Switching To Facebook

I've decided to write about our adventures - if there are any - on the Camino de Santiago on a Facebook page I just reactivated. So that journey will NOT be covered here. My Facebook page is open to the Public, so you don't even have to degrade yourself and your reputation by becoming a Facebook "Friend" of mine. 

I think you just search Jerry Galvin Cincinnati, and you'll find me.

Follow Jene On Facebook

Brother Jene headed off to Spain on the 16th. So he'll have well over two weeks of hiking/camping behind him before Jim and I (his brothers, for you newbies) join him on August 2nd in Sarria and hike the final 60 miles or so. 

Using his phone, he's posting his adventures on the Jene Galvin Facebook page. Since it's a public page, anyone can follow him and, later, us on Jene's page even if you're not a "Friend." But I think you do have to at least have a Facebook account; I don't. You can track Jene here: https://www.facebook.com/jene.galvin.

As you'll see, he's still harping and whining about an alleged toy box incident from 60 years ago. If you have a Facebook account and you can post at his page, please tell him to get over it. It's probably not even true. 

Secret Desire

For about 15 years I've owned an Isomac Millenium (Yes, spelled with one n) Italian espresso machine. Think of it as the Jaguar of coffee makers. As in it's always in the shop. 

The thing weighs a ton. So carrying it in for repairs locally is a hassle. And sending it off for service, which I've done twice, is almost impossible to manage and costs a small fortune. 

About two years ago the Breville company came out with a dual boiler espresso maker that really caught the attention of the coffee world. Their new machine is loaded with features at a price way under comparable Italian machines. The two years since its unveiling have given early buyers enough time to assess its quality and the news is really good. 

Still, I have my Isomac and it seems wasteful to buy a new machine when the one I have does a great job - when it's working. On that topic, it's not working. It's been in a local repair shop for three months. Pictured here is the simple little Italian Bialetti espresso maker I've been using while the Isomac is away. There isn't a home in Italy that doesn't have at least two sizes of these in the kitchen. $35 and it makes really good coffee. It's reliable. And faithful. 

However, the Breville is like that cute girl in the high school hall who doesn't even know you're alive. The Breville is all I think about. So, when the tech guy from the shop called to say the Isomac cannot be repaired, I tried to sound disappointed. But secretly, and in my heart, I rejoiced. I could finally justify buying the Breville dual boiler machine of my dreams. 

You may wonder why I don't simply stick with the Bialetti. Well, it's an Italian thing, and you probably won't understand. Style points. The Breville scores more style points than the Bialetti. I hope she doesn't break my heart. 

UPDATE AT 7AM, SATURDAY

See that gauge in the middle of the machine? It shows the pressure of the hot water being pushed through the ground coffee. It doesn't work. It doesn't show 8 bar, when the ideal pressure is 9 bar. The needle doesn't even move off the peg. I suspect the pressure is correct, because my first try this morning turned out pretty decent espresso. My grind was a little too coarse. I'll get that part right on the second try. 

But the machine will have to go back for a gauge repair, re-calibration or replacement. Yesterday I said I hope she doesn't break my heart. Well, right at this moment I feel like she's ditched me at the prom, and is dancing with the quarterback of the football team, while I watch helplessly. 

Am I being too dramatic? Probably. It's another Italian thing.  

This Is The Captain Speaking

No good news will ever follow an airplane announcement that starts with these words - "This is the captain speaking from the flight deck. Due to fuel problems ...."

We are now in a beautiful part of the country for the wedding of a friend's son. It's called the Northern Neck area of Virginia. Specifically, it's Lancaster County.  

Our short flight yesterday to Richmond, Virginia, boarded in Cincinnati at about 1:30 for a 2pm departure. No problems. We were on a small Delta commuter flight that wasn't quite full. It pulled away from the gate, then nothing happened. Eventually we were told that a storm in Richmond was preventing planes from landing there, but the storm was expected to pass. So we were to taxi to a waiting area and take off once the airport was clear. No getting off the plane. 

We waited about an hour, and took off. But once we got near Richmond a new storm rolled in. It turned out that the entire East Coast was slammed with storms, and planes were being diverted to safer airports for landings. In our case the captain came on and revealed that we were low on fuel (I didn't really need to know that) and we were being sent to Norfolk to land. The deal was that we'd fuel up, get new paperwork, and go back to Richmond where the storm was clearing out. Again, no getting off the plane. 

That time we sat for almost, but not quite, an hour and a half. Don't some penalties for the airlines kick in after an on-board wait passes an hour and a half? The flight back to Richmond took about twenty minutes. Once we got off, we'd been on that commuter jet for about five hours. Throughout the whole deal both passengers and crew handled the situation pretty well. 

We grabbed our rental car at the Richmond airport and got to our 7pm wedding rehearsal dinner at 9pm. They saved food for us. 

Jene with a J

Jene will leave for Spain a few weeks before Jim and I will. He'll start his hike along the Camino at the base of the Pyrenees on the Spanish side of those mountains. We'll meet him in Sarria on August 1st about a week's hike from the end point. Some pilgrims begin walking the Camino south out of Paris, hike a good hunk of France, cross the Pyrenees from France and continue across northern Spain. This pilgrimage started in medieval times and the reward was a plenary indulgence. What did the pilgrims do when they got to the end in Santiago? There was no Delta flight back to Paris. All they could do was turn around and start walking again. I'm guessing that pilgrimage could've taken six months to a year back then. On the other hand, the Church was pretty liberal with those plenary indulgences. I'd trade a year of hard travel for a ticket to an eternity of heavenly bliss any day. 

Back up for a second to the spelling of Jene Galvin's name. When Jene was finally old enough to ask about that spelling, our Italian-born mother told him that it's the French way to spell his name. Either Mom was stupid and didn't know that Jene isn't the French spelling of any known first name. Or, she figured that Jene would grow up too stupid to know he had a bogus French name. To give herself cover she gave him the middle name of Maurice. I think she simply forced the spelling in order to make sure the three of us had the same initials – JMG. She stuck to her story about the French spelling to the day she died.  

There's a sanctioning body of some sort that issues Camino de Santiago passports. Pilgrims get them stamped along the Way. Note that mine shows I'll travel on foot. My alternatives are a bicycle or a horse. 

Fudge Down Below

Jerry, Jim and Jene Galvin are off to Spain shortly to walk part of the Camino de Santiago, a pilgrimage route that leads to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in northwestern Spain. It's thought that the remains of St. James the apostle are buried there. The pilgrimage dates back to the 10th century. The young brother, Jene – age 70, will hike and camp his way across most of Spain. The older brothers, Jerry – age 73, and Jim – age 71, will meet Jene down the trail and hike the last week with him. I can't speak for my brothers, but I'm going for the adventure of it, and if some spirituality seeps in, that's great. You have the picture. Three brothers, all in their 70's, spending many days together alone. Something we've never ever done before in our entire lives. 

Jene is a very experienced and very skilled backpacker and camper. Often camping in harsh conditions, while carrying everything he may need for a week or more. He's obsessed with carrying as little weight as possible. He held my underpants in his hand one day and pronounced them "too heavy." While Jim and I have done some hiking and camping, we aren't even in the same league with Jene. He's in the major league. In comparison we're still playing grade school ball. 

Jene's the one, or so I thought until today. 

Last weekend he saved me considerable money by bringing me stuff I need, but won't now have to buy for what could be one-time use. Among the supplies is a high-tech inflatable sleeping mat that goes under the sleeping bag he lent me. Then he showed me an ingenious way to inflate it. He had painstakingly fashioned a tube out of duct tape. He had cut a hole in the corner of a plastic garbage bag and made an airtight seal of the bag hole onto the duct tape tube. The tube fit perfectly and tightly over the mat's air nozzle. With the tube on the nozzle, he'd shake the bag to capture air and quickly close and roll it up, forcing the air out of the bag into the mattress. What may have taken 15 minutes or more to do by simply blowing into the nozzle, he did in maybe two minutes. He offered to make such an assembly for me to use with the mat. Knowing that Jene probably spent an hour or more making his assembly, I told him I'd make one myself with the help of a friend, Tim Fischer. 

Today I showed Tim the mat and told him what we needed to make, and how. He looked at me like I was nuts. I had a quick doctor's appointment, so Tim grabbed the mat and told me to meet him at his house afterwards. When I got there he had $3 worth of tubing and plastic plumbing parts out on a table. He slid the tube over the nozzle. Perfect tight fit. He slid a plastic part with threads on it into the other end of the tube. Another tight fit. Reaching inside the bag, he screwed a plastic cap with a hole in it onto the threaded part that was in the tube, thereby locking the bag in place in the threads. He then punched a hole in the bag so air could pass through the cap, through the threaded piece, through the tube and nozzle and into the mat. Assembly time (separate from going to Home Depot) – 42 seconds.

Tim said, "Tell Jene I'll make one of these for him with the leftover parts. Oh, and he'll fudge his shorts when he sees this." 

It's Over.

In an hour we head to the airport. Marty going back to China. Me to Cincinnati. We got up before sunrise to walk along the ghats for the sunrise rituals. I'm now going to post a random collection of those photos. If you can even call them that. I really just take snapshots, always sure they make my photographer friends, especially Corson, cringe. Well, ask for your money back.

I'll have no idea how many of these will post.

Stalking The Sadhus

Monday, February 18. 7am. It'll be another sunny day, after what was a cold night. Slept in a turtleneck with socks. Somehow, in past very challenging trips to West Africa and India, plus slightly easier visits to Brazil and most recently Indonesia, I've managed to maintain my almost OCD fastidiousness. Marty finds me ridiculous. I've been with him in tropical heat and he wears all the same clothes - all - for a week or more at a time. Well, he's finally won me over. I've been the same underwear, shirt, pants and socks for three days. Not much longer. We shower and change clothes this afternoon. But not here, where there's no hot water.

We're leaving a half day early and going back to Varanasi. This morning we learned that the Sadhus left town early because of the water and mud from the rains. They've gone to Varanasi, so we are too. We're stalking them. At the moment it's 1:30pm and we're waiting for a car to take us there.

As we wait, I'm thinking about religions and the notion that many claim to be the one, true religion. Well, visit a religious event like this and you'll realize, once again, how religions borrow stories and religious rituals from each other. Yesterday, down at the Ganges I listened to a call and response chant that was astonishingly like the Litany of the Saints that's chanted in Catholic churches. A one, true religion to the exclusion of all others? I don't think so.

We have found our way to the hotel that Trip Advisor says is the favorite here, the Suryauday Haveli. It's over a ghat and overlooking the Ganges. Spectacular location and view. The ghats are jammed with people, perhaps many like us are including a stop here as part of a Kumbh visit. All of the photos below are of our evening boat ride on the Ganges past the ghats. The big fires are cremation fires.

River Walk

Sunday, February 17. Recap: Marty Fritzhand and I are in Allahabad, India, visiting the Maha Kumbh Mela. It is without question the largest religious gathering in the world, and perhaps the largest gathering of humanity in one place. If you haven't, you really should Google Kumbh Mela 2013. Amazing.

8am. The day is starting cold, gray and damp. Even so, I am very excited about this immersion in an all-new experience, my attitude helped by a good night's sleep.

How these tent camps work. Think of a hotel. Now imagine those stacked-up rooms all spread out in a camp, with numbers on the tents, locks on the front flaps, beds, tables, (generator) electricity and bathrooms inside each tent. When this event is over, it's all packed up and moved to the next huge event in India, and there are many. Only the poop stays behind. With no sewer system here, I was curious where all waste goes. It stays. While this is called a luxury camp, it is adequate at best and that's quite a luxury under these circumstances. There is a dining tent where we are served breakfast lunch and dinner. There's a slight nod to American tastes at breakfast, otherwise only Indian vegetarian food is served and it's really good.

This camp sits on a bluff overlooking a serene and beautiful part of the Ganges River. We went down the steep steps that lead to the riverbank to watch people from here immerse themselves in that holy river water. For most, that symbolic bathing is the focal point of the Kumbh.

It was quiet there, but not around the bend in the river. Around that bend were tent camps, tent temples, tent police and fire stations, tents for as far as I could see. These are mostly simple pilgrims and holy people who come as families to this once every twelve years gathering. Their tent cities and campsites are nothing like ours, often enduring real hardships to be here. With only one exception, all I could see and feel was joy and happiness.

The exception happened as Marty and I stood at the very edge of the Ganges in a press of people. Both of us taking photos of the bathers, but only Marty was shooting when an angry guy went off on him hard about no photos of the bathers. Marty sort of blew him off when he made a grab for Marty's camera. Marty jerked it away and screamed at the guy, which made him back off a little. Then both of us began pointing out - aggressively - all the cameras around us. He moved away. I'm sorry he wasn't there when an Indian man handed Marty a camera and humbly asked if he'd photograph him as he bathed.

Later we were walking along the riverbank but perhaps twenty yards up where the crowd was somewhat thinner. An Indian photographer passed us carrying two very high end cameras. Marty said - Getting any good shots? The guy responded, but I walked on. Then I realized Marty wasn't with me. He was still talking. As I walked back, the two were hugging. Here's how that hug happened. Marty asked the guy some questions. He told Marty he now lives in New York and he said he's a photojournalist. Turns out Marty recently received an email from his son's best friend saying that a dear family friend, a longtime UN photojournalist, was going to be at this Kumbh Mela. Marty emailed the man suggesting they meet. No response. That's the photojournalist Marty bumped into today, among a million people. His name is John Isaac. Worth a Google.

It's now 4pm here and we're both walked out. But the sun is now shining, the mud is drying and the camp is filled with happy, excited talking.

I'll add photos to these recent postings when I get Wi-Fi access. Maybe not til I get back.

Downhill Day That Ended Well.

Saturday, February 16. Fine! So yesterday I had the wrong day with the correct date. Ask for your money back. Speaking of days, this one started out great but may be going downhill. I spent the morning visiting the ghats that line the river on the Varanasi city side of the Ganges. Mostly, I watched a group of men - family members and close male friends - prepare a body for cremation. I was told (the area is filled with people who will "tell" you stuff, become your new best friend, and eventually ask to be paid for their friendship) that women are not allowed close to the cremations since they sometimes throw themselves on the fire or into the river in their grief. When they lit the fire, I left.

Visited two Hindu temples. One was a monkey temple version of the rat temple we visited a few years ago in another part of India. Instead of rats this one venerates monkeys, and they are protected, fed and allowed to roam freely inside and outside the temple.

I'm now back at the Varanasi airport - outside - waiting for Marty to arrive out of China through Katmandu. I didn't count on the extreme security that resulted from the massacres in Mumbai four years ago. I can't get in without a boarding pass for a flight today. I tried using one for four days from now, when I leave. No deal. I played the age card. They don't care if I'm 102. I wait outside. At least I'm under cover and have a jacket as I write this. It's rainy and cold.

And there's a bit of another problem. The Air India number for Marty's flight is not even listed on the electronic arrivals board out here. The flight is due in 20 minutes. I think I'll wander over to the Air India ticket window - it's outside the terminal! No one gets inside without a ticket - and see what's up. OK, nothing I can do; it's 45 minutes late. At least the flight is real.

Update: Finally, at 5pm Marty's 3:05 flight landed. We've made a deal with a driver at the airport for what is supposed to be a two hour drive to Allahabad. New Update: That was four hours ago as I write this. We are somewhere near the tent camp where we are to stay. Even Newer and Final Update: It has poured rain here for two days. As we got near the camp on a narrow but paved road we came up on a truck that slipped off the road, blocking it. Getting around the truck caused the car we were in to get stuck in the mud at the side of the road. It had to be pushed. Once past it, we couldn't bring the car down the muddy, slippery access road to this sizable tent camp. We walked. We are here. We are fed. Soon we see our tent. And we sleep. Are we having fun yet? Actually, we are. Tell you about our tent tomorrow. Also tomorrow - photos, if I can get internet access.

Brinkmoeller Fails Secret Test

Thursday, February 15. If you've stumbled across this so-called "Travel Blog" hoping to pick up helpful, money-saving travel tips, you've come to the wrong place. This is just my way of keeping in touch with family and friends while I'm away. Most of those family members and friends know what to expect here. But sometimes people wander in hoping to learn something. I'm the wrong guy for that.

For example, today I arrived in Varanasi, India, a city many claim as their favorite in this entire country. Google it. There's nothing I can add to all the wonderful information and photos you'll find online about Varanasi. Now that I think of it, there is something I can add - about the street sounds.

Traffic all over India is wildly chaotic, sometimes frightening. Adding to the chaos are cows considered sacred enough to be allowed to wander, usually unharmed, in the traffic. The Best Marigold Hotel Whatever Whatever movie has some scenes that accurately show what traffic is like here. But it's the traffic sounds I find fascinating. It's not the loudness, although it is plenty loud. For me, it's the mix of sounds. Exhaust sounds of motorbikes, motorcycles, small and large cars, trucks and buses. On top of that base coat of engine-related sound is layered the sound of horns. From plaintive bleats out of a horn on a tiny motorbike to sudden almost siren-sound blasts from busses and trucks. The horn sounds aren't sprinkled on the base coat; they're slathered over it. There are some YouTube videos that show traffic in India. That's what you search - India traffic. What you'll see is so amazing and unfamiliar you may miss really "hearing" the sounds of the traffic you're seeing. Don't. I love it. But if you're someone who's put off by loud noise, particularly sudden loud noises, traveling by car or bus in India would be stressful. There. You may have learned something here. Won't happen again.

Yesterday I asked two questions in my blog expecting the smartest guy I know, Bill Brinkmoeller, to fire back both answers. Nothing. It was a secret test. He failed.

This evening I intended to visit the ghats along the Ganges. Ghats are a series of steps that lead down and into sacred water - in this case the Ganges River. As I hope you can see from a photo below, it's raining. Hoping for a morning boat ride - floating past those ghats. Weather permitting. For now, I return to my Stephen King book.

Where Are We?

Thursday, February 14. As you can see from the photo below, there will be no lounging across a middle row of empty seats for me on this flight from Paris to Delhi. This flight is full. I've not heard even a single call for standby passengers.

One of the joys of traveling with my friend, Marty Fritzhand, is the use of Delta Crown Rooms and Priority Boarding - both due to his gazillion mile status with Delta. Not this time. Marty is in China and will come down to meet me in India.

Now that I'm on board and seated, it's not so bad. There's an empty seat here and there, and one is between me on the aisle and the man near the window. A little extra comfort. Big plane - three seats, four in the middle, then three again.

Four hours later. We now have about 3-1/2 hours to go in this flight from Paris to Delhi. I was standing in the back, stretching. Outside a small window back there I saw the snowy landscape you'll see in one of the photos. I've never seen anything like that in my life.

Now back in my seat writing more of this for posting whenever I get Wi-Fi access. According to the screen in front of me, we are approaching from the west the southern shore of the Caspian Sea. Please someone, take a look at that photo, factor in what the screen shows, and tell me where in the hell we are? Over what country? No internet up here, so I can't go online to figure it out. If you can, use the comments.

While I'm handing out assignments, a quote is stuck in my head. It goes something like this: Don't tell me what you've read. Tell me where you've been. Who said that? It came to me because I regret I didn't start going to more offbeat and challenging places earlier in life. I have Marty to thank for kicking my travel ass in gear over the last ten years. Oooops. Just had an emotional (teary) moment.

It's now 1am here. I've just checked into Airport Hotel Impress. It's fine. Not impressed. Leave at 7:30am to go back to the airport for a short flight to Varanasi. Good Night.

The Easy Part Of This Adventure

Wednesday, February 13. I'm on a Delta flight from Cincinnati to Paris. In Paris I take another flight to New Delhi in India. The daily Cincinnati/Paris, Paris/Cincinnati run has been in place for years. But judging from the number of people on this plane, I have to wonder how they keep it profitable in months like January and February. I do know this daily flight carries lots of cargo. Maybe that justifies it, because as you can see from the photo, there's no one here. Barely enough to fill a decent size commuter jet.

I have my iPhone, a neck pillow, tangerines, trail mix, a private set of middle seats to stretch out on, a good book on my Kindle and a noise canceling headset. This leg of the journey will be just fine.

Landed in Paris. Love this airport.

Next Up: Maha Kumbh Mela

Shortly after Marty and I returned from Indonesia he called to suggest that we go to India to be part of the Kumbh Mela in the city of Allahabad. The event is certainly the world's largest religious gathering and many say it's the world's largest human gathering as well. Google Kumbh Mela 2013. You will be astonished. I'll leave the history and photos to Google, except for this - a Kumbh Mela happens only once every twelve years and a Maha Kumbh Mela, which this year's is, only happens once every 144 years. We figure we go this year, or never. I leave on Wednesday, February 13th. I'll visit the holy city of Varanasi on my own. Marty is in China. He'll come down from there and meet me in Varanasi. We'll travel to Allahabad together.

Last time we were in India we left about a week before the 2008 Mumbai massacres - the series of horrible bombings and terrorist attacks across that city. One result of that is vastly more complicated visa requirements to travel in India. Done to stop potential terrorists from entering the country, I assume. I spent a total of seven hours jumping through all the required hoops, including going back for another photo, but without glasses. That second photo was so awful (the first wasn't much better) that I'm sure they figured a guy that old and sickly looking can't possibly create any problems. I got my visa.