, calling it Al-Andalus. Historians point out that Muslims, Jews and Christians lived relatively peacefully and science and culture flourished. But in the 13th century Christian Crusaders began their campaign, or Reconquista, to recapture the land the Muslims ruled.
During the Spanish Inquisition that began in 1478, Portugal’s King Manuel I agreed to expel Jews and Muslims as a condition of his marriage contract with the daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain. In 1496, he ordered Muslims and Jews to convert or leave the country. He then went further, forbidding them to leave and forcing baptisms, including of children under fourteen who were taken from their parents. Today, you can find some remnants of Muslim influence in ruined castles and architecture, but very little of Jewish culture. Alfama’s narrow winding streets are said to date from the Muslim years.
On our June visit, those picturesque cobbled streets were filled with visitors from all over the world. Tuk-tuk tour guides held up maps and beckoned tourists to their motor scooter transports. We navigated our way through the crowds and small shops and felt like we were in a hilly version of our neighborhood in New York City.
Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
It was hard to get away from the other tourists, but houses like this one with tiles depicting intense working scenes kept us looking for interesting things. Portuguese tile, like its paving designs, is another story of art and history and we discovered a lot about tile in on our second day in Lisbon.
Decorative tiles on a Lisbon house. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
Down at the bottom of the neighborhood near the Tagus River, we passed an outlet for Taylor’s Port. We’d see many more port shops and tasting rooms when we reached Porto, but on this day it was fun to brush up against a namesake.
We walked along the edge of the cruise ship section of the Tagus River until we got to Commercial Square, or Praça de Comércio, rebuilt after the 1755 earthquake. It was hard to get a good photo and we think this one by photographer Deensel shows what it is like. The statue at the center is of King José I on horseback, stamping out snakes.
Comércio Square, Lisbon Portugal. Photo by Deensel, Creative Commons License.
When you walk back away from the river through the Rua Augusta Arch, you step right into the busy shopping street.
The street is filled with local and chain clothing stores and restaurants with outdoor seating. It also has beautiful mosaic carpets of Calçalda Portuguesa.
At Rua Vittoria we stopped at Pau de Canela, a pastelaria with outdoor tables, and discovered Portuguese egg cream. Many of the puff pastries were filled with cream made of egg yolks and simple syrup.
The story goes that nuns used egg whites in their laundry, to keep things white, and monks used them in the wine fermentation process. That left the yolks and the convents of Poor Clares, Santa Clara and Carmelites created flourless sweet deserts using the yolks and an abundance of sugar from Portuguese conquests in Brazil and Madeira. This was food heaven for someone like Barbara with lactose intolerance.
Sweets and snacks at Pau de Canela. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
After coffees and pastries, we retreated to our hotel for another rest. We’ve learned, especially on these last minute trips, that dinner reservations are essential. Restaurants that cater to locals and tourists book up leaving little room for spontaneity. Before we left New York, we found a Michelin recommended restaurant called Suba that was miraculously open on Sunday night.
A taxi climbed Lisbon’s steep streets to deliver us to the restaurant on the top floor of a hotel in a renovated 18th century palace in the Santa Catarina neighborhood. We only glanced at the view across tiled rooftops to the Tagus River because our attention quickly turned to the beautiful food.
We began with a sparkling wine from the Douro valley and then because Nick decided on the wine paring, Mariana Villas Boas brought a Portuguese ale for him to begin.
Chef Fábio Alves created a seven course tasting menu that began with a snack of crispy tapioca with spices
A gazpacho with goose barnacles, peaches and coriander came next.
It is embarrassing to say that we almost made noises as we ate. We were together and could gush about the tastes and laugh.
Tuna roll with beetroot salad oyster jus and chili ice cream or an orange and cardamom emulsion for Barbara came next.
Then there was red mullet, corn stew and razor clams.
Royal pigeon was prepared in two ways: smoked breast, poultry liver mousse, red berries cream,
and “canja soup” pigeon terrine, egg yolk and peppermint
We were told the baby goat dish was an homage to the chef’s region in Portugal. But we would bet that the dish from his hometown didn’t look as pretty.
The menu offerings change frequently, and the link below can show you what else Suba has in store. You, like us, have probably been to restaurants that served outstanding food, and the staff was frosty, snooty if you will, because they know how special their restaurant is. At Suba the vibe was happy. We felt that we had gotten lucky.
After desert and cider from Madeira, a staffer called a taxi for us and we headed back to our hotel ready for the next day’s adventure.
To describe the terrain along the fjords as rugged is like saying Taylor Swift can sing a little. Slabs of solid rock thrust up from the water with a muscular force the authors of Norwegian myth gave to Thor and Odin. And their crazy angles, drops and creases must have given rise to Loki, the trickster.
The rugged landscape of the Norwegian fjords. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
We got a close-up look at the fjords as we sailed aboard the Havila Castor, a cruise and small cargo ship making its way down the Norwegian coast from north to south. We joined the boat on July 30 in Kirkenes, a town 250 miles above the Arctic Circle and five miles from the Russian border near Murmansk, after flying there from Oslo on the 29th.
That gave us a little time to explore, and we found a taxi driver to take us to the border crossing.
Behind us is Norway’s border with Russia.
The signs suggested that we stay on the Norwegian side. Border crossings were frequent until Russia’s invasion of Ukraine slowed them to a trickle.
Warning sign at Norway’s border with Russia.
Nearby was a former crossing point, now closed. But the evidence of cross-border surveillance was everywhere on the hills above.
The former Russian border crossing where you can see telecom towers and receiving stations. (Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.)
The driver told us Kirkenes has about 500 Russians among its 3,500 residents. There’s a Russian consulate there, but the most visible opinion we saw when we got back to town was this one.
One local comment from the NATO side of the border. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
The Castor, built in 2022, wasn’t a huge cruise ship with non-stop entertainment. We understood it would make several stops a day, sometimes for just minutes to offload or take on cargo, sometimes long enough for the passengers to take in local color.
The Castor could carry 640 passengers in 179 cabins. (Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.)
We had booked a cabin that we thought was just fine. But as the voyage began, we heard a message on the intercom. “There are suites available if you want to upgrade.” Why not go look? we thought. And then you know what happened. Barbara fell in love with the large cabin.
The sleeping area is divided from the sitting area.
In the sitting area, you could slide a door open and step out on to a private deck.
A sliding door leads to the private deck.
We debated this upgrade for a couple hours. Barbara, an early childhood fan of the late comic Jimmy Durante, remembered him singing, “How you gonna keep ’em down on the farm after they’ve seen Paree?” Now she was singing it. So we took the suite and it was perfect.
The ninety of us who boarded at Kirkenes joined 300 passengers who had started the cruise at its southern terminus, the town of Bergen. People and cargo loaded, we sailed out into the Barents Sea near the top of the world.
Our first fjord took us out of Kirkenes. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
The on-board atmosphere was comfortable.
The first day we were assigned a table in the dining room with a couple from Bern, Switzerland, Claudia and Peter Brand. Claudia spoke English, but Peter’s smile did his talking.
Streaming provided the new lingua franca. We managed to find common ground in the European series we stream on Netflix and through Amazon Prime like “Money, Murder, Zurich” and “Banking District.”
They had gotten on the boat that afternoon too after a train trip up through Finland. We were all ready to enjoy the fjords. Our route looped over Norway’s northern tip stopping at towns including Vardø, Båtsfjord, Berlevåg, Mehamn, Kjøllefjord, and Honningsvåg. In the afternoon when reached Vardø, fog hung over the town and the boats docked in the small harbor.
Vardø, Norway in fog. Photo by ConsumerMojo.comFog at the docks in Vardø. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
One thing stood out clearly. This image on a wall near the dock of Marlon Brando as the Godfather holding what we thought was a Vardø fish seemed out of place. But the translation of the words beside him told the story: “Salmon is important for Norway.”
If the Godfather says salmon is important for Norway, it must be true. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
Just as we were about to leave the dock a rainbow struggled to make its way through the fog.
Rainbow in Vardø. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
The fog hung over the Veranger Peninsula in the Barents Sea, but even at night the 24-hour daylight gave us a glimpse of the towns along the fjords. We took this photo at 10:29 p.m.
Berlevåg under lifting fog.
The next morning the sun broke through and a few of our tan-starved fellow passengers hit the decks shirtless or in near-bikinis.
They were hardier than we were. We kept our puffer vests on.
The sunshine was beautiful, but we needed to stay warm. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
We docked at Hammerfest at eleven in the morning and stayed until almost one. Here you could tour the town or take an excursion to meet a sled dog. We chose to walk by ourselves and saw two reindeer with big antlers bobbing up and down, foraging like goats among the roadside weeds.
Reindeer grazing at a Hammerfest roadside.
Back on board, the reindeer sightings seem to loosen everyone up and we continued to meet and enjoy the company of fellow travelers. Bjorn Tollefsrud, a retired telecom engineer from near Lillehammer, struck up a conversation with us as we sat on deck. His wife Beverly, a North Dakota native, taught history at a college in Minnesota before they married. They were as curious about the world as we are.
Later that day we met Marilyn Simmins from Connecticut and Kathleen Kelly, from Oklahoma, sisters-in-law who travel together regularly.
Marilyn and Kathleen with Stella.
They had begun in Bergen and were doing the twelve-day round trip. Kathleen shared tips about life on the boat and invited us to join them and a British couple for free Prosecco at the cocktail hour. “You’ll love José the bartender,” she said. She was right, but we enjoyed her savvy company more. Although we were on the ship for a short time, it was a little like summer camp.
We learned a lot about Bjarne Salvesen, the server in the smaller of the ship’s two dining rooms.
The Castor’s food was excellent, with an emphasis on new Nordic cooking featuring local ingredients. Reindeer, duck, fish, herring, smoked salmon and fish stew were regular menu items. The main dining room served small plates in several courses on tiny plates that some described unhappily as doll-sized. The fine dining room, for which you paid more, offered multiple courses with generous portions. We split our time between the two.
But the highlight of every day and evening was the scenery.
And the way the light changed and reflected on the sea.
Approaching Trømsø. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
When the ship docked in Trømsø some 220 miles above the Arctic Circle we were truly in the Land of the Midnight Sun, and the sun and the sky played tricks with colors. We headed for a midnight concert at a beautiful 19th century wooden church in the town center.
The sky was golden as we walked to a midnight concert at a Trømsø church. (Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.)Church in Trømsø, Norway. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
Three musicians greeted us and then took their positions in the nave. The organist began and then the cellist and then from a balcony, a soprano with a rich, passionate voice joined in. The program of classics largely by Norwegian composers, the hour and the persistent light outside added to the romance of the trip.
The Castor sailed as we slept and the next morning it made four stops on the way to Svolvaer.
Longer stops gave passengers an opportunity to stroll around or go on planned excursions. Trips ashore help the economies of the small fjord towns with their tourist-friendly shops near the waterfront.
Downtown Stokmarknes, Norway. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
The Castor is one of four ships that ply the fjords hauling sightseeing passengers and making deliveries. Havila has one other, and its competitor, Hurtigruten, also has two, all sailing back and forth between Bergen and Kirkenes.
A typical cargo stop for the Castor. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
There’s no good way to make deliveries in the fjords except by water. It’s mostly small goods, cases of packaged food or paper items, for example. But they can fill emotional needs as well. Claudia, our table mate, described seeing a shrouded body being unloaded from a hearse and brought on board. Clearly a family was having a loved one delivered from a place of death to a place of burial, a final voyage in this fjord-riven terrain.
Another part of the economy we saw from the boat was salmon farms, their underwater cages marked by colored markings on the surface and floating feeding stations.
On Tuesday afternoon near Svolvaer, in the Lofoten Islands, we boarded a smaller boat to go on a “sea eagle safari.” Both boats were moving through open water when we climbed across a narrow gangplank from one to the other, but in moments we and our safari-mates were clustered ahead of the cabin in the small boat.
Aboard the Orca for our “sea eagle safari.” Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
The Lofoten Islands are one of the special places in the the firmament of the fjords. Granite mountains rise from the sea even more dramatically than we had seen earlier.
They frame narrow channels, and the Castor transfers to battery power to prevent engine noise disturbing the stillness of the waterway.
Even the big ship is dwarfed by the fjord’s steep walls.
On our little boat, named Orca, we got a closeup look at the beaches and small farms that dot the islands that frame the channels and fjords.
Ulvoya in the Lofoten Islands. Photo by ConsumerMojo.comHard to believe there is electricity out here.
Our safari’s mission was observing the raptors that circle to find prey and then dive and skim the surface to snatch up fish with their claws.
Sea gulls, far less elegant, were far more plentiful. They saw us coming and they knew to expect a gift of fish from a red-headed deckhand, clearly a Viking descendant.
They flew alongside, swooping in to stab at the fish corpse he held, and even perched on his head from time to time. There were so many seagulls, it was hard to believe it was a sea eagle safari.
Hungry seagulls know a meal ticket when they see one. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
We must have covered several miles. The captain and crew chased eagles they couldn’t see but knew were there. The gulls flew with the moving boat and cried and ate and chased fish scraps and balanced on the deckhand’s head. When we stopped to tempt the eagles, eight or ten times, they moved faster than most of us could photograph.
Then Kristin, one of our boat mates, cried, “Look!” and pointed to the sky. We saw the serrated wingtips of an eagle banking and circling, almost lost against the rays of the bright sun.
Sea eagles soared high above the boat.
The sea eagles were also conditioned to expect a treat, which the deckhand signaled by lifting his arms rapidly several times. Then he threw a whole dead fish to one side of the boat and we all craned our necks and held up our cameras and cell phones.
The small boat motored into a fjord with blue green water surrounded by granite walls. The captain edged the boat close to the rocks where a few troll dolls stood watch. We were, after all, in Trollfjord.
Troll dolls in Trollfjord. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
Narrow waterfalls cascaded down the side of the sheer granite cliff into the turquoise fjord.
Then we motored back to open sea, past a tiny settlement where Vikings once lived, and into the harbor at Svolvaer. A statue greeted us. It was The Fisherman’s Wife, created by Per Eng and erected in 1999 to memorialize the town’s fishermen who over the years had gone to sea and not returned.
The Fisherman’s Wife, on the lookout for fishermen who disappeared. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
When we were back aboard the Castor, Svolvaer gave us a stubby rainbow to remember it by. We felt giddy with the experience of being close to the water with wind in our faces, sea eagles soaring and seagulls behaving like the gulls you know on any continent, and a rainbow to top it all off.
Rainbow behind waterfront houses at Svolvaer. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
As the Castor moved south, the landscape had eased from sheer rock to sheer rock with tufts of green. We saw more houses outside of towns, and the towns got bigger.
The sheer rock walls of a fjord. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
For all of that, Norway is less densely populated than every other European country except Iceland. Not quite 5.5 million people live in not quite 150,000 square miles, or about 35 people per square mile.
Early Wednesday morning we stopped at Ørnes, around 50 kilometers above the Arctic Circle near Jetvik.
Ørnes, Norway at 6:41 a.m.
We were eating breakfast at 8:45 when the ship announced we were near the Circle and we dashed to an observation deck on the ship’s port side to take pictures of the marker there.
This tiny lighthouse marks the Arctic Circle. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
Later that day, there was another planned excursion on another fjord. Near Brønnøysund there’s a mountain with a hole in it that is actually a natural tunnel. It’s called Torghatten, which translates as the square hat.
Torghatten. In this shot you can see the hat but not the hole.
Barbara joined a group that planned to climb up to the top. A bus took the hikers through the town and over a bridge to Torget island where the granite dome Torghatten rises above the sea.
The walk started on a path at the head of a fjord and wound around the mountain like a thread. They crossed a farm and reached a set of 450 stone steps that led to the top.
The steep climb to Torghatten. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
Barbara began the climb grateful for a set of poles that the guide had given her. When she paused on a resting ledge and the rest of the group passed her, she laughed out loud. She remembered that she’d lost 10 percent of one lung to 9/11 cancer and she had just passed another big birthday. But she kept climbing.
Albert, the guide, originally from Germany, pointed out slashes on the side of the mountain. “You see the arrow marks there?’ he asked.
Here was the legend that explains the hole. A troll named Hertmannen chased a beautiful woman called Lekamoya up the mountain. When he realized he couldn’t catch her, he shot an arrow to kill her. But the troll king Somna tossed his hat in front of the arrow, and the hat turned into the mountain with a hole in the crown.
Arrow marks explain the legend. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
At the top Barbara decided she could declare victory without climbing down another set of steps into the hole. Someone handed her a Norwegian flag, which seemed like an appropriate trophy.
Barbara waving her mountain climb victory flag.
Barbara and Albert were the last two down the mountain and the group rejoined the boat in time for the Castor to continue south. That night was our first below the Arctic Circle since we’d joined the boat, and the first night we’d seen a sunset. It was suitably spectacular goodbye to the Land of the Midnight Sun.
The sky at Rørvik at 9:59.The sky at Rørvik at 10:06.The sky at Rørvik at 10:39.The sky at Rørvik 10:59. Photos by Consumermojo.com
The Castor motored through the night and docked at Trondheim at 6:30 in the morning, August 3. That was our last stop.
Brattøra the Trondheim port.
We ate breakfast and reluctantly said goodbye to our new friends and to the Castor’s fine food and accommodations and helpful, friendly staff. They all reminded us that, post-COVID, there’s still a world to be discovered and embraced. Trondheim, on the land, and more stops in Scandinavia would be our next discoveries.
We first reported this story in 2023, but the wonderful trip through the fjords remains a wonderful trip.
We think of our mothers Clare Taylor and Juliet (Julie) Segal on Mother’s Day and every day. They inspire us.
This photo of my mom as a happy, laughing young woman makes me smile. BNTJuliet Segal with her daughters.Clare Taylor loved and was her son Nick’s biggest fan.
This story was republished for Yom HaShoah May 6, 2024
by Barbara Nevins Taylor
Those who saw it say the Nazis and local collaborators rounded up their family members, neighbors and friends and led them to a clearing in the woods not far from the center of Ivye in what is now Belarus.
On May 12, 1942, Nazis shot 2,524 Jewish people and buried them, piled on top of one another, in a mass grave in this small area.
My grandmother was born in Ivye. Her family left for the United States long before the Holocaust. But my great-grandfather Jacob Abrons stayed in touch and tried to send money to help those who remained behind. It was a time, despite reports of mass killings, concentration camps and pogroms aimed at exterminating Jewish people, when the United States and other countries refused entry to refugees from Europe and especially Jews.
That seems just like the way we look at refugees in the United States today.
History teaches us that our anti-immigrant, anti-refugee policy can only lead to the ugliest consequences for vulnerable people trying to escape annihilation.
We study history to help us make better decisions. Remembering the Holocaust should help us also remember our responsibility to today’s “huddled masses, yearning to breathe free,” as Emma Lazarus wrote in 1883.
In 1992, my husband Nick Taylor and I visited Ivye and the memorial to the victims. We had contacted Dr. Maria Shapira, who still lived in Ivye then, through the American Gathering of Holocaust Survivors.
Maria survived the Holocaust in the woods, scrambling and fighting as one of the famous Vilna partisans. When the war ended she remained, went to medical school and served as the pediatrician in her community, which had only four Jewish families left.
She and her daughter’s family, who lived in a larger city, told us they planned to move to Israel. The memorial and a synagogue that was converted into a community center were the only things that remained of Jewish life in Ivye.
On April 6, the anniversary of Hank Aaron’s 715th home run breaking Babe Ruth’s record, I remembered the day Aaron did a small, good deed for democracy, and again defied the race haters. I was with him when he took an elderly Black lady in Atlanta to a polling place to vote.
It was the election of 1980, four years after he slugged his way past Babe Ruth on Major League Baseball’s all-time homer list. I was a TV reporter, and a photographer and I met Aaron at his home and followed him to a housing project. He got out of his car, walked up the short path to the garden level apartment and rang the bell. The woman, I think her name was Mrs. Reeves, wore navy blue with a matching handbag and hat. She shook his hand and smiled shyly.
Hank Aaron led her to the black car and helped her in. He and I walked around to the other side and there I was wedged between Hammerin’ Hank and Mrs. Reeves in the backseat. The photographer sat in the front with the driver.
Aaron asked a few questions and listened politely as Mrs. Reeves talked about how grateful she was for the ride. She told us about her daily routine, and why she couldn’t have gone to vote without the help.
Aaron, born in segregated Mobile, Alabama, understood how important it was for Black people to vote. By the time we met him, he had a history of campaigning and activism. While he was a player on the Milwaukee Braves in 1960, he traveled throughout Wisconsin to support then-Senator John F. Kennedy running for president against Richard Nixon. In 1966, after the Braves moved to Atlanta, he became friendly with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and other civil rights leaders.
Aaron apologized for not being more active in the fight for civil rights, according to one of its heroes, former Atlanta Mayor Andrew Young. He told Ernie Suggs of the Atlanta Constitution that he had responded by telling Aaron that being a great Black baseball player in the deep south was a form of civil rights activism. “We told him to just keep hitting the ball. That was his job,” Young was quoted as saying.
But Aaron’s greatness didn’t ease the racism that made his life a torment at a high point in his career. During the year leading up to his record-breaking homer, he received taunts and death threats from those who didn’t want a black man to break Babe Ruth’s record.
Decades later, he told William Rhoden of the New York Times, “It really made me see for the first time a clear picture of what this country is about. My kids had to live like they were in prison because of kidnap threats, and I had to live like a pig in a slaughter camp. I had to duck. I had to go out the back door of the ballparks. I had to have a police escort with me all the time. I was getting threatening letters every single day. All of these things have put a bad taste in my mouth, and it won’t go away. They carved a piece of my heart away.”
In the car that morning, Hank Aaron had lived that experience. But he didn’t retreat in bitterness. He understood the importance of democracy and did a deed that aimed to empower a Black voter. His effort in that 1980 election fell short of helping the Democratic candidates in Georgia. President Jimmy Carter lost to Ronald Reagan and Senator Herman Talmadge, the scion of a Democratic dynasty, lost his seat to Mack Mattingly.
Yet, thanks to Hank Aaron, one Black woman got a chance to vote, and after we left to report our story, he probably helped others.
Stockholm is notable for many things. But we will always think of it as the city where Barbara fell in love with aquavit and discovered that the traditional cuisine of this Baltic country seemed so much like grandma’s cooking.
First, we had to get there.
We were eager to leave Copenhagen and its chilly, rainy August weather. Little did we know it had been worse where we were going, bad enough for the Norwegian Meteorological Institute to give the storm a name: “Hans.”
Hans produced gale force winds that toppled power lines and made a mess of things. A train with more than 100 passengers derailed in Sweden, injuring three people. We were ignorant of the bigger picture. Nick had received an email from SJ, the railroad company that ran the express train from Copenhagen to Stockholm, a few days before we were to leave. But the message was in Swedish and he guessed at what it said. Something about guys and directions and asking about translations. Does that sound familiar?
When we got to Copenhagen’s central station our train’s departure was absent from the message boards. Barbara charged off in search of information and Nick stayed behind to guard the luggage. She returned with urgency written on her face. “We have to hurry!” she said.
Now we knew what the message had related. The express train was cancelled. The powerful storm had affected the overhead electric lines that powered it. We’d been switched to a local to Malmo, Sweden, and would then transfer to a Stockholm train. We rushed to join the crowd squeezing onto the escalator down to the departure platform. The escalator was stuck. Barbara breezed down with her one small rolling bag.
But Nick wrestled two big black suitcases, which bulged like health warnings against obesity, or maybe overpacking, down step by tortured step. He arrived at the bottom red in the face and about to explode. His heart pounded like he would have a heart attack.
He said later he was just gasping with admiration for people who can travel with only carry-on bags.
The train pulled up, and hoisting the bags into the car was easy by comparison. We found our seats and with relief watched the passing scenery as we crossed the Oresund Bridge to Sweden. At Malmo, we changed to the second train headed to Stockholm.
Train station at Malmo. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
We broke out sandwiches we bought in Copenhagen and settled down for the ride.
Three stops later, the train left the station, slowed, and stopped again. Time passed. Passengers started looking at their watches and then at one another, as if the person across the aisle possessed the magic answer. Finally the loudspeakers cleared their throat and an announcement came: the train crew had worked its max hours and we were waiting for a new crew to arrive.
We finally rolled into Stockholm’s central station around four o’clock and grabbed a taxi to Gamla Stan, the city’s old town and our hotel.
Gamla Stan is an island, one of fourteen on which Stockholm sprawls. We got a snapshot with our taxi’s route of U-turns and water crossings.
The Old Town or Gamla Stan was founded in the 13th century and was the the original heart of Stockholm. It’s a warren of small streets and old houses, most of which date to the 17th and 18th centuries. Its cobblestone streets and main square attract tourists from all over the world, including us.
Tourists flock to the historic section of Stockholm. Photo by Richard Mortel courtesy Wikimedia.
The Lady Hamilton Hotel, recommended by our good friend Susan Raines, stood on a hill up a narrow street where private cars were banned. We unloaded over rain-slick cobblestones into a quirky place full of knick-knacks and historical tchotchkes like model ships and old wooden skis and photos of the famous and not- so-famous.
Entering the Lady Hamilton Hotel. Photo by ConsumerMojo.comUpstairs at the Lady Hamilton. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
After we settled in, we wound our way through the narrow streets toward Fem Sma Hus for dinner.
We passed Storkyrkan, Stockholm’s oldest church, and the Nobel Prize Museum and came to a small square with a distinctive statue. It could be only one thing: Saint George Slaying the Dragon. We learned later it’s a bronze copy of the wooden original in Storkyrkan that dates to 1489.
Saint George and the Dragon. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
It was too wet and chilly to sit outside at Fem Sma Hus, which translates as Five Small Houses.
We entered the cosy bar and chatted with the bartender, originally from Peru, as we waited for our table. He was like other service professionals, many from Pakistan, we had met in Scandinavia. They bemoaned the influx of immigrants who they said brought crime with them.
Crime is a big part of the local conversation here. Gang-related violence, primarily in Sweden’s suburbs, took the lives of 42 people in 290 shootings in 2023. Anders Thornberg, the national police chief, said, “…it was the most violence we ever had in the country.”
But in this comfortable bar, violence seemed remote. We were well into our cocktails when the maitre d’ fetched us and led us down a narrow set of stairs to the cellar where the candle-lit restaurant stretched under the vaulted ceilings of the five houses.
We had read that the restaurant offers classic Swedish cooking with a French twist and it didn’t disappoint. Barbara enjoyed a herring appetizer and we both went on to beautifully prepared filet of reindeer entrees.
The next morning we ate at the Lady Hamilton, whose cozy confines required that guests choose one of three shifts for breakfast seating. We were happy to be part of the last sitting, and then it was time to explore. The sky was clearing but it didn’t feel like August and we were glad for the warm clothes we brought. We headed off past the Royal Palace in Gamla Stan and crossed Skeppsbron or the Ship’s Bridge over Riddarfjärden Bay. Given its islands, Stockholm is also a city of bridges.
Looking from Gamla stan to Sweden’s National Museum. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
Along the waterfront we passed sightseeing boats, and a statue of King Gustav III, assassinated in 1792 in a plot of the nobility. They didn’t like his enlightenment views including banning torture and granting freedom of the press. The statue looks across the water to Sweden’s National Museum.
Once over the bridge, we walked through a lovely garden called Kungsträdgråden, or Kings Garden, that is a meeting place for many Swedes and tourists.
The weather changed from minute to minute and we got to appreciate the garden.Fountain in Kings Garden public park. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
We were headed to the Östermalm Market Hall, which took us through a good portion of Östermalm in the eastern portion of the city. It’s one of the seven districts that make up central Stockholm.
The upscale neighborhood with a mix of townhouses and residential buildings also is home to the Royal Dramatic Theatre. A nearby street sign pays homage to the late Ingmar Bergman, one of Sweden’s great directors, and as movie lovers we couldn’t resist taking the photo.
We were on a mission and pretty much ignored the cafés, restaurants and shops that lined the pedestrian street that took us in the direction of the market.
The pedestrian mall-like street is filled with interesting stores and cafes.
Our destination stood out dramatically against the gray sky.
The Stockholm Food Hall, a mouth-watering destination. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
Inside we found out quickly why this is a food lover’s mecca and a bountiful market for local residents.
Östermalm Market Hall photo by Sharon Hahn Darlin, Creative Commons LIcense. Via Wikimedia
Cheesemongers, bakers and butchers have prominent stalls here and there seems to be something for everyone’s taste.
This wild game butcher shop caught Nick’s eye because it promised something exotic, “a taste that no domestic animal can achieve.”
B. Anderssons, a game and bird specialist. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
Lisa Elmqvist, a fisherman’s daughter, started selling fish in the 1920s and four generations later her family company is going strong at the Food Hall with retail cases and a restaurant. Cruise their counter if you want to look a monkfish in the eye.
A counter display at Lisa Elmqvist. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
It was too early for lunch, but we planned to return and we asked a man stacking jars of jam about the closest museum. He recommended the Swedish History Museum a short walk away. That fit with our idea because we were deep into Vikings and interested in the way that Sweden would tell the story.
The exhibit in Denmark had taught us a lot and this equally dramatic exhibit continued the saga of the Viking era that lasted from 750 to 1100 A.D.
The exhibit took us through the social structure of Viking life that centered around the farm and family and Norse mythology that focused on nature. Those Vikings who went exploring and plundering often brought merchants and farmers with them so that they could establish roots.
This interactive exhibit offered a peek at flowers they used to dye their clothes.
We were again reminded that Vikings loved jewelry and adornment, and that these were big people. This skeleton of a six-year-old girl shows how long-limbed they were.
Another Viking skeleton. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
When we got back to the market hall the Elmqvist restaurant was crowded but we got a table. Nick ordered the house fish soup with mussels, shrimp and fish topped with tomatoes and shaved fennel. Barbara got the shrimp toast with trout roe. We both were happy.
Lisa Elmqvist house fish soup.Shrimp toast topped with trout roe.
Back in Gamla stan, we were too late to visit the Nobel Prize Museum. Our next stop was a restaurant close to the hotel called Sillkafe. Herring was a big part of the menu chalked on the blackboard covering one wall. Barbara, remembering the food served by her grandmother when she was a child and exaggerating only slightly, announced the herring was now her favorite food.
The herring-centric menu at Sillkafe. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
In this small restaurant our table stood near one one with a Swiss couple from Bern. They were drinking something from small tulip glasses. Our enthusiastic waiter Marena insisted we try it, and explained the mysteries of aquavit. It’s an 80-proof clear spirit like gin or vodka, flavored with aromatics like caraway, dill, anis or fennel. Scandinavians started hoisting glasses of the stuff in the 15th century and it’s become a national spirit in the region. Naturally, we had to try it.
A variety of aquavits. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
The next morning we had some time before the overnight ferry we would take across the Baltic to the Gulf of Finland and Helsinki. That meant a visit to the Nobel Prize Museum, which was right around the corner.
The Nobel Prize Museum in Stockholm.
Nick had met and interviewed two physics Nobelists when he was writing LASER: The Inventor, the Nobel Laureate, and the Thirty-Year Patent War. So we checked out the displays of Charles Townes, one of three 1964 physics winner, and his brother-in-law Arthur Schawlow, one of three winners in 1981.
Many of the Nobelists in all fields donated something personal, and Nick liked the object from Oliver Williamson, who won the 2009 Nobel in Economics. Williamson sent the museum his baseball glove, and said it demonstrated the value of teamwork.
A Nobel Prize winner’s baseball glove, showing the value of teamwork.
After we left the Nobel Museum, we noticed on the side of same square another museum in a different field.
Stockholm’s Wooden Horse Museum.
The Wooden Horse Museum was really a store that sold trinkets. But a wall display did have printed instructions on how to make a wooden horse. And we learned that Swedish hand-carved folk art horses were so popular at the New York 1939 World’s Fair that over a ton of them were shipped from Sweden to the United States that year.
Before going to check out of the Lady Hamilton, we detoured into the courtyard of the Royal Palace to watch the changing of the guard. The guardsmen are members of the Swedish military and perform this ritual every day from April 23 to the end of August from about 12:15 to 1:15.
The guard changed, we returned to the hotel and packed. A taxi took us off of Gamla Stan and east to the Tallink Silja ferry terminal, where we boarded for our overnight voyage to Helsinki.
Pablo Valdez stood behind his glass front counter smiling ear to ear as he handed out pastries and desserts to loyal customers. In the open room to his rear were the ovens he’d fed for over forty years with dough beaten on the nearby countertops. “For you,” he said to one, and then another and another. On this his last day at his West Fourth Street storefront, his regulars were told to keep their money in their pockets. Pablo wanted to thank them for their business and say goodbye to Patisserie Claude.
Pablo Valdez creating pastries at Patisserie Claude.
We are all stones in the stream of our lives, but some of us alter the current more than others. My stream is New York City’s Greenwich Village, specifically a little slice of the West Village bordered by Sixth and Seventh Avenues and West Fourth and Bleecker Streets. The stone I’m talking about, that so many other lives have swirled past and touched and been touched by, is Pablo.
Pablo Valdez comes from the Dominican Republic and he bakes French croissants and pastries. He learned from his predecessor and mentor Claude LeBrenne, who opened Patisserie Claude at West Fourth Street near Barrow Street in 1982. Pablo worked with him from the beginning, a calm counterpoint to Claude’s mercurial temper imported straight from the coast of Brittany where he’d learned to bake from his father. Then one day in 2008, Claude disappeared. The shop closed without notice, its windows papered over, until a couple of months passed and Claude’s re-opened with Pablo at the helm as the new owner.
Little had changed. The plain and almond croissants and pain au chocolate, the raisin Danish, were just as good, the fruit tarts and the Napoleons and chocolate mousse and opera cakes as light and sweet, the dainty cookies too. The coffee was fresh and hot and the cappuccino came with the right amount of froth. The music playing in the small back room, where the ovens were and where Pablo and his helper Adriano beat out pastry dough on the countertops, was Spanish now instead of French.
In Pablo’s hands the patisserie was calmer. It became a family affair. At one point Pablo’s son Carlos manned the counter in the afternoons. His nephew Joel frequented the shop in the morning and late afternoons and talked Yankee baseball while Pablo and I tried to make a Mets fan out of him. Where Claude had displayed photos of his trips to a seaside village in Colombia where he had a home, Pablo posted notices of Pablo Jr.’s professional boxing matches at Madison Square Garden.
Rooting for Pablo Valdez Jr. at Madison Square Garden
Pablo and Claude remained in touch. In fact they talked on the phone almost every day. Sometimes a new dessert would appear adorned with a French name — Pont neuf was one — and you knew that Claude had put a bug in Pablo’s ear. He’d show up occasionally, too. To be tolerable, his life in retirement in North Carolina needed now and then to brush against West Fourth Street and the shop with his name on it, run by the man who might as well have been his brother.
Early in 2023 Claude let Pablo know that he was sick. Pablo responded as a brother would, flying to North Carolina when Claude was descending in the last days of his cancer treatment and again for the funeral. Now, after all his years at the pastry ovens, Pablo began to look forward to regaining a life that didn’t involve rising before dawn to bake croissants.
Jemima Ventura and Pablo Valdez
Regulars at the shop heard rumors that Pablo was looking to sell. And like Claude, not to just anybody. He wanted to sell the shop to someone who would keep it alive. Finally, on the last Monday in January, regulars were told to come that Wednesday to say goodbye to Pablo.
I went that afternoon about four-thirty. Pablo was happy. We hugged. He looked relieved. He had cooked all his customers’ favorite things and was giving them away. He’d agonized over the rising price of chocolate, and reluctantly raised the price of a piece of that cake from $4.50 to $4.75. Now, regulars offering money were told to put it away.
Next morning the store was dark, chairs stacked on tables, the grate still pulled down behind the glass door. The morning croissants would have to come from somewhere else. Pablo is now a stone in someone else’s stream.
The new owner, we’re told, is from London and probably won’t be around much. After renovations, Patisserie Claude will reopen as Claude 82, for its first year in business. Adriano may still be in the kitchen, pounding dough and feeding the oven. The lovely and remarkably smart Jemima Ventura can still work the counter if she wants to but having finished college will probably move on. So for the regulars there will be change, but maybe not that much. We’ll see.
We traveled overnight to Copenhagen from Oslo on the DFDS ferry. We passed the tip of Denmark in the night and when we awoke, we saw that Sweden embraced us on on our left and Denmark on our right. The horizons pinched in as we neared Copenhagen.
Entering the harbor we passed a pair of big cruise ships. They reminded us that Denmark’s capital, like all the Scandinavian port cities, has served seafarers at least since the age of the Vikings. Ships out of Copenhagen can reach the Baltic and the North seas with equal ease. Indeed, we later learned that some cruises around the British Isles sail from Copenhagen and these ships were ready to leave.
Cruise ships in Copenhagen harbor
By ten-thirty we were off our boat and trying to get oriented as we looked out the windows of a taxi. We sped through neighborhoods and a shopping district and remembered that low-lying Copenhagen is a city built on islands both natural and manmade. Historic Christianshavn, a short bridge removed from the shopping district, grew up on artificial islands built in the 17th century.
That’s where we were headed. We were booked at The NH Collection Hotel. Right down the narrow street we had a frontal view of Christian’s Church, built in the 1750s for German worshippers. Now it’s a Church of Denmark parish church.
Christian’s Church, built in the 1750s. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
Naturally, the hotel check-in time was three and the lobby was jammed with others like us, eager to get into rooms that weren’t ready.
We wanted to get in as much of Copenhagen as we could in our 48 hours, and we had a rough idea of what we wanted to see. So we left our bags in a storage room and hit the streets. Our first stop was a nod to our counter-culture lives in the 1960s and early ’70s. Are you guessing what the name of our destination might be? Try Pusher Street.
Marijuana yes. Hard drugs no, they say. They don’t like you taking photos here.
A sign at an entrance welcomes visitors to Christiania, which is also known as Freetown.
Welcome to Christiania, also called Pusher Street. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
The Pusher Street name came from the neighborhood’s open marijuana trade, but other factors were at work as well. The Danish navy had abandoned some barracks, which were taken over in 1971 by squatters who created a self-governing commune. The residents who gained partial independence in 1989 have operated as a “pseudo-anarchist consensus democracy.”
Photos are frowned on, so we didn’t take many, but the buildings had an improvisational look. We wandered among the graffiti-painted shops and stalls feeling as if we’d been transported back to a rural St. Mark’s Place in the late 1960’s.
Several weeks after we visited there was an apparent gang war on August 26. Hells Angels and a gang called Loyal to the Familia have fought each other here before for dominance of the cannabis trade. In the latest spate of violence a man was killed and five people were wounded. After the shooting the mayor of Copenhagen urged people not to buy marijuana in the community.
The Danish government is considering ways to shut Christiania down. Fewer than a thousand people live here, but it’s a tourist attraction that gets half-a-million visitors a year. Leaving the community, you pass under a sign that announces your return to the EU.
Re-entering the European Union from a walk on Pusher Street.
It began to drizzle, but we continued to wander. We passed the Our Savior Church, that dates to 1752 and its tall tower with outside stairs. We were not among the 200,000 annual tourists who climb the 400 steps to the top. But we did admire the architecture.
Leaving Christianshavn, we crossed the canal into central Copenhagen.
We were headed toward the National Museum of Denmark but on the way found ourselves on another island. Or islet, to be accurate. Slotsholmen translates into The Castle Islet and looks on a map like an upside-down fruit cup, sided by canals all around. It’s been the seat of Denmark’s monarchy since the Middle Ages and now its government and courts. The massive Christiansborg Palace looms over its large square.
The parliament convenes there, and it houses the prime minister’s office. If you’ve ever streamed the Danish political drama “Borgen,” which translates into “castle,” you’d recognize the place.
The Danish parliament meets here.
The current monarchy started in 1863. For you royal watchers, that’s the House of Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Glücksburg. King Christian IX was the first of that family to the throne, and there’s a statue of him out front to prove it.
Queen Margarethe II is the latest in that line. She’s been Denmark’s queen since she was crowned in January 1972.
From “the island of power,” as Slotsholmen is also called, we walked under gathering clouds to the National Museum of Denmark. Like the other Nordic countries, Denmark’s Viking era — roughly 300 years starting around 790 AD — profoundly shaped its history. This museum features a handsome display that takes you on a deep dive into Viking history and culture.
Viking era skeletons of two men found to be related. One was found in Denmark and the other in Oxford, England.
A pair of male skeletons gave us examples of how the Norse people lived and died. One skeleton, a man in his fifties thought to be a farmer, was unearthed in what’s now central Denmark. The other, in his late teens or early twenties, was found with other skeletons in Oxford, England. Remarkably, DNA testing showed them to be related, half-brothers or an uncle and nephew. Markings showed both died violent deaths, a hallmark of the Viking Age of raids and plunder. But it also showed us how tall the Vikings in 800 to 1000 AD were. Both men were just under 6-feet.
The museum also showed us what Vikings looked like when they were alive. If you envision a blond giant wearing a horned helmet, think again.
The museum rendering of a Viking Age man looked almost alive. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
And if you think wealth gaps are something new, think again about that, too. The fellow above was probably a farmer, but another museum exhibit showed the finery that richer men and women wore, their jewelry and heavily embellished weaponry.
Dressed to kill: finery worn by wealthier men and women in the Viking Age. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.The Vikings prized things that glittered. These treasures are part of a beautiful exhibit.
A word about the food. Everywhere we went in Scandinavia restaurants talked about “Nordic gastronomy,” and the food was outstanding even in the busy museum restaurant.
Someone swiped our umbrella, which we were asked to leave in a stand. That left us dodging serious rain drops as we ran back to the hotel. Our spacious room overlooking the canal was ready and we dried off and prepared for dinner.
It was still raining when we cabbed to a lovely small restaurant called Marv and Ben. The innovative kitchen uses local, seasonal food from small producers. Michelin gave the restaurant the Bib Gourmand award, and that means it considers the food innovative and really good for a not-over-the-top price.
The restaurant on two levels of a small house delivered for us. We didn’t take photos of everything because it was a teeny place and we didn’t want to be obnoxious.
In the morning, more rain. From our hotel room window we looked out on the bridge from Christianshavn to the central city and saw what commuting looks like in Copenhagen. Bicyclists in rain slickers, some holding umbrellas as they pedaled, streamed across the bridge into the central city, easily outnumbering the cars.
It turns out that Copenhagen is one of the most bike-friendly cities in the world, and around 60 percent of its commuters bike to work or school. Infrastructure helps; added to streets and sidewalks are a third component, bike lanes, and they’re everywhere. This means tourists have to be alert, but speed limits for cars and bikes add a safety factor. We never got run over, but we had to jump fast once or twice.
After the hotel breakfast we took a taxi to the Museum of Danish Resistance, in Churchill Park near the harbor where our ferry had docked.
Photo courtesy of the Museum of the Danish Resistance
The underground museum lays out the story of the resistance using five real-life characters who chose to resist or collaborate with the Germans.
Photo courtesy of The Museum of the Danish Resistance.
When Germany invaded the country on April 9, 1940, the Danish King and the government made the decision to remain and cooperate with the Germans. The vast majority of people went along with it.
Photo courtesy of The Museum of Danish Resistance
But others formed an active underground resistance that blew up factories and tactical sites and fought the Germans any way they could. The excellent exhibit tells a sobering story.
Photo courtesy of the Museum of Danish Resistance.
In 2013 the museum was destroyed by arson, but the photos and artifacts survived and it was rebuilt.
Back at street level, we bought new umbrellas and dipped into a place in the gallery district called Restaurant Salon for lunch, which we later learned is described as old school French. People at a nearby table were enjoying many bottles of wine. But we opted for a simple lunch.
Salad niçoise with fresh tuna at Restaurant Salon
It was excellent but priced for expense accounts. Barbara’s salad niçoise and Nick’s beef tartar (below) with French fries — we drank water — cost $75 worth of Danish crowns.
Danes say taxes are the reason things cost so much.
Kings Garden and Rosenborg Palace. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
A waiter at the restaurant recommended that we visit Rosenborg Castle, built as a royal summerhouse in the early 17th Century. It was a royal residence only briefly but now it houses the crown jewels and crown regalia. The King’s Garden, where it’s situated, is now Copenhagen’s most visited public park
We got to the park and people were circling to line up. It was pouring and we were wet and ready to call it a day. After a good walk, we found the subway that took us almost to our hotel.
It was still raining at 8 p.m. when we headed out to dinner. But fortunately the restaurant, No. 2, was down the street on the canal close to the hotel. This was the sister restaurant to a two-starred Michelin restaurant and No. 2 offered beautifully prepared food using local ingredients in the Nordic style that we fell in love with.
Our check, again, spelled out the source of local cost complaints — the 25 percent value added tax applied to restaurant bills.
We walked back to our hotel along the canal ready for the next day and our train trip to Stockholm.
When the traffic bottled up at Broadway and Prince, I thought about turning around and driving back to the garage. But my rational self reminded me that Jewish holiday services make me feel a happy connection with faith, tradition, and the sense of Jewish renewal. Keep going.
Still, I felt cranky and slightly resentful about this trip to Pier Six in Brooklyn Bridge Park for a Rosh Hashanah morning service. Why couldn’t it be in a building a short walk from my Manhattan home? Why Brooklyn? Yes. I know, you’re not supposed to drive on the Jewish holiday and especially on the sabbath. But this was Saturday morning and driving was the fastest way to get to there.
Thirty minutes later, I pulled into an expensive parking garage and walked down the park path past the restaurant and the restrooms. A little walk away, I found the clearing near the river and the volley ball courts where Rabbi Misha Shulman had gathered the New Shul group. The cool, crisp weather and bright sky felt like a blessing.
The New Shul has held Rosh Hashanah morning service outdoors in a park since the pandemic. The group has been unusual in a creative way since it started. Two friends, composer and lyricist Holly Gewandter and the performer Ellen Gould, founded it in 1999. They hoped to bring people together for Jewish celebrations, to study and incorporate music, art and creativity in the worship service. Many of the originals were from Greenwich Village and the Upper West Side. It has never had a building, but it has used the Village Community School for High Holiday services and other venues for Shabbat services.
Other rabbis have led the group and tapped into the spirit. I’m not a joiner, but did become a member when the musician-rabbi Zach Fredman used his enormous creativity and energy to attract new people. When he left, I stayed on because of Misha’s intelligence and the power of his deep Jewish belief that he generously shared.
“Who believes in God?” he asked at a holiday service last year. He raised his hand. So did I. Few others in the room at the time did.
But God or no god, Judaism is a fundamental part of me. The rise of anti-semitism in the United States and the world has made me feel that it is more important than ever to belong to a Jewish community of some sort.
So here I was in the clearing looking at the people who sat on blankets and tablecloths in family groups, children and parents and grandparents, in a sprawling semi-circle facing Rabbi Misha. Others sat low in folding chairs and still others stood against the tree line. A little girl in a blue dress with stars and flouncy tulle wandered in and out of groups close to the rabbi. I was late and the praying had begun.
“Hallelujah. Hallelujah,” voices sang.
“Who likes to dance? You like to dance, come up,” the rabbi called out.
Three women answered the call and joined Daphna Mora, a singer and musician who urged others to join them.
I reached into the box that had held the prayer books. None left. I tried to make a place for myself on the ground and my body objected. My stiff hip and lower back wouldn’t allow me to get comfortable. I pushed to all fours to get up and made eye contact with no one.
Behind the rabbi, trumpet virtuoso Frank London, guitarist Yonatan Gutfeld, drummer Yuval Lion, and singer Dana Hertz guided the dancers with rhythm and melody.
“Ai Di Di Di Dai,” people chanted, swaying even as they sat.
I spotted a metal railing along the edge of the trees behind the rabbi. “Ai Di Di Di Dai.” I sat down and thorny branches of a rose bush on my left grabbed me, another branch on the right snagged the woven fibers on my jacket. I tried to shrug myself free. The more I moved the more I felt like an insect in a Venus fly trap. A younger woman saw me struggling.
“Oh, the thorns. Can I help? she asked. “Maybe,” I said and continued to try to disentangle myself. “I wonder what this means?” I said laughing and slipped out of my jacket so that I could pull free of the thorns.
“Bachu,” the rabbi said and called out a number in the machzor (prayer book).
I looked around to see if anyone near me had a prayer book that I could share. The younger women didn’t and everyone else seemed too engrossed or were already sharing.
A woman’s toe polish grabbed my attention. I saw a child lean back against his dad and my gaze went back to the white toe polish. Stop. Be here for the prayer, I chided myself, or go home.
“Sh’ma Yisraeil Adonai Eloheinu,” I tried to keep up with the others.
Then I remembered that Itamar Katz, the technical director, had sent the prayer book for download in case we wanted to Zoom. I found it in my phone and scrolled to the prayer.
“Everyone stand for the Amidah,” the rabbi said and he explained that we could read the words or pray silently. The Amidah is the central prayer of every service. You pray, you offer thanks and ask for forgiveness and you ask for something.
Silent prayer. I prayed to focus on prayer. I prayed to leave distraction and judgment behind. I prayed to be a better person.
The rabbi turned and pulled a cart covered with a torn patchwork quilt. The torah, usually housed in a structure called an ark, was snug beneath the quilt.
Getting ready for the torah reading.
He followed the centuries old practice of offering honors and called a handsome family and several members of the congregation to participate in the torah ceremony. Like rabbis before him, Misha showed them how to remove the velvet cover and the bindings. An orange monarch butterfly flew low across the clearing toward the river. But the focus stayed on the torah.
Once they freed the torah from its bindings, the honored led a procession around the meadow so that everyone could touch it. I leaned in when they came close and took my turn. Something like a tiny electric shock pinged my psyche, I felt buoyant and stepped back smiling.
Maybe in that moment, maybe a second before, I really looked around at these people who could have been Jews in the desert 5783 years ago and understood that this coming together of Jews was just right, just a perfect way to bring Judaism to life right now.
And then I remembered something from the previous evening. Rabbi Misha had told a story on Erev Rosh Hashanah about Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, the great grandson of the Bal Shem Tov, founder of the Hasidic movement. Rabbi Nachman combined Kabbala mysticism with torah study. He also believed in using simple language to talk like a friend to god and made up parables and stories to bring Judaism closer to people. He and his followers formed a separate Hassidic sect, and other rabbis resented him and considered him strange.
In 1789 Rabbi Nachman traveled to Palestine in disguise and told his followers not to tell people he was there. He did other odd things. He walked barefoot. He didn’t go to Jerusalem. But he did look for new ways to approach prayer and devotion.
The point of the story didn’t make much sense to me when the rabbi told it. And a Rabbi Nachman parable that a congregant acted out made even less sense.
But in Brooklyn Bridge Park as the helicopters buzzed overhead and women read the torah, it became clear.
I listened closely to the Hebrew and the English translation of how Abraham followed God’s instructions and took Isaac up the mountain, bound him, and was ready to sacrifice him until an angel stopped him and told him to sacrifice a ram instead.
Before the reading, Rabbi Misha offered his interpretation. Abraham had faith and understood God would spare Isaac in the end. He also told the truth. So there is insight in the fact that he told his followers he and his son would both come down the mountain. His faith made it possible to face such a horrible act believing it would not have a horrible end.
The little girl in the princess blue dress with stars drifted among the torah readers. And the story about Rabbi Nachman grew clearer. Rabbi Nachman with his bare feet and stories and ability to connect with people was searching for something in Jewish worship that was down to earth, “. . . a new way that is ancient.” That fragment of his quote is posted on the New Shul website and it seems like it led us here.
We were a group of Jews in New York City finding our new Jewish way with ancient roots.
We planned to avoid the airports, so we took a train from Trondheim to Oslo. The trip would take longer, but there would be plenty to see along the way.
We had booked online ahead of time with SJ Nord, the Swedish national railroad company that runs express trains in Norway. Until we got wise, it was a challenge online to locate the actual rail operator because third parties who book train travel pop up first when you search. But it’s generally cheaper to book directly with the rail company and you have recourse if something goes wrong. Consider this a consumer alert!
SJ is the owned by the Swedish government and runs express trains in Norway.
Our seven-hour trip took us through the beautiful Norwegian countryside.
The Otta River runs about 147 kilometers or 97 miles and is fed by glaciers.
The unbroken green landscapes reminded us that Norway is the least densely populated country in continental Europe.
Soknedal, countryside from Trondheim to Oslo.Norwegian countryside through a train window.
The train pulled into Oslo’s central station about three in the afternoon and we caught a taxi to the Citybox Hotel. The location was great, but when Nick reserved a room on booking.com he missed the fact that it was a self-service hotel and, when we got there, felt more like a youth hostel.
We decided to eat the modest cost of our one-night stay and wheeled our bags a few blocks to the four-star Thon Hotel Opera after Barbara booked a room online while standing in the City Box self-check-in lobby. The Norwegian chain has hotels throughout the country, and we had stayed in a very nice Thon hotel in Kirkenes. In Oslo, the hotel overlooked the harbor and the Opera House.
The Oslo Opera house, where the Oslo Ballet also performs.
We were already a little familiar with Oslo, but we wanted to to know more. We had overnighted there the week before on our way to the fjords in the north. That time, and this one too, we walked along Karl Johans gate, Oslo’s main shopping street that’s mostly a pedestrian mall.
Strollers on Karl Johans gate in central Oslo.
It runs from the railroad station to the royal palace, and the shops there and on its side streets are the same you’d find in the same area in any major city, from Zara and Foot Locker to Gucci and Louis Vuitton. Most of the strollers we saw looked to be tourists like ourselves.
We used the street that day to cut through the middle of town and circle down to the waterfront.
The Oslo waterfront. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
Our goal on that first Oslo visit was a harbor front restaurant called Louise known for its open face shrimp sandwiches.
Good shrimp and people watching at Restaurant Louise in Oslo.
The shrimp sandwich at Louise lived up to its reputation, but Barbara cut straight to the chase: plump, bright pink shrimp from the North Sea.
After lunch Nick made the acquaintance of a pelican along the waterside boardwalk. They reminded him of the birds he played alongside when he was a kid on Fort Myers Beach, Florida. This one was very calm and easygoing.
A pelican standing watch on the Oslo waterfront.
Oslo’s Viking Ship Museum was closed for renovations that will go on until 2025 or 2026. Instead, we visited the Oslo Museum of Cultural History, which had a small display of Viking gold, art and and fighting gear.
Roman craftsman brought animal art to Scandinavia in the 400s and it remained popular for 700 years.
On that first part of our trip we cut short our stay in Oslo because we had to catch an early flight to Kirkenes.
The second time around, we could slow down and enjoy a good dinner. Food turns out to be a big part of Oslo’s attraction. Barbara found Sentralen, a casual, brasserie restaurant on the ground floor of a renovated bank building. Chefs working in an open kitchen offered a tasting menu of seasonal dishes with up to six courses that change frequently.
You can order all the small plate dishes a la carte. We chose a few courses that included mussels, duck breast, and wild raw halibut and everything was delicious.
We found ourselves at a table next to two guys from Santa Barbara, California. Joe Carlson, an an automotive advertising photographer, and John Onderdonk, a lawyer now working on land preservation in Pasadena. They had come to Norway to hike and camp. “You can’t believe the fresh air here,” John told us reverentially. We had experienced a lot of that, but without the backpacking. It emerged that they were staying at the City Box Hotel, which they said was comfortable.
The next day, we worked out a late checkout with the Thon Opera hotel to cram in the things we had missed. Our walk along the fjord’s harbor near the hotel took us past floating saunas and people in swimming.
Water in the Oslo fjord that day was about 62 degrees or 17 Celsius, according to seatemperature.net.
Across from the saunas, the Munch Museum was our must-see Oslo stop. We walked along the front of the Opera House and then, instead of climbing the ramp to its roof, we headed down to the street to the museum.
The Oslo Opera House and Munch Museum. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
The large collection of Edvard Munch’s work, which he left to the city of Oslo when he died, was a revelation. You may be familiar with some version of his painting known as “The Scream.” He created several.
From the Munch Museum
But what we saw in the museum made us think about Munch in a new way.
“The Scream” became not just an etching or a faded reprint of a tortured soul, but a vibrant look at a person having that moment. The colors jumped out at us and echoed what we saw in the light and in nature in northernmost Norway.
Munch painted “The Scream” in 1903 after suffering a panic attack.
The artist, a Norway native, lived from 1863 to 1944 and as the years suggest witnessed great changes in the world. His curiosity and restless mind led him to explore themes of love and loss, sickness and death in unique ways.
This painting, originally called “Love and Pain,” became known as “The Vampire.” It reflected Munch’s tumultuous relationships with women.
Seeing so much of his prolific output under one roof was to see the psychology, often the near-madness, that propelled him. In 1907 Munch painted The Death of Marat I. The title suggests it describes Jean-Paul Marat’s well-known stabbing death by Charlotte Corday during the French Revolution. Perhaps, but it’s also a self-portrait, one of two in which Munch, lying on the bed, is the wounded victim of a gunshot to the hand while the perpetrator, standing nude in the foreground, is his girlfriend, Tulla Larsen, with whom he an especially tempestuous relationship.
The Death of Marat I is one of two similar paintings by Munch.
Later in his career Munch grew less self-absorbed, and depicted workers with a sturdy and collective dignity.
Munch’s Workers in the Snow, 1912.
Munch spent time in Berlin and Paris during his career, and his influences included German Expressionists and French Impressionists. In the paintings throughout the museum we saw a color palette influenced by Gaugin, van Gogh and Toulouse Lautrec, color that conveyed emotion. His frontal nudes and loose and hurried brushstrokes were scandals in the art world of his day, but in almost every work you could see his psychic explorations and search for insights. We’ve seen more beautiful artwork in museums, but never a collection that was more fascinating.
The Human Mountain: Towards the Light
Barbara and I said goodbye to Munch regretfully. We collected our bags from the hotel and headed for the DFDS ferry for the overnight trip to Copenhagen.
The DFDS ferry.
The huge ferry had room for 1,790 passengers in 630 cabins and could carry 450 cars. Barbara negotiated an upgrade for us and we ended up in a cabin with a window overlooking the boat’s bow. We could sit at a small table in the room and see marine life and the small Norwegian towns as the ferry moved south down the Oslo Fjord and headed to Copenhagen.
We had decided to spend 24 hours in Trondheim after we read that there was an interesting food scene there. We also learned that David Nikel, a British travel journalist who gave us good tips about our trip, lives in Trondheim. So it seemed like a reasonable stop on our way to Oslo.
Still, we knew little about Trondheim when we got off the Havila Castor, which brought us from Kirkenes in northern Norway. But it quickly got interesting. The Clarion Hotel wasn’t ready for us when we showed up that Thursday morning, so we left our bags and went out to explore the city. We stopped to look at the canal.
and bumped into our friend Bjorne Tollefsrud from the cruise. He and Beverly were waiting for their train to Lillehammer and it was his turn to take a walkabout. So he took us on a tour of the town.
We stopped in front of Stifsgården, the royal residence to take this photo.Here’s what it looks like without them.
Bjorne said that we had to see the Nidaros Cathedral and he led us through the center of town.
The first stones of this Gothic beauty were laid in 1070 over the tomb of the Viking King Olav II, Olav Haraldsson, who led the push to convert Norway to Christianity and later was declared a saint. The work finished around 1300, then neglect and fires destroyed a lot of it. Restoration started 150 years ago and hasn’t stopped. This is where the monarchs of Norway are crowned.
The Nidaros Cathedral in Trondheim. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
In the 1920s, the rose window in the cathedral’s western facade, replaced one that had disappeared centuries earlier.
The rose window, seen above the pipes of one of the cathedral’s two organs. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
Trondheim is a city of young people because it’s home to the Norwegian University of Science and Technology and Queen Maud University for Early Childhood Education.
Young guides are on hand in the cathedral to answer questions and give you facts and figures. For example, we learned that the cathedral’s Steinmeyer organ, installed in 1930, is one of Europe’s largest.
The Steinmeyer organ. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
Outside, preparations were underway for OlavFest and a concert. Workers were setting up chairs and on the stage the popular Norwegian singer-songwriter Trygve Skaug practiced and gave pleasure to the mid-morning wanderers.
Trondheim’s Art Museum was just across the square from the cathedral.
As we entered, a piece of interactive art got our attention. A wall of dartboards and a box full of darts invited us to change the picture ever so slightly.
A signature exhibit for the summer focused on four Norwegian artists vying for for the Lorck Schive art prize. The foundation sponsors the contest, every other year, and pays half-a-million Norwegian crowns to the winner determined by votes of museum-goers. Each artist had a room to display their work.
We were particularly interested in the work of Ahmed Umar. He arrived in Norway as a political refugee from Sudan in 2008 and describes himself as an “interdisciplinary” artist. In this exhibit, he used materials and clothing that Sudanese women once wore while they performed a ritual dance before their marriage. The scanty clothing led to a ban on the practice, which he demonstrates in a video that was part of his exhibit.
A box with slots was set up where people were asked to vote on their favorite. We cast our secret ballots and when the results were announced a month later, we were surprised.
It turned out that Joar Nango won the Lorck Schive prize. Nango, a Sámi artist and architect, created an exhibit that reflected the culture in the Sámi area of northern Norway, Sweden, Finland and part of Russia.
One of the judges, Tone Hansen director of Oslo’s Munch Museum said, “Joar Nango examines junctures between indigenous and contemporary architecture as well as traditional Sámi life forms, bringing to light the typology of a sparsely researched indigenous architecture and duodji handicraft tradition. His installation-based exhibitions merge mobile architecture and found materials so as to become a temporary common ground for being together. “
When Nango accepted the prize, worth a little less than $50,000 when it was announced in September, he graciously described his fellow exhibitors as “three other kick-ass artists.” He said he could now replace the clutch on his 30-year-old van and finish building a sauna he’d been working on.
Outside the museum, a craft fair had been set up in front of the cathedral and we wandered through it. Barbara spied a black linen jacket that fit her perfectly and bought it, ignoring my protests that our suitcases were already at capacity.
Beyond these booths, we found the another attraction held during the first few days of August of year: the Trondheim Brewery Festival. You could visit tents and sample beers from major companies and specialties from microbreweries. We’re not beer drinkers and it was the middle of the day, so it was lost on us. But hundreds of people were having a very good time.
We lucked into a brewery festival and food festival during our 24 hours in Trondheim. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
The beer festival coincided with the Trøndelag Food Festival, and its tents nearby featured makers and sellers of regional fish, sausage, reindeer and moose specialties as well as other appealing things to eat and buy.
Frying fish cakes at the Trondheim Brewery Festival. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
It all made us hungry and a sign promising some of Norway’s best fish cakes caught our attention. They were from Rørvik, a town we’d passed through on the boat the night before. We bought some and sat down to eat them at a nearby table, and they sure tasted like the best in Norway to us.
The fish cakes whetted our appetites for more of the food we might find along the way. Another vendor was at work in the middle of a tent where people waited in line. Grilled chicken and salmon ceviche tacos were on offer. We went for the tacos, and took them outside to find a place at one of the common tables.
Our intimate lunch site in Trondheim.
We found a couple of spots at one of the tables, and sat down across from two local men. They were engineers who worked for Norway’s transportation department, and our conversation became lively as they inquired about us and we about them.
The salmon ceviche tacos were amazing. The fresh salmon with lime and the salty, crisp tacos were a perfect combination. We were eating and talking when suddenly a man next to Barbara leaned over and asked to borrow a napkin. Looking at him, she saw why. He grabbed the napkin and wiped at the deposit a passing bird had dropped onto his forehead. He laughed, we laughed and so did everyone nearby. Nick pointed to his baseball cap as a needed accessory for outdoor dining when there were birds around.
We had other fish to fry. We headed back to the tent where To Rom Og Kjøkken was making the tacos and selling them at a fast clip. We raved about the tastes and asked them to book us a reservation in their restaurant for that night. What’s To Rom Og Kjøkken? Two Rooms and a Kitchen, what else?
Before we left the square, we looked up. High above all the fun, and beer and food, King Olav I, Olav Tryggvason, watched over all. He founded Trondheim and began Norway’s conversion to Christianity, often at sword point as the statue suggests.
The statue of King Olaf in Trondheim. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com.
You might not see the head of the pagan god Thor lying at Olav’s feet. But it is there to symbolize Olav wiping away Thor, Odin and Freya, the gods worshipped by the Vikings. King Olav II was gentler in his conversions, resulting in his sainthood.
That night at To Rom Og Kjøkken we found the dining rooms simple with wooden chairs and tables. The food was anything but simple. You could choose a three, five, or seven-course tasting menu with or without wine pairings. We ordered a la carte since we had an early train.
Nick ordered spareribs and a jar with something black in it arrived before the food.
That black stuff in the container turned out be rubber gloves.Nick, who is the least messy person, was given rubber gloves to eat messy ribs.
On the Havila Castor and in every restaurant we visited in Scandinavia, there was a careful list of possible allergens in the food. When Barbara told the server that she has a lactose intolerance, the server said. “No problem. The chef will adjust your food.”
So Barbara ordered the Skagenrøe, an open seafood sandwich.
A work of art and delicious.
The Skagenrøe was so pretty that Barbara hesitated before digging in. It was as tasty as it looked.
For our main courses, Barbara ordered the Artic char and that too was presented beautifully.
Nick’s highlight was the catch of the day, a whitefish filet in a silky caper sauce.
Fish at Two Rooms and a Kitchen.
Norway’s 25 percent value added tax runs up the restaurant bills, but even with that this meal, with a couple of glasses of wine, was less than $200. And tipping’s a way to express extra appreciation, not a must as it is in the U.S.
We left the restaurant feeling sated and happy that we had made the decision to spend these 24 hours in Trondheim. Now it was on to Oslo in the morning.
In May, I learned that I still had cancer. I thought it had gone along with my prostate, but my surgeon, Samir Taneja, told me to keep getting PSA tests to be sure.
PSA — prostate specific antigen — found in the blood is a kind of protein that indicates when the body is fighting cancer. The first two tests found no detectable PSA, but the third, last December, found a trace, 0.06. That’s a small number compared to the 4.0-plus that prompted the original surgery, but it was there. April’s blood test came back higher, 0.22, and another less than two weeks later showed 0.33. The readings were low but rising quickly. I knew that that meant trouble. Taneja’s office ordered a PET scan.
The scan confirmed my suspicions. A small band of cells had escaped from my prostate before it was removed and found their way into a lymph node, where they were again at work.
My primary care doctor, Peter Zeale said, “You’re not alone. Two of my other patients had the same experience.”
Yes. But this was me. I won’t say I was scared, but I was eager to find out what I could do.
Taneja’s assistant, Samia Choudhury, beamed in for a teleconference. Barbara and I listened as she listed the options including radiation and a second surgery. I immediately said, “I want the surgery.”
A week later it was Dr. Taneja on the screen. He explained that he wanted to talk about surgery because, he said, “There are no studies that show that the surgery prolongs life.” Then he laid out the options, dictated by what we knew about the cancer’s timeline.
“We’re learning what is the right approach to this disease stage,” he said. “If we choose not to do the surgery at this point, the treatment for metastatic disease is to put you on long-term hormone therapy. Or the intermediary option, which is to combine hormone therapy with radiation, monitor and see if radiation durably controls the disease by stopping hormone therapy. If not, then long-term hormone therapy is what we would utilize in the future.”
Hormone therapy would mean taking estrogen to negate testosterone, as devilish a component of the male makeup as the prostate itself. Testosterone gives a man his sex drive. Estrogen would give me hot flashes, night sweats, and a higher voice, and weaken my muscles.
The argument for surgery was fairly strong, however. If my PSA had been high soon after the initial surgery, that meant cancer cells had already started attacking the area outside the prostate. It wasn’t. “The one thing that appeals to me about surgery in your case,” said Taneja, “is that the first evidence of relapse was about a year after surgery. So the more delayed the interval to the time that we detect relapse, the better the chances that a surgical intervention could be curative.”
But the lymph node would be hard to locate, he continued. “They’re tiny,” he said. “This one was six by eight millimeters [around a quarter of an inch] and we don’t have a real way of detecting them. So I will go in and clean out the whole area that’s showing up in the imaging. But the one is in a clear location and I think it’s less likely that we’ll miss it. Of course, the final pathology will tell us whether we’ve gotten it or not.”
“What would you do?” asked Barbara, who was also on the Zoom call. He thought about it and said, “I think I’d do the surgery.”
I agreed, and I wanted to do it as soon as possible. If aggressive cancer cells had migrated from the prostate to one lymph node, they’d soon move on from there.
The operation was scheduled for Wednesday, June 14. Routine pre-surgical testing on June 9 included a blood draw that put my PSA at 0.96, almost three times higher than the later April test. It couldn’t happen soon enough.
Barbara and I got to NYU Langone’s Kimmel Pavilion around 6:30 in the morning along with the arriving staff. We elevatored to an upper floor where the operating rooms are and checked in. I was shown to a prep room where I changed into a gown and stuffed my clothes and shoes into a purple hospital tote bag.
Barbara came in from the waiting room to keep me company. Dr. Taneja, with his backpack on fresh from his morning commute from New Jersey, stopped in to see if I had any questions.
Surgeon Samir Taneja before surgery checking the scans. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
Later I heard him asking a colleague if he thought the laparoscopic camera could find the lymph node he’d be looking for. I didn’t think that this would be a treasure hunt, and yet I pushed the negative thoughts away. I chose belief and maybe magical thinking instead. There was no choice really.
I’m still smiling before surgery hoping for a good outcome.
The anesthesiologist came in and stuck an IV in my arm. Then Barbara said goodbye and a nurse walked me into an operating room crowded with people and mysterious machines.
Once the IV was hooked up I was gone. This was a robotic surgery like the prostatectomy. Five new incisions across my stomach at the level of my naval mirrored those I’d gotten the first time, where the camera and instrument probes went in. I felt them as soon as I woke up. One in particular on the right side hurt like hell.
Tenaja had already called Barbara right after the surgery. It was about two hours after I’d entered the operating room, and she was surprised that it had gone so quickly. “It went very well,” he told her. “It was very small, just above the rectum. It looks like we got everything. But we’ll see what the pathology report says.”
Barbara came back to the hospital to get me and I was ready to go home. But the pain had raised my blood pressure and it had to go down before the hospital released me.
I always make faces when I have photos taken even when I’m in recovery. Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
Some oxycodone and Tylenol did their work and by mid-afternoon I was free. Until I tried to tie my sneakers. My nurse had to tie them because it hurt too much to bend and reach the laces. Another nurse called for a wheelchair, but insisted that I didn’t need it. So we walked together to the elevator and found Barbara waiting in the pharmacy on the main floor. From there we walked outside and Barbara and I climbed into a car that took us home.
The pain was bad for a couple of nights. I took one oxycodone but Tylenol did the trick after that as long as I slept on my back. I eased back to a normal diet, and did a phone interview for a book proposal I’m working on. By Tuesday of the next week Barbara and I subwayed to midtown to eat lunch and again that night for dinner. I was functioning, but had the operation been successful?
MyChart posted the pathology report one week out, on Wednesday night June 21st. One group of seven presacral lymph nodes had tested negative for cancer. In one mesorectal lymph node, testing found “metastatic adenocarcinoma involving one of one lymph node morphologically consistent with prostate carcinoma.”
This sounded like Taneja’s post-operative report to Barbara. A call from him first thing Thursday morning confirmed it. “It’s the best possible outcome,” he said. He’d found the lymph node that showed up on the PET scan and removed it. Neighboring lymph nodes were cancer free.
A little discomfort is a small price to pay for that result. Cancer’s sneaky, though. On July 10, just short of four weeks since the surgery, I visited Quest Labs to have blood drawn for a PSA test. It came back at a barely detectable .03. So I’ll keep getting them.
In the meantime, Barbara and I have some traveling to do to places in the world we haven’t seen yet. Scandinavia is on the close horizon, including Kirkenes in northern Norway five miles from the Russian border. Maybe we’ll see the northern lights and be reminded, yet again, that health is a gift, life is precious, and time is all too short.
Bank of America may owe you money. The Consumer Financial Protection Bureau (CFPB) ordered Bank of America to pay more than $100 million to customers it loaded up with junk fees. The CFPB said the bank also withheld bonuses it promised credit card customers and opened accounts people didn’t ask for or want. You may remember back in 2018, Wells Fargo agreed to a settlement for doing the same kind of things.
The Office of the Comptroller of the Currency (OCC) also found that the bank’s double-dipping on fees was illegal. Bank of America will pay a total of $90 million in penalties to the CFPB and $60 million in penalties to the OCC.
CFPB Director Rohit Chopra said, “These practices are illegal and undermine customer trust. The CFPB will be putting an end to these practices across the banking system.”
The consumer watchdog found that Bank of America harmed hundreds of thousands of customers by repeatedly charging a $35 dollar fee for insufficient funds on the same transaction. So they would charge you once, and you’d pay. Then they would charge you again even though you only overdrew once.
Bank of America also targeted individuals with special offers of cash and points when they signed up for a credit card. But then they never provided the account bonuses or cash rewards to tens of thousands of consumers who asked for them.
The CFPB also alleges that from at least 2012, Bank of America employees competing for bonuses illegally applied for and enrolled consumers in credit card accounts without their knowledge or authorization. In those cases, Bank of America illegally used or obtained consumers’ credit reports, without their permission, to complete applications. Consumers were charged unjustified fees, suffered negative effects to their credit profiles, and had to spend time correcting errors.
The CFPB’s orders require Bank of America to:
Stop opening unauthorized accounts.
Disclose limits on rewards.
Stop charging repeat fees for the same transaction.
Compensate consumers. The bank will have to pay $90 million in penalties The penalties will go into the CFPB’s victims relief fund. Separately, Bank of America will also pay a $60 million penalty to the OCC for its double-dipping fee practices.
Bank of America did not admit wrongdoing when it agreed with the settlement to comply with the CFPB order.
How do you get your money? Bank of America has 90 days to come up with a plan and will reach out to you when it’s in place. If you think that you were affected and you want to file a complaint, you can do that through the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau.
New York City retirees have good reason to want to hang on to their Medicare and Medicare supplemental plans. And New York State Appellate Supreme Court Judge Lyle Frank encouraged them. The judge issued a temporary injunction on July 6 that blocked Mayor Eric Adams from requiring an estimated 250,000 retirees to switch to a Medicare Advantage plan. Judge Frank wrote in his ruling, “As this matter deals with health decisions of an aging and a potentially vulnerable population, mostly on fixed incomes, any lapse in care for these people could lead to deleterious impacts.”
Mayor Adams, in an attempt to save an estimate $600 million, negotiated with the the Municipal Labor Committee for retirees to switch to an Aetna Medicare Advantage plan. But the shift to Medicare Advantage could leave the retirees with shrunken health care options.
Medicare Advantage can be great for some. Many plans include dental and vision coverage and pay for gym memberships. But Medicare Advantage is run by private companies like Aetna and functions pretty much like an HMO, or PPO. You have to use the doctors and hospitals in their networks. With traditional Medicare and a supplemental plan that picks up the 20 percent of what Medicare doesn’t cover, you can choose your own doctor or hospital. That means retired city employees who already have doctors and hospital relationships may have to change them.
In his order, Judge Frank cited an Aetna representative’s statement during oral arguments. The judge wrote, “…the attorney for Aetna acknowledged that there would very likely be situations where medical care deemed to be needed by a doctor for a retiree could be turned down, and certain medical facilities would be unavailable to retirees.”
The city had given retirees until July 10 to opt out of Medicare Advantage and pay for their own Medicare supplemental programs. Judge Frank’s order means that there is no opt-out deadline and that all current health plans remain in effect.
Groups representing retirees including AARP praised the ruling. In a statement, AARP New York State Director Beth Finkel said, “We are encouraged by the ruling to halt the City’s flawed attempt at diminishing care for retirees as the court considers the Mayor’s ill-advised effort – which would risk retirees’ long-term health and retirement security.”
James Davis, the president of PSC CUNY, the union that represents me and others who work for the City University of New York (CUNY), said, “Our elected leaders need to take steps to clarify the City’s commitment to continue to pay for Medicare supplemental coverage. They need to control skyrocketing health insurance costs that contributed to the ill-advised decision to force retirees into Medicare Advantage.”
Mayor Adams and his administration plan to appeal the judge’s decision.
A trip to Sardinia took us through Rome. An overnight on the way reminded us of the pleasures of the Eternal City, and we decided to take a little extra time on the way home to reacquaint ourselves some more. We wanted to eat and drink like Romans, wander the old markets and piazzas, admire the architecture and the art, and even dodge the throngs of Vespas that buzz residents from home to work and back again and add to the city’s energy.
We remembered our stay, years before, at a small, old hotel in Parione, one of 22 administrative districts or rioni into which Rome is divided. It’s the neighborhood, about halfway between the Colosseum and Vatican City to the west across the Tiber, where strollers enjoy the fountains of the Piazza Navona and browse the shop stalls of the Campo de Fiori.
Teatro di Pompeo far left.
The Hotel Teatro di Pompeo arranged for a driver to meet us at the airport. This small luxury was especially welcome after our overnight flight from New York on the way to Sardinia. It cost more than a train or a bus, but we could relax without schlepping luggage, and enjoy a hassle-free ride into the city.
Our ride passed from a freeway onto wide, shaded streets lined with apartment buildings and gradually entered the labyrinth of an older Rome of weathered buildings on narrow streets originally meant for chariots and carts. After tight turns and one scraped fender, the driver dropped us on the cobblestones outside our hotel, where the Theater of Pompey stood 2,000 years before. Archeologists think this is near the Curia of Pompey, the meeting hall where Julius Caesar was murdered on March 15, 44 B.C.
Curia of Pompey photo by Sotamies. Courtesy Creative Commons License
The three-star hotel was exactly as we remembered, simple, extremely clean with an excellent concierge. We met several Italian business people, from far-flung towns, taking advantage of the modest prices and the great location.
On that first night, we took the advice of the concierge Amerigo. We asked where he would eat and he said, “Ah, I would walk past two restaurants I like and look at the menus. They are very small. Maybe they have twenty items on the menu. Then I would choose the one where they had what I wanted to eat.”
We let him book us into Ditirambo on Piazza della Cancelleria. We could only get a late reservation and that was fine because it gave us time to walk. We headed out of our neighborhood, through the Campo di Fiore onto Via dei Banchi Vecchi, where we spied an attractive mix of people talking and laughing over glasses of wine.
Il Il Goccetto, Rome, Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
The place is called Il Goccetto even though the sign says Vino (wine) Olio (oil). No matter. Inside the wine bar, in what was a 17th century palazzo, we found locals at the small bar and tables, plenty of atmosphere, good wine, and small bites.
Inside Il Goccetto, Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
We could order by the glass, or pick out a bottle from the shelves.
We took the bartender’s recommendation for two glasses of local white and sat back and watched the show.
A little while later, we sauntered back to toward the Campo di Fiore and found Ditirambo.
The small two-room restaurant was filled with a mix of locals and tourists. We ordered a bottle of Etna Bianco and fell into the menu. Barbara ordered baccala to start, and Nick chose a smoked duck breast sliced as thin as prosciutto.
Smoked duck breast at Ditirambo, Rome Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
For our mains, Barbara chose the Roman favorite Cacio e Pepe, a simple dish of pasta, parmesean, oil and pepper.
Cacio e Pepe at Ditirambo, Rome, Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
Nick ordered pasta with zucchini flower, pork cheek and goat cheese.
Pasta with zucchini flower, pork cheek and goat cheese, at Ditirambo, Rome, photo by ConsumerMojo.com
We toasted to Amerigo for making the excellent suggestion and congratulated ourselves for deciding to overnight in Rome. The next day we headed to Sardinia, already looking forward to our return to Rome for two nights on our way home.
Ten days later, we returned and learned that most Roman restaurants close on Sunday nights. We did have plans for later though.
Caesar was our theme for the night.
Roman Forum, Photo by Lapping, Courtesy Pixabay,Creative Commons License
Our friends Ray Parisi and Ben Moore raved about a tour and light show they’d seen that highlights the urban renewal project Julius Caesar used to build the monument to himself that became Caesar’s Forum. The emperor’s grand plan razed private buildings and displaced local residents. Two years after it started he was killed and he was long gone when it was finished by Augustus in 29 B.C.
At the suggestion of Ray and Ben we booked for a 10 p.m. show a month or so earlier. That gave us enough time to walk from our hotel, find a restaurant near the forum, and then enjoy the show.
Bright flowers sprung from pots beside front doors and terraces and balconies were awash with greenery on our work through the old neighborhoods.
Roman Street, Photo by Max Pixel, Courtesy Creative Commons License
And the streets themselves were as vibrant, buzzing with scooters and the bustle of outdoor restaurants where waiters gathered up espresso cups and served aperitifs to early diners.
We passed through the Via del Portico d’Ottavia, the main street of Rome’s small Jewish ghetto. This is the home of the Roman-style artichoke, cariofi all Giudia. Its umbrella-shaded restaurant tables were starting to fill up, and we thought we would try to find a restaurant closer to our destination.
Artichokes in the Jewish Section of Rome by by DeeP NoiR, Creative Commons License
Great Synagogue Rome, Photo by Jensens in the public domain courtesy Wikimedia
looked across the Ponte Fabricio to Tiber Island in the middle of the river, then turned away from the river into a confusing maze. We finally climbed a set of stairs from one street level to another and found the address we wanted, where a sign on the door announced the restaurant closed. So much for not calling to reserve.
We retraced our steps back to the Via del Portico d’Ottavia. Now we were in a hurry, and when we spied an open table inside Nonna Betta at No. 16, we grabbed it. The restaurant was long and narrow, hung with frescoes of 19th century ghetto scenes, lighted by rows of chandeliers.
Nonna Betta, photo by Nonna Betta
As we looked over the kosher Italian menu, the very blond kids at the next table were shoveling down spaghetti and popping up to take pictures of each other. Their long-suffering and very patient chaperone told us that they were from Norway and soon they filed out for the next step in their adventure.
We ate in a hurry and then hit the streets again headed for the Forum of Caesar.
Piazza del Campidoglio, photo by Jorge Royan, Creative Commons License
We walked past the monument to Victor Emanuel and along the Via dei Fori Imperiali toward Trajan’s column to the spot where we descended to the ruins of the ancient forum.
We joined the group for the 10 p.m. Caesar show. You can see the Forum of Caesar or the Forum of Augustus, or both. The shows run for 40 minutes each from April through November and is 15 Euros or 25 Euros for the two.
Roman Forum at Night photo by Elie plus
Rome has always built over its past, and then dug it up again. Julius Caesar pioneered the concept of eminent domain, the taking of private property for public use, when he persuaded the Roman senate to buy the buildings he took down to build the forum as a monument to him. Rome kept building and the forum was eventually submerged. Still later, excavations made to build the street that spans the imperial forums revealed again Caesar’s forum and those of Augustus, Trajan and Nerva.
The steps down from the Via dei Fori Imperiali deposited us among the remains of the plaza once surrounded by government buildings. We stood in a world of denuded columns, crumbling arches, stone pathways and steps to buildings reduced to tumbled stones and scattered marble. The air seemed charged with lost magnificence.
We put on earphones and the voice of Piero Angela carried us into that magnificence. Angela’s music-augmented narration was great, but the tour’s brilliance lay in vivid projections on the areas unearthed by excavation of what had once existed there. As we walked, what had been appeared on what remained: buildings rose, arches framed bas reliefs, the handlers of money weighed coins, the statue of triumphant Caesar remounted its stone horse, Rome spanned the known world.
When we emerged at the tour’s end on the level of the street above, we felt exhausted to be back in the present. Or maybe it was a day that started in Sardinia and ended more than 2,000 years earlier in ancient Rome. And modern life got more attractive quickly when we spied a taxi and hailed it for the ride back to our hotel.
The next morning, we had breakfast at Hotel Teatro di Pompeo in a room that huddled under a vaulted ceiling that was part of the original Theatre of Pompey. We discovered that the Galleria Borghese, which features Caravaggio, was closed on Mondays. So we mapped out a plan to visit the Caravaggios in the nearby churches.
But first, we had the market in the Campo di Fiori to explore. A short passageway adjacent to the hotel led us into the campo filled with stalls.
Passageway to Campo di Fiore, Rome, Photo by ConsumerMojo.comCampo di Fiore, Rome, Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
We browsed our way past vinegars and wines, fruits and vegetables, clothes and hats.
Woman working in the Campo di Fiore Market, Photo by ConsumerMojo.comSpices in Campo di Fiori Market, Rome, Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
A sign on a balsamic vinegar stand warned us sternly against what we might find at its competitors.
Vinegar Stand Campo di Fiore, Rome, Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
Nick stopped, found a crushable Italian-made straw hat for 20 euros.
Nick Taylor and straw hat in Campo di Fiore market, Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
And we moved on to the magnificent Piazza Navona with its glorious fountains and ancient obelisk.
Obelisk, Piazza Navona, Rome, Photo by ConsumerMojo.com[/caption]
Fountain of Four Rivers, Piazza Navona, Rome, Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
Gian Lorenzo Bernini designed the centerpiece, the Fountain of Four Rivers in 1651. The riotous homage to Christianity features a lion, a horse and muscular river gods of the Nile, the Danube, the Ganges and the Rio de la Plata, representing Africa, Europe, Asia and the Americas.
Fountain of Four Rivers, Piazza Navona, Rome, Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
Bernini had not been the first choice to design the fountains, but he did fix up the Moor Fountain originally designed by Giacomo della Porta. We watched a group of high school students lounge near the water splashing from funnels blown by man-beast statues and a stone Moor wrestling with a dolphin.
Piazza Navonna, Rome, Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
Della Porta also designed the Fountain of Neptune at the far end of the Piazzo. But while he created it in 1574, it remained unfinished until 1878.
Barbara Nevins Taylor at Fountain of Neptune, Piazza Navona, Rome, Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
This was a perfect warm-up for our Caravaggios. Nearby we found the Church of St. Louis of the French, or Saint Louis des Français.
Saint Louis des Français, Rome Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
Its Contarelli Chapel has three fine Caravaggio paintings depicting stages in the life of St. Matthew — his calling, his inspiration, and his martyrdom. It wasn’t the Galleria Borghese but we got a closeup view of three magnificent paintings.
A little Roman shopping seemed in order and Nick laughed as he recounted a story the late Blackstone Group co-founder Pete Peterson, whose autobiography he helped write, told him.
Peterson said he and his friend David Rockefeller had gone into Gucci’s flagship store on the Via Condotti to look around. Pete saw a briefcase he liked and bought it. David bought nothing, but as soon as they were outside on the street he asked a passerby if there were a reasonably-priced leather goods store anywhere nearby. “I know what you mean,” the man said, “Only a Rockefeller can afford to shop at Gucci.”
We browsed Rome’s high-end designer stores and Nick, like David Rockefeller, went down the price pipeline to Massimo Dutti — owned by a company, headquartered in Spain, despite its Italian name — and found a few shirts to invest in.
Nick also made a great discovery. He found prescription medication he uses, sold over-the-counter, for far less than he would pay in the states, in a retail store.
We caught a late lunch back in our neighborhood at Hosteria Grappolo d’Oro on the Piazza della Cancelleria.
Nick then tucked into the hotel for a siesta while Barbara walked on in the old part of Rome looking for a hairdresser and a handbag without logos.
Frandi, Rome, Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
A short walk into the Centro Storico, Barbara found Frandi on the via Giubbonari, a small shop filled with handbags of all styles and colors. While she found the bag she wanted, the best find was Leo Limentani.
Leo Limentani at Frandi, Rome Photo by Co
He explained that he was a retired engineer and helped his wife, who owned the store. When Barbara spotted a Hebrew calendar on the wall, the conversation turned to history.
Jews were deported to Auschwitz-Birkenau from 30 via Giubbonari in 1943
Leo grew up in the building that houses the store, and so did his father. He said his father, his uncle, and other Jewish boys who lived in the building, were among the 4,733 Jews deported to Auschwitz-Birkenau in 1943 when the Germans invaded northern and central Italy. Only 314 survived, Leo’s father among them, and he returned to via Giubbonari, “It was a miracle,” Leo said. How did he survive? “It was a miracle,” Leo repeated. “I wouldn’t be here today.”
He pointed out two brass plates sunk in the cobblestones in front of the building to honor the young men killed by the Nazis.
Brass plaques in cobblestone honoring Angelo Tagliacozzo and Angelo Limentani, Killed by the Nazis, photo by ConsumerMojo.com
But then, this being now, there was the selfie.
Leo Limentani and Barbara Nevins Taylor
Both buoyed and sobered by the conversation, Barbara went on to look for a hairdresser and found Stefano Potrich right near the hotel.
Salon of Stefano Potrich, Centro Storico, Rome
The blow-dry was just right.
Stefano Potrich and Barbara Nevins Taylor, Rome
On our trips through the passageway to Campo di Fiore we passed a small jewelry shop, on the side of the hotel, that featured handcrafted metal work.
His sign says Restauro Antichata, or historic restoration, but what we saw had clean, modern lines.
Barbara couldn’t resist and bought a bracelet from the owner/jeweler.
For our last meal in Rome, we had made a reservation in advance at Pierluigi, on Via di Monseratto. Just as darkness fell, we walked diagonally across the Campo di Fiori, hit the Piazza Farnese a few blocks farther on, and when we turned onto Via di Monseratto we could see the Piazza de’ Ricci and Pierluigi’s umbrellaed outdoor tables in the near distance.
As we approached we saw black cars at the curbs with drivers in slim-cut, dark suits killing time nearby.
The greeter showed us to a table at the corner of the building and the quiet street. We ordered due prosecci and studied the menu.
Pierluigi, Rome, Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
It was expensive but not outrageous. Since Pierluigi calls itself the first fish restaurant in Rome, we started with sea scallop carpaccio and a stuffed zucchini flower, ordered a bottle of Etna Bianco to go with the rest of the meal, split an order of pasta with clams and bottarga, and finished up with fried fish and baked sea bass.
Fritto Misto, Pierluigi, Rome, Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
It was all good — the food well-prepared and nicely presented and the staff was attentive.
Pierluigi, Rome, Photo by ConsumerMojo.com
The local men at the next table argued about art and politics with enough English thrown in that we followed snatches of it, and we had lovely people to watch on an equally lovely and warm evening.
The scam, when it came, was a relatively small one. Our waiter, a graying man probably in his mid-50s, spoke good English and had a way of flattering our choice of orders. So after I gave him a card and he brought the slip back to be signed, it really wasn’t a surprise when he leaned over and said quietly, “You know, service is not included.” Which was a lie. Service is included at Italian restaurants. You tip, if you choose, for exceptional service, usually by just rounding up to the nearest multiple of 5 or 10.
We had a fine evening. So Nick signed the slip for 231.93 euros ($199), left a 20 euro note on top of it, and we retraced our steps through the soft night to our hotel atop the remains of the Theater of Pompey.
A driver arrived at 7:45 the next morning, Tuesday July 3, to deliver us to Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci Airport for our flight, via Madrid, to JFK and home.
We walked along the edge of the cruise ship section of the Tagus River until we got to Commercial Square, or Praça de Comércio, rebuilt after the 1755 earthquake. It was hard to get a good photo and we think this
Someone swiped our umbrella, which we were asked to leave in a stand. That left us dodging serious rain drops as we ran back to the hotel. Our spacious room overlooking the canal was ready and we dried off and prepared for dinner.
As we entered, a piece of interactive art got our attention. A wall of dartboards and a box full of darts invited us to change the picture ever so slightly.
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Obelisk, Piazza Navona, Rome, Photo by ConsumerMojo.com[/caption]
