tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35003260575410548042024-03-19T07:53:42.324-04:00Likeness in a Change of SceneryWe all put our pants on one leg at a time. I'm a relatively well-travelled, midlife professional who's learned that a day commuting isn't altogether different than one strolling an exotic beach after an emergency landing. Truly immersive travel enriches and educates, regardless of the distance traversed or the exotic pedigree of the destination. If you look for it, there's as much adventure and humor in the common as in the cultivated.Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.comBlogger157125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-65564641498747628892016-05-06T17:15:00.000-04:002016-05-06T17:15:15.761-04:00Picture of the Moment - Cabin on Lake Superior<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Stony Point, Knife River, MN, USA46.924651912425922 -91.817893981933646.919229912425919 -91.8279789819336 46.930073912425925 -91.80780898193359tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-989089752427385652016-03-15T17:30:00.000-04:002016-03-15T17:59:51.935-04:00The Wedding of Math, the Pontiff, and a Fishing HoleI'm late for the wedding.<br />
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I hurry my pace towards the church. Layers of English schoolchildren fitted in azure-blue blazers man all the traditional checkpoints. One hands me a program at the threshold of the narthex, and I mumble "thanks," self-conscious of my American accent. My wife and boys follow.<br />
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The church interior is light and airy. It looks much bigger on the inside; this is clearly a cathedral. It instantly reminds me of where I was married in Kingston, Ontario. But the ceremony has already started, and I scan the pews for seating; we're supposed to sit on the left side. I hastily pick an open pew several rows back. Pope Francis is in the front row, sitting among several other attendees from the Vatican I suppose, and I don't want to draw his attention as a latecomer. From behind, I can tell it's Francis from his white vestments and zucchetto.<br />
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I look at the program. It's a five-in-one job. The local pastor must be overly stingy with his printing budget, and I vainly search for the particulars of the specific service we're at. <i>Where is the itinerary for this wedding</i>, I ask myself.<br />
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I know the celebrant is my home parish priest without recognizing him. I don't consider how he got here, or why he's celebrating mass so far from where we live. He has just begun his homily. I realize he is using mathematics to prove that some music used in church isn't sacred! Suddenly, I find myself near the front, watching intently. I must have made my way here quietly when the sermon took this interesting turn. This priest knows his math! I can see the obvious logic of where his integral is heading. "Does anyone here understand the calculus?" asks the priest. He looks directly at me, but I'm hesitant to raise my hand, conscious that the Pontiff is seated immediately to my left. I don't want to look to overly self-confident in front of the Pope.<br />
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The final flourishes of the solution are flawlessly logical. The priest finishes his proof and states unequivocally, "Now <i>here </i>is the type of music that should be played at church," gesturing towards a band composed of men in women dressed in short, red lederhosen, just long enough in the leg not to be unseemly, though I'm struck by the dissonance. Some of this group begin to play instruments while others sing. Then they march out of nave ahead of the congregation.</div>
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"What are they singing?" I ask someone who I know is my cousin in an arched hallway. "I can't understand the words." I am told it's just an intonation of voice in reply. I'm unconvinced, sure there is meaning sewn within the tonality.<br />
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We enter a banquet hall. At least two rows of tables are covered with steaming trays of food. <i>Won't all this get cold before we're even to communion</i>? I'm curious about how the priest intends to finish the mass in here, and I briefly wonder where the Pope is, though I don't dwell on where my immediate family disappeared to. But it seems I must wait for the answer. I sit with several others in chairs aside from the laden tables, and I notice my first cousin Tim sitting across from me. "Have you been fishing?" I ask him. I'm thinking of a fishing spot in upstate New York, where my every cast of even a bare hook brings in a big fish. It's right next to a boat ramp, so I've always been surprised no one else knows that spot. I've been there many times with my Dad, in other dreams.</div>
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Before my cousin can answer, I suddenly hear country music. How I hate that packaged syrup.<i> Where is it coming from?</i><br />
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And then I realize it's my alarm, and it's 5:30 am. Time to stumble out of bed for work. Nothing will have me hit the "wake" button on my radio alarm faster than country music.<br />
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Dreams -- they take you places, but you rarely get to the destination. Now I'll never know who was getting married, though I must have been a guest of the bride. I ponder whether I'll ever find that fishing spot, so seemingly in reach. I may never again have an opportunity to meet the Pope. And how I wish I could remember the flawless logic of a priest's application of integral calculus. </div>
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It was so clear.</div>
Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-57732522508289484352016-01-10T17:12:00.001-05:002016-01-11T08:30:49.756-05:00Pictures of the Moment - Cold Fog Over Lake Superior<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Wisps of frozen mist rise along the northern shoreline of Wisconsin on Lake Superior during a frigid January morning, as relatively "warm," saturated air over the greatest lake is captured in a north wind and drops its moisture when colliding with the colder, drier inland air. The temperature was -6°F (-21°C), and I took these images with the ubiquitous recorder of 21st century, a smartphone, across the narrow west end of the lake from above Duluth, Minnesota. The Wisconsin shore is already almost 15 miles (24 kilometers) distant at it's closest (right), and recedes farther to the east (left).</div>
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Such fogs are common on the coldest <span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">—</span> typically sunny <span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">—</span> mornings on Lake Superior, when the lake is not completely frozen.</div>
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Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Duluth, MN, USA46.786671899999988 -92.1004851999999846.43861489999999 -92.745932199999984 47.134728899999985 -91.455038199999976tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-52313505772550364182016-01-03T18:59:00.001-05:002016-01-03T19:05:19.703-05:00Getting into Hot Water Beach, New Zealand<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeHuHA3xmS0ZE6_LM6q3vZdcVB2373Wo97LobO82UzJ3F8_cefHNOgBwGdKohYmJAwG-CVVzUT4aQmH5WPLfYE0RfSL0lTRAG5BhyMrlLkbEP1Ax_SMs_aJr9Dq7KibFCDQ6HVEb788Rll/s1600/phpMPgx6VPM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeHuHA3xmS0ZE6_LM6q3vZdcVB2373Wo97LobO82UzJ3F8_cefHNOgBwGdKohYmJAwG-CVVzUT4aQmH5WPLfYE0RfSL0lTRAG5BhyMrlLkbEP1Ax_SMs_aJr9Dq7KibFCDQ6HVEb788Rll/s640/phpMPgx6VPM.jpg" width="428" /></a></div>
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A uniquely Kiwi experience, famous Hot Water Beach is on the Coromandel Peninsula of New Zealand's North Island.<br />
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Two natural mineral hot springs bubble up directly through the sand from adjacent bedrock fissures, near outcropping rocks at the southern end of the beach. For a couple hours on both sides of low tide, it is possible to dig your own personal geothermal pool in the exposed sand, though you'll have plenty of company. The 64 °C (147 °F) springwater is almost piping hot enough to ensure tender areas won't fruitfully bear children, so channeling in a little cool Pacific seawater from Mercury Bay will bring your impromptu thermal spa to a bearable temperature. Engineering and maintaining the correct ingress of seawater can be a challenge. Saturated sand is a poor construction medium, but spades can be rented at the nearby surf shop or cafés.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First, you need to dig your spa, then hope it doesn't wash away.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You can see steam rising up from leaking springwater on the beach to the left.</td></tr>
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It's a good idea to research <a href="http://www.thecoromandel.com/new-zealand/tide-times/">low tide time</a>s before visiting. High tide inundates the geothermal area, but it also wipes clean the sandy canvas, and a pristine beach welcomes each new wave of visitors.</div>
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If you want to swim in the surf, make sure to check with knowledgeable locals on safe areas. Hot Water Beach is known for dangerous rip currents that have claimed several lives, and the springs can be inundated by rough breakers even at low tide. Keep an eye on young children or poor swimmers in your party near the surf. But the beach is otherwise fun for the whole family. It incorporates some of childhood's favorite activities - sand and digging. And what kid doesn't like a hot tub?</div>
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Hot Water Beach is about a 2 hour drive from Auckland, approximately 175 kilometers by car. To get there, take State Highway 1, State Highway 2, State Highway 25, State Highway 25A, and State Highway 25 again to Hot Water Beach Road (right) in Whenuakite. There are nearby cafés and art galleries, and Hot Water Beach is a 5-10 minute drive from <a href="http://michael-orobona.blogspot.com/2015/12/CathedralCove.html">Cathedral Cove</a>, another major Coromandel Peninsula attraction. Parking is available at the Main Beach carpark, the Main Store carpark, or Te Waiwai carpark.</div>
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Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Hot Water Beach 3591, New Zealand-36.8902497 175.82213130000002-36.9410527 175.74145030000003 -36.839446699999996 175.90281230000002tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-32112552522991625662015-12-30T17:15:00.000-05:002015-12-30T17:15:02.595-05:00Happy Second Anniversary!<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC59HJkhXIkR4M0hyphenhyphenyvmhy3mS4IogWLWQiG_eqtOSZp8oFSZTm1-fXd3pmNzODNYNipmou8QFS3T-G0TNVFejkiHset1DkHzw88kNy5bVEZ2I0QK__R1NXdiMHax0Z2W3X4XUadIDYbHjB/s640/blogger-image--318307601.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC59HJkhXIkR4M0hyphenhyphenyvmhy3mS4IogWLWQiG_eqtOSZp8oFSZTm1-fXd3pmNzODNYNipmou8QFS3T-G0TNVFejkiHset1DkHzw88kNy5bVEZ2I0QK__R1NXdiMHax0Z2W3X4XUadIDYbHjB/s640/blogger-image--318307601.jpg" /></a></div>
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The image above was taken by my son on our recent visit to Rome. The scene captures some of my favorite aspects of travel -- relaxing summer heat, gelato, and surprises to be discovered just around the corner. I'm thankful that a whim decision two years ago to write about my favorite memories was more than just a passing fancy.</div>
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I'd like to think this site is enjoyed around the world, by a few special people. I'd love to share <i>your </i>memories. If you've found the content useful, or it's provided a few laughs (usually my main objective), please drop a note to let me know what you think, or share the address with your friends. Or, let me know where I can do better.</div>
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Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Rome, Italy41.9027835 12.49636550000002441.524646 11.850918500000024 42.280921 13.141812500000025tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-3024607786646323552015-12-26T17:07:00.000-05:002015-12-26T21:51:18.386-05:00Narnia Magic and Volcanic Rocks at Cathedral Cove, New Zealand<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Te Whanganui-A-Hei (Cathedral Cove) Marine Reserve is on the Coromandel Peninsula of New Zealand's North Island. It may be familiar to an armchair traveler as the setting for opening scenes of the Narnia movie <i>Prince Caspian</i>, itself based loosely on C.S. Lewis' famous novel. It was one of the several stunning <a href="http://michael-orobona.blogspot.com/2014/12/CastleHill.html">New Zealand locations </a>for that film series.</div>
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Cathedral Cove. It's yet another one of my many favorite beaches. The surrounding, glaringly-white cliffs and sea stacks are composed of massive ignimbrite, composed of angular fragments of pumice in a fine matrix of rhyolitic ash, a type of silica-rich volcanic rock that is formed during explosive, violent eruptions. The immensity of these formations is evidence the landscape has changed many times, and it will change again, however timeless every moment in the cove might feel. There would be no tranquil, wide strand of fine, white sand without the violence of storms and volcano.<br />
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But like the modern romance of bygone war, the destructive forces of nature did not hint of future benefits in their own time, 8 million years ago. All life in the path of the flows perished, burning.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Te Hoho rock with the arch in the distance. The rock reminded me of a ship's prow. Someday geologically soon, wave action will undercut the less-resistant rock at its base, and Te Hoho will topple like nature's Ozymandias.</td></tr>
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Today, the gentle lapping of surf in the sheltered cove is perfect for the shoreline romps of young children. Shade trees at the foot of the cliff offer some natural shelter from the sun on the north side of the beach.<br />
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Low tide is the best time to visit, if you don't want to risk being trapped behind a massive rock arch on the beach's south end. A one hour walking track leads along the cliff top from the north end of Hahei beach, then descends to Cathedral Cove (150 or so steps) through locally primeval flora of the Coromandel Peninsula. It's a moderately easy track for anyone who is minimally fit. Our older children, 7 and 9 at the time, had no difficulty, and I had a toddler on my back. Wear comfortable shoes, and take along snacks or a picnic lunch and refreshments -- there are no amenities down at the beach.</div>
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The path can be shortened to 40 minutes by accessing the Grange Road carpark, which can accommodate up to 45 vehicles. We visited during October; finding a parking space might be a challenge during peak tourist season between November and March.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The views in either direction from the Grange Road carpark are spectacular. Here, we are looking north from the carpark towards Cathedral Cove (which is tucked into the left).</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking south towards Hahei Beach and the little town of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hahei">Hahei</a> (to the right).</td></tr>
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Spurs off the main track lead to the picturesque Stingray and Gemstone bays.<br />
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Walking through the arch is reminiscent of entering a stadium or ballroom. The visitor has a feeling of making a grand entrance upon a wider, undiscovered world. There are also kayak tours and water taxis (we did the latter as well), but this is a case where the land access may be more magical for those who are physically able.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view and beach south of Cathedral Cove -- before you enter it through the rock arch -- are nice too.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entering through the arch, you gaze upon the sheltered cove and Te Hoho rock. There aren't many places you can ingress a sea arch safely. This is (generally) one of them.</td></tr>
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Hahei is about a 2 hour drive from Auckland. To get there, take State Highway 1, State Highway 2, State Highway 25, State Highway 25A, and State Highway 25 again to Hot Water Beach Road (right) in Whenuakite. Take Link Road left to Hahei Beach Road (right), and then take Grange Road S (left) in Hahei.<br />
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Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Cathedral Cove, North Island, New Zealand-36.828084618892078 175.78973435634464-36.828879118892075 175.78847385634464 -36.82729011889208 175.79099485634464tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-3239195051969570722015-11-29T17:15:00.000-05:002015-11-29T17:31:22.485-05:00Tuscany in a Day, the Divine Comedy<div style="text-align: justify;">
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The highlight of the port of Livorno may be one of Moby Lines' ferries, garishly adorned with Looney Toons characters amidst the uniform grey of heavy industry. The ship's livery is evidence that not all European ferry disasters involve loss of life. Otherwise, I have almost no recollection of Livorno. It is the seaside gateway to the treasures of Tuscany, and most cruise tourists don't stop to look on their way to Pisa or Florence. I didn't. The Livornese may be the old-world equivalents of the overshadowed residents of New Jersey. </div>
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Upon disembarking the Emerald Princess, we boarded a motorcoach promptly at 7 a.m. to beat the summer crowds to Pisa.<br />
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Pisa's main attraction is the Piazza dei Miracoli, and specifically its famous Leaning Tower. The miracle here is that the tower is standing at all. But for sloppy engineering, the exquisite architecture of Pisa might be lost amidst the grandeur of larger Italian cities. Instead, millions of people arrange the compulsory photograph of a loved-one "propping up" the tower, and replicas crafted in genuine polyresin can be had at the nearby licensed souvenir stands. Did its builders live to see such transformation of the original ridicule? For me, the leaning tower was the bait, the real hook was the medieval Baptistery, one of the most beautiful buildings I've seen in Europe. It is like a domed crown of gleaming white marble. The cathedral and cemetery are beautiful in their own right. Perhaps if New Jersey had a similar famous mistake, it might get better press.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLSRQglKPBeN5sujoHFqvBn9M7X-ixYYCU8lVh3sPclio6bWIeb8ezx7UjQOsoKg2_nbmAbcVd3PJ_-_JnHFR2wm-ZZ-0Jil6F1LXf6Hs9i8EVbh6obqFIeYxrhc_Mf3A7J7OCZgFBdJxw/s1600/10988943_10206830397971232_5243430139715635443_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLSRQglKPBeN5sujoHFqvBn9M7X-ixYYCU8lVh3sPclio6bWIeb8ezx7UjQOsoKg2_nbmAbcVd3PJ_-_JnHFR2wm-ZZ-0Jil6F1LXf6Hs9i8EVbh6obqFIeYxrhc_Mf3A7J7OCZgFBdJxw/s640/10988943_10206830397971232_5243430139715635443_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNyY_1XdZdj5ERyz2XeOcd4_K9AhcEN7O7-JuHnBJNXBfUA_6s1VMc4K46Ipf1KhgHOicqE9QhIDmHrX0uKl12768GBZa_TG5k96ijv0-VETlYlmoK223nDONYuZ-iBFsCkWtgC9R3lSvu/s1600/12182457_10206830400811303_6245429212534661976_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNyY_1XdZdj5ERyz2XeOcd4_K9AhcEN7O7-JuHnBJNXBfUA_6s1VMc4K46Ipf1KhgHOicqE9QhIDmHrX0uKl12768GBZa_TG5k96ijv0-VETlYlmoK223nDONYuZ-iBFsCkWtgC9R3lSvu/s640/12182457_10206830400811303_6245429212534661976_o.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baptistery of Pisa</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI12lfRc_kWrWRNTcyHqs2hwDZaFlgH051S0pX6r86sNiKcSqcnFfETMconGZBi5HuHJ3afBdmljJ6uZ6Ycy0tbYQuqU1pZ8emKIU21B8Q6Kfdl5zvIKJuuWoj5CQy9CkMxKjCuG2YRhQ7/s1600/12189385_10206830401251314_3303453390829346983_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI12lfRc_kWrWRNTcyHqs2hwDZaFlgH051S0pX6r86sNiKcSqcnFfETMconGZBi5HuHJ3afBdmljJ6uZ6Ycy0tbYQuqU1pZ8emKIU21B8Q6Kfdl5zvIKJuuWoj5CQy9CkMxKjCuG2YRhQ7/s640/12189385_10206830401251314_3303453390829346983_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZcLHHwJyXgfjIcP2ti0dKxgMYiX2mrxDCpJ-NNZ8rzeI8OrdH65ynWDcBq3DoT2qiQTiLK1Ov5bvahZXROMyELR3GHXGTnfq2p4G8NjPs6S5Fnshg9McQsvcUhsP9C_PIWKgnNA1s_BPi/s1600/12195089_10206830401091310_612527252059107822_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZcLHHwJyXgfjIcP2ti0dKxgMYiX2mrxDCpJ-NNZ8rzeI8OrdH65ynWDcBq3DoT2qiQTiLK1Ov5bvahZXROMyELR3GHXGTnfq2p4G8NjPs6S5Fnshg9McQsvcUhsP9C_PIWKgnNA1s_BPi/s400/12195089_10206830401091310_612527252059107822_o.jpg" width="266" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Hu-HvZ_qGz3LL0rP9rKQAbtaN6u_FViM2DGjEV6llRbTDDqnVqIcdgV-ts-bwvvl_rZJk2SX_GbGl5exzzo0YYjXpnEu0J3_GFZIPld5zKyegUTbv7sZpIucVy3Px1dYitMVLMJiS1fw/s1600/12194772_10206830399851279_3051030284130419428_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Hu-HvZ_qGz3LL0rP9rKQAbtaN6u_FViM2DGjEV6llRbTDDqnVqIcdgV-ts-bwvvl_rZJk2SX_GbGl5exzzo0YYjXpnEu0J3_GFZIPld5zKyegUTbv7sZpIucVy3Px1dYitMVLMJiS1fw/s400/12194772_10206830399851279_3051030284130419428_o.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Duomo of Pisa</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTvltIfjHAMvUdkkMpCW8kl82vxmJZ1bGCaCkL2t24bv8np32es2dQHtjMwfbbvvjYwflGs98OhSfSV3lidHPaKVRxgrRh5gLOGvxyPQNjRL7mMOGSfXxVO9c_yHxEOHtS5zIMDmWI4B9T/s1600/886035_10206830399931281_550574140148251073_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTvltIfjHAMvUdkkMpCW8kl82vxmJZ1bGCaCkL2t24bv8np32es2dQHtjMwfbbvvjYwflGs98OhSfSV3lidHPaKVRxgrRh5gLOGvxyPQNjRL7mMOGSfXxVO9c_yHxEOHtS5zIMDmWI4B9T/s640/886035_10206830399931281_550574140148251073_o.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
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Ubiquitous peddlers outside the piazza offer knock-off watches, sunglasses, and other junk. If it had been raining, I'm sure umbrellas would have appeared as if from thin air. Our guide mentioned these were unlicensed vendors, and, if police are nearby, it's the consumer that pays the steep fine. Buyer beware.</div>
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We headed next to Florence on a winding drive through the pretty Tuscan countryside. I tried to pretend I was on one of those romantically immersive sabbaticals, but I was on an air-conditioned motor coach, wearing a cruise-tour group identification sticker, an earpiece paired with an radio receiver, while hobnobbing with the blue-rinse set on an escorted day trip. Eat, Pray, Love this was not.</div>
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Our first stop in Florence was at the Galleria dell'Accademia di Firenze to see the most famous sculpture in the world, by Michelangelo. His masterpiece <i>David</i> is an excuse for otherwise heterosexual men to take lots of pictures of a naked guy. I took about 400, enough to make my own 3D model of the glaring future King of Israel. It's obviously cold in the museum, judging from David's physical reaction. And he's clearly uncircumcised. Either David wasn't a very observant Hebrew, or Michelangelo wasn't a very observant sculptor. The latter option might explain Adam's prominent navel on the ceiling of the <a href="http://michael-orobona.blogspot.com/2014/07/SistineChapel.html">Sistine Chapel</a>.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiCbIUkrh5w404e_vkdO-J91SZ6meW4cSErQhvHynET2nDQ7e4eXahjbXxU2bhKmncWaLXoh6FSwtQbPfGDcNUatwCvcZfuGcJHxJ88BCyCUv7no63bwImZSRxR-j49wVnNdqGNMD0ctIk/s1600/11224349_10206830507733976_3542550650612676091_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiCbIUkrh5w404e_vkdO-J91SZ6meW4cSErQhvHynET2nDQ7e4eXahjbXxU2bhKmncWaLXoh6FSwtQbPfGDcNUatwCvcZfuGcJHxJ88BCyCUv7no63bwImZSRxR-j49wVnNdqGNMD0ctIk/s640/11224349_10206830507733976_3542550650612676091_o.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij92DFzwLcG_hgJGI7xXrDxqpipZrs5YUR8EjSZwMokuoW657Ho5UzinEVoevzZ1NhP3H4CPR_eMmhM1j8VDaWkHQpdWhQfLEQ1x7mKkQ6XBXv-scqhUtgRj3VyIh8tagx3WehE1b2WmZW/s1600/905527_10206830509694025_525043674170095477_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij92DFzwLcG_hgJGI7xXrDxqpipZrs5YUR8EjSZwMokuoW657Ho5UzinEVoevzZ1NhP3H4CPR_eMmhM1j8VDaWkHQpdWhQfLEQ1x7mKkQ6XBXv-scqhUtgRj3VyIh8tagx3WehE1b2WmZW/s640/905527_10206830509694025_525043674170095477_o.jpg" width="425" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's chilly in the Accademia.</td></tr>
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David's head and right hand are disproportionately large. This has been attributed to either the planned perspective from below his originally-intended position along the roofline of the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore (the "Duomo"), or an emphasis on the primary tools of the Renaissance man. But I think it's just further evidence that Michelangelo wasn't a details guy.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcaXHKQA_mQlXNHVZ1vG0w1JjUj25yc8aCnK5ko0ql2M_4uXvtds_HJNAslFgv5XEH5h2WO8OV9ulUX7oGbTzXnxvFW0_C311kHewCnjqPo1iqD0TmSwTimNv6LxlFStt4yaulgjLEyxSc/s1600/12185018_10206830509414018_2289963347555082385_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcaXHKQA_mQlXNHVZ1vG0w1JjUj25yc8aCnK5ko0ql2M_4uXvtds_HJNAslFgv5XEH5h2WO8OV9ulUX7oGbTzXnxvFW0_C311kHewCnjqPo1iqD0TmSwTimNv6LxlFStt4yaulgjLEyxSc/s640/12185018_10206830509414018_2289963347555082385_o.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
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There are a few incomplete pieces that illustrates Michelangelo's belief that the subject is already locked in the stone, and he just had to liberate it. And I'm sure there are several floors adorned with treasures of the old masters, but people generally come to the Accademia to see <i>David</i>, and then they leave without paying their respects to the Renaissance paintings. The rest of the museum's art likely has the same inferiority complex as Livorno.</div>
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We set out on foot from the Accademia, passing the crowd of closely-packed, sweltering people who had barely budged in the huge line we skipped outside the museum entrance. It helps to have a pre-paid date with <i>David</i>. A cruise tour can be like a backstage pass. From there we navigated the shady side of narrow streets to the Ponte Vecchio, the world's most romantic bridge. It's really just an overcrowded, narrow span strung with jewelry stores and leather boutiques, a medieval mall that replaced the original butcher shops, but that doesn't make for an effective travel brochure. The recent "tradition" of bedecking this bridge over the River Arno with lover's padlocks is discouraged of late by heavy fines, much to the improvement of the scenery and the outward view of Benvenuto Cellini. Local tour guides allege Hitler personally ordered this one bridge to remain standing as the German forces retreated during WWII, which was a typical strategic blunder if true. Perhaps he'd left a padlock there with Eva Braun.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8XxQXn5pQcHKk0_-FKSC9OiqCa1Zu8kORHp35mceYyZZAj_vOl7RVxYk9xFuFaI0TzaeqOGZchbBub72oUii7euaJ7ffwxLli78GgZcnfq9lw7UKGJq1HQi0bCa9UrzSwdVSmZYOT6lo8/s1600/12265863_10206975201271224_3186669061461369934_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8XxQXn5pQcHKk0_-FKSC9OiqCa1Zu8kORHp35mceYyZZAj_vOl7RVxYk9xFuFaI0TzaeqOGZchbBub72oUii7euaJ7ffwxLli78GgZcnfq9lw7UKGJq1HQi0bCa9UrzSwdVSmZYOT6lo8/s640/12265863_10206975201271224_3186669061461369934_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ponte Vecchio.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9GX5qeZBYHp3XKCtiY1gokMAs8gt1x3Kz-TSiM0vi7k1x5JSyHVH5skkPA5J8I8p-AJiGrwPDKL9Z2HdMTczUKV3kQnGtPMHXdx04JsQRfB-FCo04o0JLojsxGrxiOf2GJ8Ipsx2qKjxA/s1600/12291907_10206975202991267_5646719037649957116_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9GX5qeZBYHp3XKCtiY1gokMAs8gt1x3Kz-TSiM0vi7k1x5JSyHVH5skkPA5J8I8p-AJiGrwPDKL9Z2HdMTczUKV3kQnGtPMHXdx04JsQRfB-FCo04o0JLojsxGrxiOf2GJ8Ipsx2qKjxA/s400/12291907_10206975202991267_5646719037649957116_o.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Benvenuto Cellini, his enclosure festooned with cheap, modern symbols of love.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguyl1Iuls_lztq1iCEFlepJ87wLJ6AXjijuUWzHdH19fH4CJXJiR-iJv5PkRbkAtPJ2ylbz58m3jxaUL42UMbQQDZsOR2UxFNyMEJCPq__6uwSLWfySY2dnPtbvlJ7sxiYgVKwRgAgGtQI/s1600/12304161_10206975203871289_4287563534170374588_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguyl1Iuls_lztq1iCEFlepJ87wLJ6AXjijuUWzHdH19fH4CJXJiR-iJv5PkRbkAtPJ2ylbz58m3jxaUL42UMbQQDZsOR2UxFNyMEJCPq__6uwSLWfySY2dnPtbvlJ7sxiYgVKwRgAgGtQI/s640/12304161_10206975203871289_4287563534170374588_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ponte Vecchio.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUCf_r7k1yNLF2BgclVTD8wf3m1Ex9v2AhaPp1Y8q5jMskhqxxTaBxBgwLPqPaSJygOkiaQ0W7OyTiLl05eTe8FevzEDyQnWRMyQ4GYAox3BseVZon38gwNZweneRKdBo8hE9DPowzTTrl/s1600/12322523_10206975202151246_6212839348972854084_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUCf_r7k1yNLF2BgclVTD8wf3m1Ex9v2AhaPp1Y8q5jMskhqxxTaBxBgwLPqPaSJygOkiaQ0W7OyTiLl05eTe8FevzEDyQnWRMyQ4GYAox3BseVZon38gwNZweneRKdBo8hE9DPowzTTrl/s640/12322523_10206975202151246_6212839348972854084_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Arno. The view <i>from</i> Ponte Vecchio may be better than the view <i>of</i> Ponte Vecchio.</td></tr>
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From the Ponte Vecchio we proceeded to other treasures of Medieval Florence, in particular its famous piazzas, della Signoria and di Santa Croce. Piazza della Signoria is famous for a life-size knock-off of <i>David</i>, slightly larger than what the gift shops sell and this one free to view. The Loggia dei Lanzi, on one side of the piazza shelters two original masterworks, however, Giambologna's immense <i>Rape of the Sabine Women</i> in marble and the bronze <i>Perseus with the Head of Medusa</i> by Cellini. "Rape" in Giambologna's work is translated in the original Italian context of abduction, as a lusty Roman bachelor steals off with a Sabine bride, much to the consternation of her male relation, all of them naked. Perseus is in his birthday suit too, exposing some tender bits to the monstrous Medusa, but his unorthodox approach to combat was clearly successful. Apparently, the famous events of antiquity were all imagined in the nude during the Renaissance. Peep shows were on a majestic scale in the 16th century. I had my 14-year old son with me; when I was his age, I had a healthy appreciation for classical sculpture. This time, I took a lot of photographs from various angles.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGwM2ZQCclIiVTEWnll1j-NPOMXxvxBFR2gp4snGTY3tT-_jPfjuwBwTpRMxPZoSvawbfbAQWbHGzNouN-kSikXhkircM4wdGrGs3cq8QsKMjn9BvlrN4M3D-XBiLoyG78C7_dnKdNwtZF/s1600/12291695_10206975204511305_4052636471073072305_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGwM2ZQCclIiVTEWnll1j-NPOMXxvxBFR2gp4snGTY3tT-_jPfjuwBwTpRMxPZoSvawbfbAQWbHGzNouN-kSikXhkircM4wdGrGs3cq8QsKMjn9BvlrN4M3D-XBiLoyG78C7_dnKdNwtZF/s400/12291695_10206975204511305_4052636471073072305_o.jpg" width="266" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtCYo3l54Ld7j_vC6e7SiyY28wa-F8mmwHg1CGHMhq4IlK3hyphenhyphen7A4mYMaVHc3ENDlajfQJeJd6OUoD62PjQXsEpDMSVjKq2xAFUdyeiWTFvEgf2TI7psOwfuSrGtDi78ekkylkLxbNq3m4z/s1600/12304440_10206975204391302_653155009730837566_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtCYo3l54Ld7j_vC6e7SiyY28wa-F8mmwHg1CGHMhq4IlK3hyphenhyphen7A4mYMaVHc3ENDlajfQJeJd6OUoD62PjQXsEpDMSVjKq2xAFUdyeiWTFvEgf2TI7psOwfuSrGtDi78ekkylkLxbNq3m4z/s640/12304440_10206975204391302_653155009730837566_o.jpg" width="425" /></a></div>
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Palazzo Vecchio, the historic town hall occupies a prominent corner of the L-shaped plaza, which is the great meeting place of the Florentines, and there is the famous Uffizi gallery nearby.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Palazzo Vecchio.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKcbJ7WPktCr6r3sCKN9QVFLV-Ub4Te4JmuJc3N30T-e7cZeaCDCyyXmQhcGrHYSH4sWJ1JUwcWv1gz3xrw3vvbsxMgl01wIxGYevTYK3cb7gSLNdT7HQtO693ESB8knoOYbSU7p-xjReQ/s1600/12309637_10206975197751136_4574999655467743720_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKcbJ7WPktCr6r3sCKN9QVFLV-Ub4Te4JmuJc3N30T-e7cZeaCDCyyXmQhcGrHYSH4sWJ1JUwcWv1gz3xrw3vvbsxMgl01wIxGYevTYK3cb7gSLNdT7HQtO693ESB8knoOYbSU7p-xjReQ/s400/12309637_10206975197751136_4574999655467743720_o.jpg" width="266" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKuxrB2SDJJmIE40eQ38-F7uR9Rku1PYffY7alKwxElBE-tV_c25Tsxbhgweielxcwn6-Cy2XSoLbk4AP6senlkIkOAYF49mZKx5UzcZwU4ZANMEQI_mWBREb-0lELoh_3tAvQ2cNCyhXW/s1600/12273770_10206975199311175_8938582946122600536_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKuxrB2SDJJmIE40eQ38-F7uR9Rku1PYffY7alKwxElBE-tV_c25Tsxbhgweielxcwn6-Cy2XSoLbk4AP6senlkIkOAYF49mZKx5UzcZwU4ZANMEQI_mWBREb-0lELoh_3tAvQ2cNCyhXW/s400/12273770_10206975199311175_8938582946122600536_o.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Duomo, the Cattedrale di Santa Mara del Fiore, the main church of Florence. <i>David</i> was originally destined for the alcove just below the lower half-dome in the image on the left.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1JhOLOsgRemlr8HxdhGC8KOrDxqB2PR5S9eebKEkvOYsKrmOISkUKcOOm8ss_HlHFjHNN4gEDB0GJjY5A18iaQ1vSalvwjoLSzNb6ZwrnTM6ok0ZG5PFTIJp_8u51SPdzU_kRrQ8IGk6k/s1600/11958084_10206975197711135_5959649224211108240_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1JhOLOsgRemlr8HxdhGC8KOrDxqB2PR5S9eebKEkvOYsKrmOISkUKcOOm8ss_HlHFjHNN4gEDB0GJjY5A18iaQ1vSalvwjoLSzNb6ZwrnTM6ok0ZG5PFTIJp_8u51SPdzU_kRrQ8IGk6k/s640/11958084_10206975197711135_5959649224211108240_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption">Battistero di San Giovanni. These doors designed by Lorenzo Ghiberti were named the "Gates of Heaven," by Michelangelo.</td></tr>
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Lunch at the Palazzo Borghese was included in the cost of our excursion. The neoclassical palace was once the home of the second husband of Napoleon's scandalous sister Pauline, Prince Camillo. The marriage netted Pauline a fabulous trove of diamonds, part ownership in the villa and a large annual allowance that in part financed her daily milk bath and a reclining <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Venus_Victrix_(Canova)">nude sculpture</a> by Canova, the closest she could get to posing for Playboy in the early 19th century. Today that behavior wouldn't even elicit a raised eyebrow. The setting of the villa's Council Room was suitably opulent, though lunch was merely serviceable, probably more a reflection of what Princess Cruises is willing to incorporate in the cost of a shore excursion than it is the capabilities of the Palazzo Borghese's caterers.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fine dining in the footsteps of the Bonapartes at Palazzo Borghese, in the Council Room. The fireplace on the left is in the Empire style.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Buchette di vino," literaly wine holes, are small windows characteristic of many of the palazzi of Florence, through which the noble wine=producing families sold their goods.</td></tr>
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We finished a long day at Piazza di Santa Croce. The large square is now lined with leather boutiques. We watched a demonstration at one, the gratuitous shopping stop of any cruise tour. But it was informative, and everyone got something out of it excepting the cow. Santa Croce has its monuments too, particularly the statue of Dante Alighieri, father of the modern Italian language. He had to cobble it together from about 10,000 local dialects that are still in use today, which explains his severe expression of annoyance. Ironically, Dante's <i>Divine Comedy</i> is also not humorous reading, especially for high school students.<br />
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The other main feature of the piazza is the beautiful marble facade of Basilica di Santa Croce, where it seems half of Italy's most famous sons are interred, including Galileo and Michelangelo. More modern artists now set up shop in the piazza and sell their memories. It's a good place for a cooling gelato under the Tuscan sun.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Basilica di Santa Croce.</td></tr>
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On returning to Livorno, my son noticed the garishly-decorated, modern Moby Lines ferry and asked, "Dad, what ship is <i>that</i>?" Maybe it is a reason to linger in Livorno and see what else the city has to offer. Maybe there is hope for New Jersey.</div>
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Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Tuscany, Italy43.687306961642754 10.80464869737625143.319106461642754 10.15920169737625 44.055507461642755 11.450095697376252tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-36874388978455407842015-11-14T09:51:00.001-05:002015-11-23T08:49:21.873-05:00Liberté, égalité, fraternité<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I took this picture at the Pont du Gard world heritage site's visitor center this past summer (2015), and in the light of recent terrorist attacks in Paris, I'm reminded that these principles are what France is all about.</div>
Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0France46.227638 2.213749000000007134.9722085 -18.440547999999993 57.4830675 22.868046000000007tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-18085024243996140322015-11-08T18:07:00.000-05:002015-11-08T18:19:24.533-05:00First World Problems on the Italian Riviera<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFW-kjD2zZ5UiQ2FC6Jb_f7lla_gO4oI-iz7CLI7QIfrjZw9WK2Fkr1kKTx8zePrs0eCLEQzBNptUbBGBby0VrZYYe4GpjYxoWcvihgtetilKSrIDlyBOU4mEENig6zqb4J7PYcHXm2D_n/s1600/12052384_10206721350965125_8562445854745427067_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFW-kjD2zZ5UiQ2FC6Jb_f7lla_gO4oI-iz7CLI7QIfrjZw9WK2Fkr1kKTx8zePrs0eCLEQzBNptUbBGBby0VrZYYe4GpjYxoWcvihgtetilKSrIDlyBOU4mEENig6zqb4J7PYcHXm2D_n/s640/12052384_10206721350965125_8562445854745427067_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Excursion queues on cruise ships are proof that, but for a scattering of genius individuals through history, the human species should not have progressed beyond the cave. Even management befitting of livestock is not enough to guarantee all of of the herd egresses from the staging area in an orderly manner. The Emerald Princess was berthed in Genoa, and we were booked for a day's tour of the Italian Riviera. Prosperity seems only by random chance when you watch so many well-to-do people struggle to navigate their way to the gangway on command. I could only think of the wreck of the Costa Concordia, rusting away within a stone's throw of our mooring like the rotting carcass of a beached whale, a tangible symbol of human absurdity.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Costa Concordia is in the process of being scrapped in the background (left). May the schooner in the foreground have a happier fate.</td></tr>
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But the army of shepherds gets everyone to their designated bus in the end. As I waited to board the motorcoach I overheard our day's tour guide tell tell one young man, "...you need to have a ticket to get on the bus."</div>
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I immediately sat in the front row with my son so I could listen in through the open door. I recognized the situation and the twenty-something youth from our previous day's excursion near Marseilles. Large sunglasses, a beachy button-down shirt open to his chest and feet shod in thong sandals, he had the casually raffish look of an entitled brat.</div>
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"My grandmother has a ticket," he said. "She's already on the bus." After some cajoling, he boarded so the guide could take tickets from the other passengers.</div>
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Now I'd seen this exact same story play out the day before. Then, I'd first seen him melt into the disembarkation line beside Grandma after we'd all picked up our tickets in the ship's theater. After boarding the bus in <a href="http://michael-orobona.blogspot.com/2015/10/Provence.html">Marseilles</a>, they'd had a lengthy argument with the French tour guide, insisting he'd given her his ticket. She was one short of the number of guests on the bus. "I know it's you," she said to the kid. The guide even went to the length of collecting a list of our names to cross-check against the manifest. Time was pressing though, and we proceeded on nearly 10 minutes after all the other buses had departed. Later, at day's end, I saw the guide still trying to reconcile extra attraction tickets she needed to purchase with cruise officials at the port of Marseilles.</div>
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I was not entirely sure of the situation then, but now I saw a pattern. I discreetly mentioned my suspicions to our Genoese guide.</div>
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"It can't be helped," she said. " I can't hold up the bus, because there are so many others and our schedule is tight." So we continued on to experience a day in three small towns of the Ligurian coast, Rapallo, Santa Margherita Ligure and Portofino.</div>
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Now the setting is mainly just window dressing for this loose collection of observations. Nearly every habitation in Europe has some historical significance -- we drove under a Roman-era bridge that was apparently crossed by Hannibal in Rapallo -- and the Ligurian coast is no exception, but the Italian Riviera is largely famous as a place where eye-popping natural scenery and the human craving for leisure within earshot of society's jet set are juxtaposed in what were once just quiet fishing villages. Excepting the rich history and landmarks of Genoa, it is not a place to experience the sublimity of world wonders.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Castello sul Mare, erected in 1551 in Rapallo to ward off pirates.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: justify;">A native Genovese, Columbus looks forward in Santa Margherita. What direction is he pointing in <a href="http://michael-orobona.blogspot.com/2015/09/MontjuichtoMontserrat.html">this time</a>?</td></tr>
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Still, there is a distinctive local style. Buildings in the seaside resorts of Rapallo and Santa Margherita have stucco façades that are painted to appear as if there is decorative framing around the windows or brickwork, an effect of trompe l'oeil that is a throwback to a time when the residents wished to appear more prosperous. The effect is seen everywhere. The main architectural features of Liguria are its Romanesque medieval churches, with striped façades of black (or green) and white marble. And there are the everyday pleasures that make Europe a joy--noisy open air markets, narrow streets and cafes.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Examples of trompe l'oeil.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the striped churches of Liguria. This is Chiesa di San Martino in Portofino. It's unusual in that this one is black and <i>yellow</i>.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Departing Santa Margherita for Portofino.</td></tr>
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Portofino may be the crown of the Riviera. A cheap hotel there is over US$500 per night. Yachts are lined up in the small port like automobiles at a supermarket. But real pleasures like soaking in the sun or relishing a gelato cost me no more than they do a prince. If one cafe is too expensive, the one next door might offer similar fare at a reasonable price. The views are all just as good, and the scent of the sea is free. Though let's be honest, no one who visits the Italian Riviera on holiday is exactly suffering.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sparkling Portofino.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">There is a curious tie to St. George in Portofino. Crusaders who had acquired his (apparent) headless skeletal relics made landfall here after a fierce storm,and they left a portion of the Saint's remains in Portofino in thanksgiving for their deliverance. His head is apparently still in Palestine.</span><br />
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I loved the arcuate row of warm pastel, cliffside buildings that hug both the the base of verdant cliffs and the water. Portofino is like a small Venice with hills, and it was the most intimate of the Riviera towns we visited. And the yachts? They are nice to look at and dream about while providing years of employment to the many somebodies who make them.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "other half" lives on the water.</td></tr>
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No, it wasn't the ultra-rich I found irksome on the high-rolling Ligurian coast. They don't think about me; I don't dwell particularly much on them. It was the demanding vacation demagogues who try overly hard to parrot the ultra-rich for a few days. One woman in my group complained that a small church in Portofino, pointed out to us as an interesting option free to visit on our own time, meant a walk uphill. "Why would the guide point something out that we can't all get to or find a way to take us there," she said. Later in Rapallo, also during a free time, the light drizzle had a man steaming that the motorcoach should come early and detour from its scheduled rendezvous point. "Why can't these people have looked at the forecast and been ready to change the itinerary?" Ironically, there was the welcoming shelter of a beautiful little church just across the street.</div>
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There's a thin line between grateful appreciation and jealousy. So many treasures in easy reach, and some the casual visitor can only dream of; the Ligurian coast evokes both.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arrivederci a Genova.</td></tr>
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Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Portofino, Metropolitan City of Genoa, Italy44.3031559 9.209787900000037644.2974739 9.1997029000000374 44.3088379 9.2198729000000377tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-47971607235869403752015-10-24T17:15:00.000-04:002015-12-30T16:53:50.242-05:00Laupāhoehoe Point Beach Park, Hawai'i<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have an uncle who lives in Hawai'i, and he told me that the best way to experience the Big Island is, "if you see a road, take it." We followed this good advice and learned a couple of things. First, you can't get lost; it's an island after all, no matter how big. And, some of Hawaii's hidden treasures are at the end of these roads-less-travelled detours, just off the main highways.</div>
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Just such a place is the beach at Laupāhoehoe Point County Park on the scenic Hamakua coast on the east side of the Big Island. There are no water-sports here for those who value their life; just the rugged beauty of powerful open ocean swells pounding razor sharp rocks. There is a sobering monument to twenty students and four school teachers who drowned here in the surge of the 1946 April Fool's tsunami that rose 56 feet above sea level, attesting to the power of the deep blue. When you stand on the low peninsula, it suddenly makes sense why Hawaii's tsunami evacuation zones are so far up from the shore. There is no escape.</div>
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There is a broad green lawn and picnic facilities for families, with shaded tables. It's a great place for a lunch after exploring tidal pools and taking in the view. There are camping sites and outdoor showers as well.</div>
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Laupāhoehoe is a fitting name for the place, "lau" meaning tip or point and "pahoehoe" the smoothly rippling lava flows that formed the peninsula. The rocks on the shoreline are much more intimidating, however, jagged black-spired walls hold back the eternal onslaught of the ocean for a time. Even they will be no more than sand eventually.</div>
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In the winter months it's a likely place to sight pods of humpback whales just off the rugged lava point, as if they're on holiday, hoping to spot<span style="font-family: inherit;"> some humans.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Laupāhoehoe Point County Park is a 35 minutes drive north of Hilo, via HI-19 (Mamalahoa Highway). Take a right about a mile past the small community of Laupahoehoe <span style="background-color: white;">(near mile marker 27) </span>and follow winding <span style="background-color: white;">Laupahoehoe Point Road for one mile (1.6 km ) to the parking lot</span>.</span></div>
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Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Laupāhoehoe Point County Park19.993558475564743 -155.2403644180297419.989827975564744 -155.24540691802974 19.997288975564743 -155.23532191802974tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-62043445593469593182015-10-10T17:15:00.000-04:002015-10-24T11:43:00.647-04:00Pictures of the Moment - Autumn Brilliance in the Upper Peninsula<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The splendor of peak color in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan is on par with anywhere. For a few days during the leaf-peeping season, every curve opens to yet another roadside stand of maple, oak and aspen wearing a grandeur as majestic as any natural wonder. Even the yellowing tamarack, a deciduous conifer, joins the show.<br />
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<br />Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Upper Peninsula of Michigan, MI, USA46.5374764 -87.395210940.9599039 -97.722359399999988 52.115048900000005 -77.0680624tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-43675546487289433222015-10-04T18:10:00.002-04:002015-10-04T20:36:50.112-04:00Burning to the Foundations of Provence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The Alpilles hills of the Bouches-du-Rhône region, where Marseille is located, are covered in pines, or at least some of them are. Scorching summer Heat and high winds attract arsonists like candles do moths. Arson is derived from the Anglo-French word <i>arsoun</i>, itself from the Old French <i>arsion</i>. Marseilles may be the birthplace of the world-wide scourge of vandalism by fire--France's contribution to the origins of crime. Though it's a wonder that the pines overlooking the sweltering Riviera don't just spontaneously combust in August. </div>
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We were on a motorcoach outbound from Emerald Princess and Marseilles' grimy port, headed for historic treasures of southern France. We first met these piney limestone hills surrounding the city, occasionally catching brief glimpses of steep-walled <a href="http://www.ot-cassis.com/en/les-calanques-par-les-sentiers-gb.html">calanques</a> plunging into the sea as the bus rushed along the coastline. Later, the countryside of Provence opened up to fallow, pebbly fields giving way to distant rippling mirages in the heat, then fields laden with seed-burdened sunflowers just past their peak. There was no sign of Van Gogh's ear.<br />
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It was all too brief a taste. Provence is like Tuscany in Italy, a place where people dream of the clarifying sensory experience of a simpler life in a rustic setting. Instead, we were in an air-conditioned bus rushing to meet a tight itinerary. But the sweet taste may someday bring me back for the full meal.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3500326057541054804" name="more"></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An ancient, but transplanted, olive tree near the Pont du Gard.</td></tr>
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Our first stop was the Pont du Gard, a 1st century Roman aqueduct that is, after nearly 2000 years, in better shape than most of the modern city of Detroit. The aqueduct crosses the River Gardon on the way to Nîmes. I expected to see free-spirited French bathers frolicking in the river. In that I was disappointed, though the Pont offers good views in either direction down the narrow valley of the Gardon.</div>
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The foot bridge adjacent to the lowest level of arches is an 18th century addition; Alexandre Dumas lamented, "it was reserved for the eighteenth century to dishonor a monument that the barbarians of the fifth had not dared to destroy." But the water conduit had long since become too encrusted with mineral deposits to perform its original function, so the toll bridge was the only remaining aspect of the structure that was useful, and usefulness in the end is what preserved Pont du Gard through the centuries.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The water conduit at the top of the aqueduct. Mineral deposits that clogged the aqueduct after the 4th century have been removed.</td></tr>
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Some stones on the underside of the topmost arch still bear Roman numerals designating the order of assembly. That frozen moment connected me with the humanity of its builders.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Notice the Roman numerals on the stone blocks to the left.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">This phallus was probably carved as a good luck totem by the Roman workers. A more poetic (and recent) legend is that it is a cat or rabbit, thrown in disgust at the bridge by the disappointed Devil, after he helped make the bridge withstand the floods of the Gardon with the promise he'd own the first soul that crossed the bridge, which happened to be an animal. Since cats are self-centered pricks, either explanation works.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking north-east to the other side of the aqueduct.</td></tr>
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We proceeded to Avignon. Surrounded by Medieval walls, with narrow streets, the old city is no place for a motor coach, and we had to park outside its gates. But before that, our driver had to navigate an impossibly narrow gap between two rows of other buses; with the mirrors pulled in there was no more space than a hand's breadth on either side. Then he proceeded to parallel park in a space only a step longer than our coach while still wedged in the gauntlet. Witness to the subsequently perfect condition of the vehicle, I will forever esteem French bus drivers.</div>
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We were stopped directly across from the Pont Saint-Bénézet, which legend has it was built after the divine inspiration of its namesake saint by the Savior. To prove his point to the skeptical local populace, the young shepherd single-handedly lifted a huge block of stone and began the construction himself. Flooding of the Rhone has not been kind to the bridge since its completion in 1185, and today only four of the original 22 arches extend halfway into the river. Perhaps the Lord wanted the bridge built at a different spot, because the other modern spans across the Rhone are doing just fine. But the effect of a wreck after half a millennium is picturesque. There may be hope for Lackawanna in 600 years.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq9Mh-RMhFl7mkKtHZeV9_TdSAu5vg1JxuZ9S3nwXQBGeVn6ZNOJmK754A4gnSUDqnmMKojMgLx5v8ZE21bj5tnp7fAxDbokASeYltuddszrvWH_mh1GyOECpXLZnd1E0hjG5tnGZReihN/s1600/11930976_10206513547090158_6064322344262582952_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq9Mh-RMhFl7mkKtHZeV9_TdSAu5vg1JxuZ9S3nwXQBGeVn6ZNOJmK754A4gnSUDqnmMKojMgLx5v8ZE21bj5tnp7fAxDbokASeYltuddszrvWH_mh1GyOECpXLZnd1E0hjG5tnGZReihN/s640/11930976_10206513547090158_6064322344262582952_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Pont Saint-Bénézet, a bridge to nowhere. </span></span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg763BJrGQNgq-6WdBlO24V9hyphenhyphen5zVY2Qp-4sCsA4yf6B1T2DIdYa1gL9RMJppQ0F6qblBOC-hM8T3Lr4HANkicsxnqtiTVOi3q1rY-Nu39cdoZRIuFdHPswHEda8QjV7abpTNF7JvIRdfMn/s1600/11953522_10206513751655272_2204914973838299157_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg763BJrGQNgq-6WdBlO24V9hyphenhyphen5zVY2Qp-4sCsA4yf6B1T2DIdYa1gL9RMJppQ0F6qblBOC-hM8T3Lr4HANkicsxnqtiTVOi3q1rY-Nu39cdoZRIuFdHPswHEda8QjV7abpTNF7JvIRdfMn/s400/11953522_10206513751655272_2204914973838299157_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The outer walls of Medieval Avignon are behind my son.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5zNGuM3q16xvqzswFJyQmc3wOZyAuB_N7_hDnZ49vVYUEhNxT8C_tXSW5kAYjuH78Nqz-cyflRu1Z2eTroEO2wH7sw_AQKyridjoVjBUb0gN1pkxlaK02sQAreVQkR4Dhxvhr6qTXsdIP/s1600/1495328_10206513751135259_8750679116460373619_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5zNGuM3q16xvqzswFJyQmc3wOZyAuB_N7_hDnZ49vVYUEhNxT8C_tXSW5kAYjuH78Nqz-cyflRu1Z2eTroEO2wH7sw_AQKyridjoVjBUb0gN1pkxlaK02sQAreVQkR4Dhxvhr6qTXsdIP/s640/1495328_10206513751135259_8750679116460373619_o.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Within the gate!</td></tr>
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We had some free time to explore Medieval Avignon before our tour of the 14th century Palais des Papes, a complex that combined constitutes Europe's largest gothic building. Lavender sold in narrow alleys scented the air, its pastel hues diffuse in the sun's glare like an impressionist painting. But the wide pavements and buildings surrounding the Papal palace are blindingly white in the midday summer sun. Never have I so regretted leaving my sunglasses behind, and at a few points I had to close my eyes completely and shuffle my way like a blind man across the broader plazas. Lunch under the canvas shade of an outdoor café was blessed relief.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHFUdyfh2IsaIow8ZhLSPLoHbs-7x-NTGeHFPH7qyotrlPOrbm96tdMhA7LTDczKWXz284sLe5itW4GFTLdicS31P8ZeQWlSJmvhde1lUb76dIQbDIxnbZZXtV3RtWrwOIpUgDjhATrPWV/s1600/12000824_10206513734454842_7575056397494020976_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHFUdyfh2IsaIow8ZhLSPLoHbs-7x-NTGeHFPH7qyotrlPOrbm96tdMhA7LTDczKWXz284sLe5itW4GFTLdicS31P8ZeQWlSJmvhde1lUb76dIQbDIxnbZZXtV3RtWrwOIpUgDjhATrPWV/s640/12000824_10206513734454842_7575056397494020976_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption">The world's largest Gothic structure, the Palais Neuf (r). Next to it is the Roman Catholic cathedral of Avignon (Cathédrale Notre-Dame des Doms d'Avignon). It is the seat of the Archbishop.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho5tUiv3vcWOdz-xUGbROty7QW41bluZU-9lEw8kqOpriDafGhVCNis11hCEXrWjb-CQLPS6XssyXK_kpVSVpAqb1lTRuM_MRPqf5qCD1uL4NI2KDZ_sWtjS9NTLKwvMFUjWgeuT4pJiap/s1600/12000798_10206513742855052_3460513540437865105_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho5tUiv3vcWOdz-xUGbROty7QW41bluZU-9lEw8kqOpriDafGhVCNis11hCEXrWjb-CQLPS6XssyXK_kpVSVpAqb1lTRuM_MRPqf5qCD1uL4NI2KDZ_sWtjS9NTLKwvMFUjWgeuT4pJiap/s640/12000798_10206513742855052_3460513540437865105_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">The picture doesn't do it justice, but glare from the pavement was so bright I had to walk the entire way to the Palais Neuf in the background with my eyes closed.</td></tr>
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Home to seven consecutive Popes for most of the 14th century, a time when the seat of Peter in Rome was uncomfortably hot, the Palais des Papes is at once austere and immense. Though it was a gilded place in the days of the Avignon popes, the French Revolution and Napoleonic era--when it was used as an army barracks--were not kind. The interior is now virtually scrubbed clean in a way reminiscent of the once-painted-but-now-austere temples of Ancient Greece and Rome. There are a few exceptions, most notably the "House of the Deer," which has a few fascinating frescoes of everyday 14th century life. Some paintings depicting the life of St. John the Baptist remain in a chapel, but John was never one for decorum, so the vandals might not have noticed the difference from a bare wall. And, ironically, the bedchamber of the Popes survived the anticlerical Age of a Revolution largely intact.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiShJgCDGrLXHbt0oXlI3l4mcODsQlVpsRO3cboNi2U6x8BFb-bOCo1c9QxBnPcgZQOg1XSWv1fhx2mrvetkj8mCHJl7c5bSWglgr6pAKJSsKsFy5SkbUSyVeH4902_QxzVVZkUar2sNKTL/s1600/11999615_10206513745015106_1598049858553841017_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiShJgCDGrLXHbt0oXlI3l4mcODsQlVpsRO3cboNi2U6x8BFb-bOCo1c9QxBnPcgZQOg1XSWv1fhx2mrvetkj8mCHJl7c5bSWglgr6pAKJSsKsFy5SkbUSyVeH4902_QxzVVZkUar2sNKTL/s400/11999615_10206513745015106_1598049858553841017_o.jpg" width="266" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk_o-ijUqUNK3l8-ggb6-6pkuR_FPgfnAp818PKCwM7VfiRKuK5mZHiOdLoJ-XVf08Mvj86_BtiPfoeIIGw05Zyn1KglAyeEp0C0f_fRTIC_k1a6sOzpaBpu6s52uDiQys-7ro4mQ96fPE/s1600/11056632_10206513747695173_1031263802713419484_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk_o-ijUqUNK3l8-ggb6-6pkuR_FPgfnAp818PKCwM7VfiRKuK5mZHiOdLoJ-XVf08Mvj86_BtiPfoeIIGw05Zyn1KglAyeEp0C0f_fRTIC_k1a6sOzpaBpu6s52uDiQys-7ro4mQ96fPE/s400/11056632_10206513747695173_1031263802713419484_o.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Chapel of St. John the Baptist (l) and the Pope's bedroom (r).</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0waH_gaOzIADnT0XG1f0Rke2oUEh07TIurcxx0inwvVhWT_ieq9ejlVaKvOHvZAOWD4yVsmCcsXrQbaLRyvyHv6M1en5JP9jKMu7GQVlIvUnvUMQC8hjxQFgolYhsupgfaeQFBu26AuSA/s1600/1401675_10206513748735199_8265562724400910983_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0waH_gaOzIADnT0XG1f0Rke2oUEh07TIurcxx0inwvVhWT_ieq9ejlVaKvOHvZAOWD4yVsmCcsXrQbaLRyvyHv6M1en5JP9jKMu7GQVlIvUnvUMQC8hjxQFgolYhsupgfaeQFBu26AuSA/s640/1401675_10206513748735199_8265562724400910983_o.jpg" width="426" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption">"House of Deer," one of my favorites because it shows contemporary 14th century depictions of everyday life instead of attempts at the time to guess the dress of ancient Israel. It served as the office of Pope CLement VI. I had to sneak a photo (without flash). </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRXDsbLoYy-mL4AoV6WkNP_AZDh8OkRzgnmxhcwmjLyqthWt7QdKMyIKhoG18Xg9qPp6jZhY0ha-4614DMkendl2RwyealE19UQ8SQuONWadZZtx_b2sLpQ0n4Cx-PhKCaaBNnRGeammBk/s1600/1658290_10206513745335114_2314020238813311168_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRXDsbLoYy-mL4AoV6WkNP_AZDh8OkRzgnmxhcwmjLyqthWt7QdKMyIKhoG18Xg9qPp6jZhY0ha-4614DMkendl2RwyealE19UQ8SQuONWadZZtx_b2sLpQ0n4Cx-PhKCaaBNnRGeammBk/s640/1658290_10206513745335114_2314020238813311168_o.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love Medieval doors, such Rube Goldberg-ian devices.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">To the left is the cavernous chimney to the kitchens.</span><br />
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But everywhere else--hallways, cavernous chambers and courtyards--all decoration has been wiped away much like the pines above Marseilles. Only the bare white bones remain, but these are the clean foundations of the place, impregnable rock that can not be so easily erased by casual malice or the short span of human history.<br />
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Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Avignon, France43.949317000000008 4.805527999999981143.766382500000006 4.4828044999999808 44.13225150000001 5.1282514999999815tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-20251849136486134782015-09-27T17:00:00.000-04:002015-10-02T20:54:10.217-04:00Yanchep's Blue Lagoon, Western Australia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The world has its share of beaches where the point is to be <i>seen</i>. <a href="http://michael-orobona.blogspot.com/2015/03/DiamondHead.html">Waikiki</a>, Bondi, Ipanema <span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">–</span> nature doesn't always provide the main scenery. But if you want to <i>see </i>some of the world's best beaches in solitude, there may be no better place than Western Australia, where your own private sandy paradise is only a short drive away from the capitol city of Perth. A family-friendly favorite of ours is the <a href="http://beachsafe.org.au/beach/wa0896">Yanchep Beach lagoon</a>, just 56 kilometers (35 miles) north of the central business district.</div>
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Protected by a finger reef of gritty Tamala limestone that formed during the most recent ice age, water in the lagoon is no deeper than waist-high for the the average adult. The calm, turquoise waters are a perfect natural swimming pool for families with young children who are just learning to swim, particularly at the sheltered southern end of the main pool. There can be a strong current near the mouth of the inlet. Occasional schools of small fish will entertain young snorkellers. And, the clean white sand is an ideal playground for future architects armed with only a bucket, a plastic shovel and dreams. On a crowded summer day there will be no more than a handful of beach-goers.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A crowded day at Yanchep Beach Lagoon.</td></tr>
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Areas of Yanchep Beach outside the limits of the lagoon offer moderate surf for stronger swimmers. There is a playground near the carpark for when the kids tire of swimming, or for very windy days when swells and currents may disrupt the tranquillity of the lagoon. Outcrops of limestone provide some shelter from the sun in early morning or late afternoon, though it's never safe to sit immediately adjacent to or directly underneath overhanging rock faces.</div>
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To get there, follow Mitchell Freeway/State Route 2 north for 29 kilometers to Burns Beach Road/State Route 87 exit towards Yanchep and Mindarie in Currambine. At the second roundabout, continue north for 26 kilometers on Marmion Avenue to Brazier Road in Yanchep, and look for the Yanchep Surf Life Saving Club.</div>
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Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Yanchep WA 6035, Australia-31.549470799999991 115.62454609999998-31.766007299999991 115.30182259999998 -31.332934299999991 115.94726959999997tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-27346916509356284672015-09-20T17:16:00.000-04:002015-09-30T21:48:28.775-04:00Montjuïc to Montserrat -- Exploring Outwards and Upwards in Barcelona<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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On the morning of our second day in <a href="http://michael-orobona.blogspot.com/2015/09/GargoylesAndGaudi.html">Barcelona</a> we decided to explore outwards and upwards. </div>
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Stretching between the port and city center, La Rambla is a broad, tree-lined avenue with a central walking arcade. La Rambla takes you into the heart of the city, but its southern terminus also spills you out to the port. La Rambla was easily accessed from our accommodation in the Barri Gotic (Gothic Quarter), and we strolled past many flower shops, cafes and souvenir vendors that were just opening around 8am on a Friday. We had several hours ahead of us before an afternoon excursion to Montserrat.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La Rambla</td></tr>
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First stop was the statue of Columbus, on a pedestal towering above a roundabout at the southern terminus of La Rambla. True to form for a man who thought he'd found a shorter route to Asia, Cristoforo is pointing in the wrong direction, south. Perhaps he's showing all the new immigrants to Spain the way back? There are sculptures on the base, with historical scenes depicting newly reverent indigenous Americans gratefully welcoming their benevolent colonizers.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Go south, young man," says Columbus, "to Algeria."</td></tr>
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Beyond the Columbus statue, Rambla de Mar leads across a small lift bridge to a mooring for yachts and a complex of shopping and entertainment, including an iMax theater. We just strolled around, taking in views of the harbor. It was already sweltering, so we didn't linger in open areas, where it was cooler to move than stand still. A couple times we came across women draped head-to-toe in black robes, with only their eyes exposed. Suffering husbands walked before them, forced to endure the glaring sun in shorts and t-shirts, risking skin cancer.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Barcelona has more than the summer heat in common with the other great cities of Europe. There are also the numerous public fountains with free drinking water. Don't buy any water unless you don't like the taste. Barcelona's tap water, though completely safe, isn't known for its taste. But it's always good for a dunk over your head on a hot day.</td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: justify;">Overlooking the city and dominating the skyline from the port was the hill of Montjuïc, dotted with sites dating from the 1992 Olympics. In the distance we could see a cable gondola and what looked like an old fort. We were determined to visit. The park-covered hill is a maze of switchbacking roads that would make the Minotaur proud. After about 40 minutes of wandering, following nearly a half-hour navigating our way to the hill with a sweat-smudged map, we finally settled on skirting the northern edge of the park until roughly in line with the gondola, then zigzagged up to</span> the <a href="http://www.telefericdemontjuic.cat/en/information">Telefèric de Montjuïc</a>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnKWfeVByaOl175d_RpMo9ls0VUwCALYT6k-rwxcMl4eDGAIkVHT3dwQKna7ziOEvTdugQkKoXqJkl9NFagw7jKpH6bwRhh7YBfZu1Q2C8Q9zVZODtSQ5Qn-9Rc3JpbxT9ZRVrvjTMFFPw/s1600/11922988_10206508046992659_6270548391703574134_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnKWfeVByaOl175d_RpMo9ls0VUwCALYT6k-rwxcMl4eDGAIkVHT3dwQKna7ziOEvTdugQkKoXqJkl9NFagw7jKpH6bwRhh7YBfZu1Q2C8Q9zVZODtSQ5Qn-9Rc3JpbxT9ZRVrvjTMFFPw/s640/11922988_10206508046992659_6270548391703574134_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Looking towards <span style="text-align: justify;">Montjuïc from Rambla de Mar</span></span></td></tr>
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Round-trip fares were €11.50 per adult, but the price was compensated by magnificent views of the city. The ride to the top lasted about 8-10 minutes, and I was thankful for occasional breezes captured by window slats at the top of the car. The fort we had seen, Castell de <span style="text-align: start;">Montjuïc</span>, is worth the €5 admission. Self-described as the Bastille of Barcelona, the 17th century fort (which underwent periodic remodeling through the 18th century) and <i>ad hoc</i> prison has a history of repressing the separatist notions of the local population as much as of defending against seaborne attack. My 14-year old son could have stayed longer at the fort. It was one of the most enjoyable side trips of our father-son Mediterranean adventure. There are the excellent views and a museum that can be digested in reasonable time.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There are excellent views of Barcelona from atop the Castell.</td></tr>
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The Catalan flag flies prominently now from the fort and elsewhere. I don't know that I ever saw a Spanish flag in Barcelona. After centuries of technology that bring us ever closer together, we fish of Babel still yearn for smaller ponds.</div>
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We were back at our home base at <a href="http://www.barcelonacatedral.com/en/">Hotel Catedral</a> shortly before 1pm, which allowed sufficient time for a leisurely tapas lunch nearby before our 3pm departure to Montserrat. Paella may be the quintessential regional dish, but we loved tapas. The Spanish may have invented the world's best system of eating. It's like a sushi bar, but with no strict definitions of what's on the menu other than that it must be finger food. Prices are normally between €1.75-2.00 per piece; My son and I would pick four or five pieces individually and decided where to go from there. I had to eat a lot to balance the alcohol in a generous, fruit-filled sangria. Probably only the tourists drink that, but with enough time the blurred lines of memory will make it local. There may be a thousand good tapas restaurants in Barcelona; we had great meals at the two we tried in Barri Gotic (the Gothic Quarter), <a href="http://www.bilbaoberria.es/">Bilbao Berria</a> on Placa de la Seu and <a href="http://www.elpintxodepetritxol.com/">El Pintxo De Petritxol</a>.</div>
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After lunch, we navigated our way to the Julia Travel office near Placa Catalunya in the center of the city. The motor coach ride to Montserrat is about 45 minutes, passing through the modern industrial area of Barcelona, including auto manufacturing and cement plants. On the way out of town we passed the local futbol stadiums, which might be the real cultural centers of Barcelona today. The size and attendant facilities were a reminder that the major European soccer franchises rival or exceed the largest American sport franchises in value. But Europe doesn't have the "world's champions" of American football.</div>
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Leaving the city, the massif of Montserrat lay before us, dominating the Catalonian countryside. It's Catalan name is appropriate, meaning "serrated mountain" in English, due to its similarity to the many close-fitting, sharp teeth of a saw. Its geology is that of a congolomerate of eroded rocks that dates back to the end of the age of dinosaurs, cemented by limestone. It is not altogether different in form than <a href="http://michael-orobona.blogspot.com/2015/01/MiddayUluru.html">Uluru</a> or other clastic sedimentary rock massifs of <a href="http://michael-orobona.blogspot.com/2015/01/KataTjuta.html">Australia's Red Centre</a>.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoVcRSjhRfw3TWtJfSEVbqVAYkN1nSwI730REBwa-ifUs8Y1UjUiBiCd-cOvpElTJJmfXdmbjAwYALbmFhj-jhk4MGc0UcO-sCPyyJ4K8fSOq_XhhUuyYt8dWYuv6v6_SooyWdSXunzE61/s1600/11113373_10206508107154163_8001175058508715642_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoVcRSjhRfw3TWtJfSEVbqVAYkN1nSwI730REBwa-ifUs8Y1UjUiBiCd-cOvpElTJJmfXdmbjAwYALbmFhj-jhk4MGc0UcO-sCPyyJ4K8fSOq_XhhUuyYt8dWYuv6v6_SooyWdSXunzE61/s640/11113373_10206508107154163_8001175058508715642_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Montserrat is an appropriate name.</td></tr>
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There are several ways to the top of the mountain and the Monistrol de Montserrat, including a winding, two lane road and a cable-suspended gondola (telefèric). Our excursion fare included the option of a cog railway. Luckily we chose seating in the left-hand side of the train while going up; the right-hand side had only a close-up view of the mountain wall. The 20-minute climb offers spectacular views, even through summer's haze.</div>
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We slowly climbed to an elevation of 725 meters (2379 feet), where it was notably cooler than in the coastal plain below. The higher peaks of Montserrat reach over 1200 meters (3940 feet). The sedimentary rock layering is obvious from this distance .</div>
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The monastery of Santa Maria de Montserrat is new in the European sense. French soldiers respected the Catalan people about as much as the Spanish or Moors did, and the original site was razed during the Napoleonic wars. But the 19th century construction befits its spectacular setting amidst spires of 50 million-year-old conglomerate. I've seen a lot of beautiful stained glass windows in my life, but those of the chapel behind the main church at Montserrat (and behind the Black Virgin) are arguably the most beautiful. Even the short walk through a gate and looking suddenly upon the church façade itself is inspiring; I had a sudden sense of how Petra in Jordan may have appeared to the ancient traveller stumbling upon it through a slot canyon, in the days when it had life.<br />
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Montserrat's Benedictine monks used to concoct a slightly bitter liqueur from 15 ingredients, mostly herbs, Aromes de Montserrat. The heady liqueur and its variants is still produced produced by a private company, some of it on the grounds using the monastery's original stills. Today the list of ingredients is down to 12; perhaps each herb represents an Apostle? More likely, the brothers didn't wish to completely divulge their secret recipe. The monks first produced the drink as a digestive aid. I tried tastings of Aromes and several other liqueurs at the gift shop, La Botiga. Green bottles of Aromes sell for €12, though I bought a bottle of local olive oil instead. We didn't see any monks during our visit to Montserrat. It is possible they sample their merchandise on Fridays.</div>
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There is also an audiovisual presentation attached to a small historical museum that was paid for as part of our €53 per person excursion fare.</div>
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But it is La Moreneta, the Black Madonna, who has made Montserrat a place of pilgrimage for millions, on its own a reason to see her. The Romanesque statue is located in a sanctuary at the rear of the chapel, surrounded by an altar of gold. What history, to look upon the same face that was venerated by war-weary St. Ignatius of Loyola in 1522, before he founded the Jesuits. Many miracles are attributed to the shrine, but the main miracle may be that the little statue was not razed with the rest of the sanctuary during the Napoleonic invasion. The Madonna holds a globe* in her right hand, polished smooth by countless hands, which apparently I was supposed to rub for good luck. Next time.</div>
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Our next stop was Marseilles.</div>
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*<span style="font-size: x-small;">The globe is meant to represent the Earth. If so, the 12th century Moreneta is further evidence that Columbus didn't prove the world is round in 1492. Like George Washington's cherry tree, so many of my cherished childhood notions are debunked.</span></div>
Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Monistrol de Montserrat, Barcelona, Spain41.593337301346686 1.837538961962877741.581462801346689 1.8173689619628777 41.605211801346684 1.8577089619628777tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-50572204816485850592015-09-14T18:33:00.000-04:002015-09-14T18:33:05.436-04:00A Picture is Worth 1000...<div style="text-align: justify;">
You can't win if you don't play. That's the standard Lottery slogan. </div>
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But for some sweepstakes, the only cost to play is the time it takes to enter and maybe of accepting a few extra promotional e-mails, usually for a product or service you enjoy anyway.<br />
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We visited beautiful, misty <a href="http://michael-orobona.blogspot.com/2015/07/MistyGrandMarais.html">Grand Marais, Minnesota</a> for some family time on July 26th of this year (2015). A friendly fellow tourist took this snapshot of us backed by Lake Superior near Artist's Point using my camera. It's not an isolated place, but in today's selfie-obsessed age, it's rare any more for a stranger to offer to handle your camera without a request. Several days later, while surfing through <a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/">TripAdvisor</a> as she researched possible excursions for my <a href="http://michael-orobona.blogspot.com/2015/08/BarcelonaToRome.html">Father-Son European adventure</a>, my wife Stacey entered the <i>My TripAdvisor Discovery Competition</i> on a whim with this image, just before the closing date of the contest, titling it "Family Fun in Grand Marais." TripAdvisor is our go-to place for reviews of hotels and attractions.</div>
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Fast-forward more than two weeks. I was in Rome with my son, having just reviewed five floors of Ancient Roman statuary at the <a href="http://en.museicapitolini.org/">Musei Capitolini</a>, where I received this e-mail from Stacey:</div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"I
may have won a contest. Making sure it's legit. The guy in the email checks
out. I haven't spoken to him yet. I had entered a picture from our Grand Marais
trip and titled it Family fun in Grand Marais and that was referenced. xo"</span></span></blockquote>
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Only by rare chance did my wife check her junk e-mail folder this August 16th, where she found a message from TripAdvisor's sweepstakes administrator, Cohen-Friedberg Associates, LLC, that had inadvertently gone there. Murphy's law dictates that phishing scams from "Microsoft" regarding our e-mail accounts make it through the firewall on a near daily basis, while a message we might actually want went to junk. It was the last day the grand prize could be claimed! After validating the promotion administrator's credentials through an Internet search and via LinkedIn, Stacey phoned the administrator's representative just in time, and we were given 24 hours to get affidavits of eligibility and tax forms notarized.</div>
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Then, with the help of a TripAdvisor-approved, patient travel agent, Stacey only needed to plan the particulars of our paid flights and accommodation towards a trip for two, including a family member, to anywhere in the United States before next spring. Today we can look forward to eight days in the paradise of Maui, Hawaii, which we Minnesotans will spend during the cold of February, 2016 to celebrate our 20th wedding anniversary in advance. TripAdvisor is sure to get some more hotel or restaurant reviews, and I'm certain to generate a few more blog entries.</div>
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Everyone has received that phone call message that "You've won a free cruise," followed by the catch, an obligation to visit several time-shares. Beware any unsolicited "prizes" that sound too good to be true. This was for real; the prize-winner notice referenced our sweepstakes entry with a legitimate, popular web service, and no purchase was necessary. A legitimate contest will have no strings attached.</div>
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Every chance outcome in your life requires some fortuitous juxtaposition of random events, like the alignment of holes between slices of Swiss cheese. But attentive vigilance helps stack the odds in your favor. How many similar, legitimate contests <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">– </span>found inside candy wrappers or cereal boxes, on fast-food packaging or website promotions <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">– </span>go unclaimed, only to be awarded the next alert contestant? You have to play, and pay attention, in order to win.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This may be O'ahu (Kualoa Beach Park), but we can expect similarly breathtaking tropical scenery on Maui.</td></tr>
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Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Grand Marais, MN, USA47.7504469 -90.33427269999998547.7077499 -90.414953699999984 47.7931439 -90.253591699999987tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-60704184393186882392015-09-06T17:29:00.000-04:002015-09-06T17:32:18.394-04:00Gargoyles to Gaudi – Walking in Barcelona<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Eight or more sleepless hours in a cramped plane and jet lag looming, my proven solution to getting "on time" while on holiday is to get out and walk, letting sunshine fool my constitution into believing I haven't travelled. If you have more than a day to explore, a city orientation walk is also a good chance to get the lay of the land before deciding what you really want to see, and pay for, when you're better acclimated. When we escaped confinement on Air Canada Rouge and shambolic customs queues at Barcelona's <a href="http://www.barcelona-airport.com/">El Prat</a> airport at 11:30am on a Thursday morning, my body screamed that it was only half past 4. After checking into our hotel, we hit the pavement immediately lest we be lured by the ever deadly post-flight nap.</div>
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From our base at the <a href="http://www.barcelonacatedral.com/en/">Hotel Catedral de Barcelona</a>, the obvious choice for a day 1 walking tour was to roam the central Gothic quarter of the old city and explore outwards in search for classic works of the famous Catalan Modernist architect Antoni Gaudi, trusty <a href="http://www.tomsportguides.com/uploads/5/8/5/4/58547429/barcelona-07-22-2011.pdf">Tom's Port Guide</a> in hand.<br />
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Now you can't get the average southern European to walk fast. Maybe it's the climate or the crowded city streets. To be trapped behind gaggles of preening youth--who are aimlessly drifting on the sidewalk--is a blood pressure risk for the average, Type-A American that's in a great hurry to nowhere, even when he's at risk of breaking a sweat. Don't they know we have to walk off our American diet?</div>
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But put a European behind the wheel or on any two-wheeled vehicle and he is transformed. Roads are merely guidelines. If there's space between a store-front and the curb, a European driver might consider taking it, at high speed. At a crosswalk, it is only the overwhelming mass of pedestrian humanity that risks jamming in the wheel well, which brings some buses to a stop. And even then, the driver looks down on the herd and waits for a straggler to tempt fate. A broken car horn is like a physical disability for the European, who expects the lead car to anticipate a green light and proceed while the jury is still out. Bicyclists are just as daring, blazing around corners or through impossibly-small gaps in a crowded plaza. I imagine natural succession weeded poor maneuvering skills from the gene pool long ago, for I saw no accidents. I don't know how Americans ever win motor races; NASCAR must be segregated.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This can get into tight places.</td></tr>
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So our walk down Barcelona's avenues was an exercise in skirting around strolling human roadblocks punctuated by brief moments of terror. Periodically, the stifling scent of baked urine scented the air, but it was less pungent than I ever experienced in London. I enjoyed every moment of it. August on the rim of the Mediterranean is excessively hot and humid; it's a free sauna. But people pay good money for that; no one pays to shovel snow. If I'd really been in a hurry I could have navigated the <a href="http://www.hop-on-hop-off-bus.com/barcelona-bus-tours">hop-on-hop-off bus system</a>.</div>
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A Spanish poet and playwright, Federico García Lorca once said La Rambla is "the only street in the world that I wish would never end." Federico had a point, La Rambla is the pedestrian version of the main drag in U.S. cities, for which spirited young men cruising in open-top automobiles are the lifeblood of a summer evening. It's Colfax Avenue in Denver, the Vegas Strip or Hollywood Boulevard, but for people. The tree-lined, pedestrian boulevard hums with people, flowing like an artery along the western edge of Barri Gòtic, from the port to Plaça de Catalunya at the heart of the city, from which other roads lead outward into the newer Barcelona and Gaudi's treasures. In only two days I walked the length of La Rambla several times, wishing it would extend more than its 1.2 kilometers<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La Rambla</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Plaça de Catalunya, the 50,000 meter square, fountain-bejewelled heart of the </span></span>city. The monument in the right background is to Francesc Macià i Llussà, a former President of Catalonia. </td></tr>
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As elsewhere in large Mediterranean cities, <a href="http://rantsand.blogspot.com/2006/10/life-in-europe-observing-beggars.html">panhandlers</a> are positioned at all the likely spots. They are overwhelmingly young males, though a few near-prostrated Romani women wearing the flowing garb of ancient Israel appear to have secured the choice locations in front of Catedral de la Santa Creu i Santa Eulàlia (Barcelona's 14th century Gothic cathedral). The ladies like to rattle the coins in their assertively outstretched cans, in case you don't understand that you are intended to add more coins to said cans. But the male panhandlers of Barcelona have a standard prop I hadn't seen previously. They are usually partnered with a dog (or two or three), and instead of the American-standard cardboard sign stating "will work for food," there will be a note penned in several languages hinting at the dire fate of the dog(s) should financial succour not arrive promptly. Cigarettes and tattoos must cost a pretty fortune, so I can only imagine the dog owner's distress.</div>
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As with any large city, we saw several truly destitute people, sleeping through the morning on cardboard mats wedged between doorways or within ATM enclosures, while others passed them by eyes averted, willing them not to exist. Some of these people are missing limbs. To my own shame, I could have been more forthcoming with a smile or "good morning." None of these homeless had signs, or cans. So here's my social commentary--all of the street people, shysters included, probably have little to their name. I wouldn't be doing them or their dogs any real service by handing out spare change elicited through orchestrated guilt, especially if they are part of a grifting network that expropriates my donation at day's end. If you feel you aren't doing enough, there are many organizations that effectively provide essential services in need. Go home and donate more to your local <a href="http://michael-orobona.blogspot.com/2015/06/RedCrossHeroes.html">Red Cross</a>, the United Way, Doctors Without Borders, Heifer International... or volunteer.</div>
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<span style="text-align: justify;">Buskers are common in the large, public squares. Considering the sheer number of talented street performers, usually musicians or acrobats, it's no wonder only a lucky few people make it big in the entertainment industry. Barcelona appeared to have less of the tired human statues I've seen elsewhere and more truly talented street performers. It's easy to lose oneself in the show, and we took precautions to make sure our valuables were inaccessible to professional pickpockets. Barcelona has a reputation for the highest incidence of such activity in Europe. There are also the ubiquitous peddlers of cheap trinkets. The latest is some kind of device held in the mouth to simulate electronic chirps. These were so common on La Rambla and in the plaza of the old cathedral (Placa de la Seu), I began to harbor murderous thoughts.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Catedral de la Santa Creu i Santa Eulàlia. Its namesake Saint was apparently stripped by the Romans; when a miraculous Spring snowfall preserved her modesty, the enraged Romans executed her by rolling her down the street in a barrel lined with sharp knives. I think I would have suffered through the nudity,</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Medieval Barcelona</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">14th-century Santa Maria del Mar is apparently the best example of Catalan Gothic architecture. I love the gargoyle water drains.</span></div>
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I could not throw a stone anywhere that didn't reach at least a handful of restaurants or cafes, each offering more tempting aromas and food creations than the next. There are more than I could visit in a lifetime. Of particular interest was Mercat St. Josep La Boqueria, just off La Rambla, near its midpoint. There were row upon row of fishmongers, pastry shops, butchers, tapas bars, and fruit stands in this food market. It was all I could do not to spend two-weeks of taxi fares on snacks. We couldn't leave without sampling an <a href="http://michael-orobona.blogspot.com/2015/08/BarcelonaToRome.html">immense plate of seafood</a> and some paella outdoors at <a href="http://www.elcochinilloloco.com/">El Cochinillo Loco</a> restaurant, on the market's fringe.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Is it illegal to sell anything less than a perfectly ripe tomato in southern Europe? They put the sickly orange, prematurely-harvested excuses sold at American supermarkets to shame.</td></tr>
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Smokers are everywhere. Europeans give rightful grief to Americans over needless gun violence, but then kill themselves off at a much steeper rate from cigarettes. But all things considered, Barcelona is a clean city. I've been to other places, such as Marseilles, that I initially expected to be much cleaner, which were much dirtier. There is little or no litter on the streets of Barcelona. The city has much in the way of "street art," though I'm more likely to call the vast majority of it an eyesore and juvenile. The taggers do seem to take pains to limit their craft to (mostly) roll-up metal doors on store fronts, and I never noticed any on historic buildings. It's thoughtful graffiti.<br />
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There were several individual pieces I took a moment to reconsider, roses amongst the sea of thorns.<br />
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From the descriptions of his works, I expected Gaudi to be gaudy, but a better adjective is fantastical. I was reminded of a fairytale at each of his creations, whether gingerbread houses like Casa Batlló or enchanted palaces. In a city called home by millions, there are really only a few scattered buildings personally designed by Antoni Gaudi, some immense (like the still-under-construction Sagrada Familia church pictured at the top of this story), but Gaudi undoubtedly influenced more recent constructions all over Barcelona. Surely the immense Torre Agbar (Pickle Building) was imagined in his spirit. And the Gaudi influence contrasts well with the gothic architecture of medieval Barcelona, with its gargoyles and fairytale qualities of its own.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh90r2_K6PbCJ5c3ZUCm984fVbS3bOBdJ8wC2dZtP0C2cs7VPZX9Vg83kNSxyAkYEzxz4S6-2oKYCacs-VKRCOAa28Sk9gsPTxwi9NzmI0RrIs8PhiUqAmq0Dwk4SZ27IdiCq-AGlzZgpLN/s1600/11951560_10206507495578874_2736107564317533966_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh90r2_K6PbCJ5c3ZUCm984fVbS3bOBdJ8wC2dZtP0C2cs7VPZX9Vg83kNSxyAkYEzxz4S6-2oKYCacs-VKRCOAa28Sk9gsPTxwi9NzmI0RrIs8PhiUqAmq0Dwk4SZ27IdiCq-AGlzZgpLN/s400/11951560_10206507495578874_2736107564317533966_o.jpg" width="266" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtYENgx6yuVKQM4FXZTltiwbAYjYBCrfkZLFb-3PwzVz8pYNns3Vh87MWTSIYdIdacXC3kWClJbxMzbf-cWCCHaUyamiRBuedky9x-px5u5V_CBq-OMTpy_36xcC7tYkIOA2X093ZcMcAN/s1600/11872059_10206507495938883_3287076543194391880_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtYENgx6yuVKQM4FXZTltiwbAYjYBCrfkZLFb-3PwzVz8pYNns3Vh87MWTSIYdIdacXC3kWClJbxMzbf-cWCCHaUyamiRBuedky9x-px5u5V_CBq-OMTpy_36xcC7tYkIOA2X093ZcMcAN/s400/11872059_10206507495938883_3287076543194391880_o.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Casa Batlló</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption">La Pedrera-Casa Milà, known colloquially as "the Quarry."</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Details of <span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Casa Milà</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd1gRWSJbtFHGkLEU2Lb9adQPnwiece0YbU-eXVaOd2OyJVMEqWs0D0Oiqkso7rVjsBuSl5-X1B5ZFZRkVcbKJg92xRK1MrRkxEMENjmE9ejMU6jS6_f7b_F3oY7l_mcU6R0mHLPO18z4B/s1600/10255522_10206508115874381_2653842660337589997_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd1gRWSJbtFHGkLEU2Lb9adQPnwiece0YbU-eXVaOd2OyJVMEqWs0D0Oiqkso7rVjsBuSl5-X1B5ZFZRkVcbKJg92xRK1MrRkxEMENjmE9ejMU6jS6_f7b_F3oY7l_mcU6R0mHLPO18z4B/s400/10255522_10206508115874381_2653842660337589997_o.jpg" width="266" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhCc0GSrgmycYZ2ZBXYigF4Vah7gtkrPd-Mc53_dqB8p_UcZRmQZAZhu-S3xP1P8PGacvMVOiv0Ca9GOtzl7s6q7V8MSp8B9szisc2ViJEDu3qkgnoZVJTpVXVvDmnN50c52zz5RoTiexJ/s1600/11143375_10206507502419045_3366392235150533895_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhCc0GSrgmycYZ2ZBXYigF4Vah7gtkrPd-Mc53_dqB8p_UcZRmQZAZhu-S3xP1P8PGacvMVOiv0Ca9GOtzl7s6q7V8MSp8B9szisc2ViJEDu3qkgnoZVJTpVXVvDmnN50c52zz5RoTiexJ/s400/11143375_10206507502419045_3366392235150533895_o.jpg" width="266" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The stylization of La Sagrada Familia (L) is reminiscent of the city's earlier Gothic period (R).</span></div>
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The Gaudi influence is easy to take in, as it's mostly external façades and public parks--excluding La Sagrada Familia, the interiors of the buildings are frequently standard offices or apartments. We thought about touring the inside of the great church, but the Friday-afternoon lines kept us on the march.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption">Another fairy creation, the mansion Palau Güell, part of the UNESCO world heritage "Works of Gaudi."</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Torre Agbar, the modern-era "pickle building." Who is this young person who keeps photo-bombing me?</td></tr>
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So we ambled down both wide avenues and narrow, gothic streets of the old city. On my first day back in the Mediterranean, we had to adjust to the local tempo. I found myself walking a little more slowly, considering a different pace of life. I was transported into a fairytale. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the crowds.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiYXI9xUz8Ggknlk4g0wtWFIsGH32-5524qB_GWF7wut8eS-ss5gv5M5fhqTNqbXTbLycaQzdioRLP3vKDnEhRD-rOLp2OvWwqTyBbsqdv3Ec6SvOKCz1CGMSzVJtuka_7N434uEzUBbzr/s1600/11908606_10206508114874356_3869438889954032852_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiYXI9xUz8Ggknlk4g0wtWFIsGH32-5524qB_GWF7wut8eS-ss5gv5M5fhqTNqbXTbLycaQzdioRLP3vKDnEhRD-rOLp2OvWwqTyBbsqdv3Ec6SvOKCz1CGMSzVJtuka_7N434uEzUBbzr/s640/11908606_10206508114874356_3869438889954032852_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption">Barri Gòtic, the gothic quarter, where Barcelona's gargoyles meet Gaudi.</td></tr>
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Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Barcelona, Spain41.3870667098856 2.170075585017912141.3855777098856 2.1675540850179122 41.3885557098856 2.1725970850179119tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-6920593946329775442015-08-30T18:26:00.002-04:002016-01-11T08:31:25.421-05:00PortLand Malt Shoppe, Duluth, Minnesota<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2HcRnSWg3K5t3hBPtSoVw_x9ia40DCQ-6Pcjx8FXO3Itve-PPVloO480kZQclu83hCRVRGh1JRkDSovTUTiuVoCLgLBwYTDFmB-734fwMHniegRaLmGqKm66ltXVTGCTuK5d0JXJ8beOu/s1600/11951524_10206463149150241_5551396289989098173_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2HcRnSWg3K5t3hBPtSoVw_x9ia40DCQ-6Pcjx8FXO3Itve-PPVloO480kZQclu83hCRVRGh1JRkDSovTUTiuVoCLgLBwYTDFmB-734fwMHniegRaLmGqKm66ltXVTGCTuK5d0JXJ8beOu/s640/11951524_10206463149150241_5551396289989098173_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Malted milkshakes invoke images of 50s drug stores, Norman Rockwell and long summer days in small-town America. Today, nowhere brings back those memories any better than the <a href="http://www.portlandmaltshoppe.com/">PortLand Malt Shoppe</a> in Duluth, Minnesota. There are other ice cream desserts offered as well, but a chocolate malt topped with whip cream, a vanilla wafer and a maraschino cherry makes for a little bit of heaven in your hand for $6.95, and it's worth the price. That's why there are often very long lines. The secret ingredient is malted milk powder, a once popular staple of frozen treats that gives a satisfying crunchy texture to the shake while coming up easy through the straw.</div>
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The tiny 1921 building was originally a "Noco" gas station for the Northwestern Oil Company, whose name is still written in concrete above the twin, candy-striped canopies above the shop windows. The history page on the shop's website states the surrounding neighborhood used to be called Portland, but the local postmaster grew tired of receiving mail from other U.S. towns with the same name, and after village officials conferred with the neighboring community of Duluth, the two communities merged into what is today the city of Duluth.</div>
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There are fine views of Lake Superior and easy access to the wonderful <a href="http://www.superiortrails.com/duluth_lake.html">Duluth Lakewalk</a> and Fitger's Brewery. It's a great place to lean over the railing to watch sailboats or lake freighters laden with iron ore. Open from April to October, the PortLand Malt Shoppe is adjacent to the Chocolate Ship at 716 East Superior Street, Duluth. When its doors are open, so is summer in the Twin Ports.</div>
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Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Duluth, MN, USA46.79324496932945 -92.089489893405746.79324496932945 -92.0894898934057 46.79324496932945 -92.0894898934057tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-51726275838394255322015-08-22T17:07:00.000-04:002015-08-22T17:07:06.130-04:00What Remains: Life and Death in Palermo<div class="po" id="01003019" style="font-stretch: normal; margin-left: 25px; margin-right: 20px; margin-top: 15px; padding: 0px 25px 0px 0px;">
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">By the sweat of your brow you shall eat bread, until you return to the ground from which you were taken; For you are dust, and to dust you shall return.</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span>Genesis 3:19</div>
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We had only a morning to spend in Palermo, capital of Sicily. Most of what I know about this place relates to the Mafia or the last world war, and I was eager to look beyond that. We chose a short tour of the city's catacombs and two 18th-century oratories, book-ended by motor-coach rides past the main monuments of the old city.</div>
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From the late 16th century through the early 1920s, Capuchin monks and the richest families of Palermo had their dead embalmed, then displayed in lifelike poses in the city's catacombs, which were perhaps intended as a place of solace for bereaved relatives. Friends confer, families pose together, stern friars clasp ropes of penance and stare down through darkened eye sockets--these are the nearly-walking dead. The macabre display of 8,000 corpses is a lesson in anatomy--before the last century few people topped more than 5 feet tall, and oral hygiene has come a long way since.</div>
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<span style="color: red; font-size: x-small;"><b>Warning, there are photos of mouldering corpses beyond this point that readers may find disturbing.</b></span></div>
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The chief mortician wasn't particularly good at his job and should be shot, if he weren't long dead already and probably a grimacing skull in the collection himself, cavorting with his equally artless ancestors. Most residents of the catacombs are mummies in name only; a few shreds of skin and occasional wisps of hair hang loosely on leering skulls that poke through tattered, Sunday-best clothes long bereft of color. Copious amounts of straw give some form to the once-human scarecrows. A few skull fragments mingle at the feet of their former owners. This is ultimately what money buys you.<br />
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There is one exception, the well-embalmed body of little Rosalia Lombardo still appears to be fighting off the sleep-sweats of her deadly pneumonia of over 95 years ago. I could only think of a young life cut so short at 2 years, and the heartache of parents who couldn't bear the thought of their daughter gone to dust.</div>
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At the entrance of the catacombs, the current management forbids photography and video as a sign of "respect for the dead in this sacred place," then offers a variety of graphic photo books and souvenirs for sale. I was torn about taking a few furtive photos of my own, and even more about publishing them here. In the end, I decided that most of the deceased had requested to be put on display in life's vanity. However, I chose not to photograph the remains of babies or small children. They (and even the women in that day and age I suspect) did not ask to be museum pieces; this was consistent with my approach to the dead of <a href="http://michael-orobona.blogspot.com/2014/08/Pompeii.html">Pompeii</a>, caught in an intimate moment of agony.<br />
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But hopefully it is a place of respect, both for the dead and for their earthly remains, for someday others may look upon my crumbling bones, and I hope there is some pity for my soul.</div>
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Emerging from the catacombs we came across a pan-handler with three dogs. He must read the same trade publications as the beggars of Barcelona. The idea has some merit, however; it's rumored to work for romance-minded single men. I may consider myself whether I can attract more readers with images of puppies.</div>
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On the streets of the city, there is a lot of yelling, which seems fittingly Sicilian, and many anachronistic horse-drawn carriages carting tourists amongst motor-coaches and flitting Vespas, which also seems Sicilian. Abundant gardens decorate cast-iron balconies above the streets, typical of Southern Europe, but Palermo's open air markets have an exotic closeness that suggests Sicily is part African in more ways than just geologically.<br />
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Later we toured the Rococo-style Oratories of Santa Cita and San Domenico, both adorned with brilliant white plaster stuccoes detailing either the Mysteries of the Rosary (Santa Cita) or the seven virtues and scenes from the Book of Revelation (San Domenico). Though they had some religious affiliation, oratories were more the gathering places for exclusive (male) social and service clubs, and are worth exploring if only as an alternative to the many churches in Southern Europe. The plaster statuary of Giacomo Serpotta is as detailed as the best marble sculpture. Santa Cita has a detailed depiction of the decisive 16th-century Battle of Lepanto, between clashing fleets of the Holy League and the Ottomans, which directly contributed to the eminence of the rosary amongst Catholic prayers today.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oratory of Santa Cita.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail of the Battle of Lepanto in center frieze.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mother of Pearl inlay in bench seats aligning the walls of the oratory.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Oratory of San Domenico</span></div>
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The brightness of Palermo's Oratories, with adornments so detailed as to seem alive, are a contrast with the stale decay of the catacombs, reminding me that after passing, all that may remain of us on this Earth--at least for a time--is what we have made.</div>
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Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Capuchin Catacombs, Via Cappuccini, 1, 90129 Palermo, Italy38.1110954 13.34997220000002538.086109400000005 13.309631700000025 38.1360814 13.390312700000024tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-88267260268997098872015-08-08T08:30:00.000-04:002015-08-08T08:30:00.961-04:00On the Road Again<div style="text-align: justify;">
Well, maybe not the road.</div>
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Other than that I'm naturally lazy, when I'm not writing it's because in my spare time I'm having too much of a <i>good</i> time. I'm headed for a big boat with my second son on a father-son adventure to the western Mediterranean. I won't have much in this space for a couple of weeks while I build more source material. A week on a cruise bookended by a couple days each in Barcelona and Rome should keep me going for a while. My last such trip, myself and two other men sweated on a Princess; I'm much less avant-garde these days, there are two of us this time, though my wife planned it all.</div>
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As with any vacation, I had to get myself in a relaxed mood on the first night. <i>What could be better than Mexican food</i>? But "best Mexican food in Duluth, Minnesota" is apparently on par with "best accomodation in a cemetery."</div>
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Will two men sweating through Southern Europe overcome an inauspicious start?</div>
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Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Duluth, MN, USA46.786671899999988 -92.1004851999999846.43861489999999 -92.745932199999984 47.134728899999985 -91.455038199999976tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-29665672137340110592015-07-28T17:15:00.000-04:002015-07-28T17:15:00.584-04:00Harborside at Grand Marais on Lake Superior - Photo Essay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTD8XT62Emvkp6yWSXuMIV08ltjiuQ1CAdlBQzJZWD7aGGka6mK8BhpQZpxO0j6-fjclTxASGTFV4Hl50vBBRYtSe-ViSOWPcw5EafKU-UeUBRKRlsgOzN0x3Bh1RprH1SqI1lum4eTxq8/s1600/11794089_10206219502299222_626724780353978166_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTD8XT62Emvkp6yWSXuMIV08ltjiuQ1CAdlBQzJZWD7aGGka6mK8BhpQZpxO0j6-fjclTxASGTFV4Hl50vBBRYtSe-ViSOWPcw5EafKU-UeUBRKRlsgOzN0x3Bh1RprH1SqI1lum4eTxq8/s640/11794089_10206219502299222_626724780353978166_o.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
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Good things come in small packages. With a population of only 1,340 that’s nestled between the rugged Sawtooth Range and massive Lake Superior, Grand Marais was dubbed “America’s Coolest Small Town” by Budget Travel Magazine for 2015 and was named a Top 100 Adventure Town by National Geographic Adventure Magazine. The city has a fishing heritage that’s reminiscent of New England and the Canadian Maritimes, and local whitefish is a staple on most menus. Today, Grand Marais is a mainstay of summer tourism on Lake Superior's north shore, and one of the region's vibrant artist's colonies.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXRggH_Bhyphenhyphenrr0-cPpyD2Ry7vpkZGWFWA29eP-uAKT_eETflw62j60pq1Zuz4qdOxaPowaHCqe7nqSGr2LWX3aZgUN2Nd4jd1BHxSUI9J2s_hThBfOwOYpWq7jctyvkOmG-0YLr75gl8pmx/s1600/1891462_10206219512499477_3551090090287346160_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXRggH_Bhyphenhyphenrr0-cPpyD2Ry7vpkZGWFWA29eP-uAKT_eETflw62j60pq1Zuz4qdOxaPowaHCqe7nqSGr2LWX3aZgUN2Nd4jd1BHxSUI9J2s_hThBfOwOYpWq7jctyvkOmG-0YLr75gl8pmx/s640/1891462_10206219512499477_3551090090287346160_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The deep, open waters of the greatest lake always stay cold, and their interaction with warm, humid summer air commonly makes for dramatic shoreline fogs in the area of the harbor. If that doesn’t cool you down, there is the excellent frozen custard at Sydney’s, popular with families on summer holiday.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great apes in the mist?</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cooling mists rise up to meet the Sawtooth Range in the distance.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Towards the village of Grand Marais, looking across the harbor from Artist's Point. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The lichen-covered volcanic rocks are reminiscent of the Bay of Fires in Tasmania, or is it the other way around?</td></tr>
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These pictures were taken near and on the jetty between the harbor lighthouse and Artist’s Point. The area can be accessed via the parking lot on the end of Broadway, immediately south of Grand Marais' bustling downtown. The pebbly beach on the spit east of the parking area is an <a href="http://michael-orobona.blogspot.com/2014/09/GrandMarais.html?spref=fb">excellent place</a> to skip stones.<br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">Grand Marais is a very scenic 2-hour drive northeast </span><span style="text-align: center;">from Duluth, Minnesota, </span><span style="text-align: center;">along State Highway 61. Only 1.5 hours southeast from Thunder Bay, it is also a popular day trip for visitors from Northwest Ontario.</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">First-timers may find themselves making a lot of stops, as each bend in the road opens to a better view of the shoreline or unexpected roadside treats. Be prepared for a longer trip in a magnificent landscape, 1.1 billion years in the making.</span></div>
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Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Artists Point, Grand Marais, Minnesota47.7469599174359 -90.333197896834447.744290917435904 -90.338240396834408 47.7496289174359 -90.3281553968344tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-31830331816654024862015-07-12T17:15:00.000-04:002015-07-27T21:52:43.483-04:00Hawai'i's Akaka Falls - Beautiful and Accessible<div style="text-align: justify;">
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The 422-foot (129 meter) tall Akaka Falls on Hawaii's Big Island may be the State's most iconic, a single spectacular drop into a steep, bowl-shaped gorge, in steaming jungle that lushly evokes primeval paradise.<br />
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The entire kid-friendly loop trail (0.4 mile or .64 Km) to Akaka Falls and back to the parking lot takes less than an hour, most of which will be spent observing magnificent Akaka or the smaller Kahūnā Falls. You're sure to think, "I know I've seen this in a movie," and then wonder which one. The word akaka means 'split' or 'crack' in the Hawaiian language, and the falls indeed seem to plunge into a spectacular rift in the earth. The geological explanation is a steep fault and differential stream erosion rates of a'a basalt flows and softer volcanic ash undercut by Kolekole Stream.<br />
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Or you can believe the philandering <i>akua</i> (god) Akaka tripped and fell while rushing to get home from a tryst before his wife discovered his absence, falling to his death upon the grave of a cousin he'd earlier condemned. Evidently the local deities were fairly perishable.<br />
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Anywhere else, cascading Kahūnā Falls would be a showstopper; here she's the homely poor relation. It's best to walk the loop path counter-clockwise from the parking area to see Kahūnā first.</div>
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The area around nearby Hilo is one of the rainiest on earth, and there are many times when mist above the falls' base is crowned with a rainbow. The tourist who tarries too long admiring Akaka will soon be covered in moss like the rocks. The path is paved over its length, probably due to the high risk of erosion otherwise. But there are several stairs at switchbacks, so the park is not wheelchair or stroller accessible. However, there is a distant view of the falls from the parking area.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of Akaka Falls from the parking area</td></tr>
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Be prepared for some of the most rainforest-y tropical rainforest you'll see anywhere. The densely verdant gorge surrounding Kolekole Stream is the jungle I always imagined since boyhood, inspired by Sunday-morning reruns of Johnny Weissmuller's Tarzan movies. Some non-native banana plants and stands of bamboo amidst the native orchids and draping ferns don't detract too much from the illusion of prehistoric verdure.</div>
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Orbicular spider webs, some huge, stretch over the path and along its length, glistening after a rain or in the morning dew, but otherwise transparent. There are so many, one can only imagine some nervous park service intern has the unfortunate job of clearing the path with their face every morning.<br />
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Lot parking is $5 for each vehicle, which includes all the passengers' entry fees. Alternatively, there is ample room for free roadside parking just outside the main entrance, but then there is a charge of $1 per visitor (residents are free). Apparently, the only way to pay less than $5 is for a family to park outside the main entrance and have fewer than three kids. It's kind of a Hawai'i Division of State Parks tax on cars, or families that have exceeded the replacement fertility rate.</div>
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Parking is at the end of Akaka Falls Road (Hwy. 220), 3.6 miles SW of Homomū, approximately an 11-mile (18 km) drive north from Hilo on Mamalahoa Highway (19). On a clear day, travellers heading north from Hilo should have good views of Mauna Kea to the left, crowned with snow and the Keck Observatory.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="450" src="https://www.google.com/maps/embed?pb=!1m28!1m12!1m3!1d120124.4643824802!2d-155.19491725286008!3d19.802281410420928!2m3!1f0!2f0!3f0!3m2!1i1024!2i768!4f13.1!4m13!3e6!4m5!1s0x79524b5a6c97dec9%3A0xc15ba900330c15c6!2sHilo%2C+HI!3m2!1d19.729722199999998!2d-155.09!4m5!1s0x7953ada7ba0c822d%3A0x7a7b50aef1e7b6f0!2sAkaka+Falls+State+Park%2C+Honomu%2C+HI+96728%2C+United+States!3m2!1d19.853965799999997!2d-155.1522357!5e0!3m2!1sen!2sus!4v1436717465034" style="border: 0;" width="600"></iframe>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijMMLVuUXuWAZtJJfWiMc_f1MLtk5zoB-xcUIl726A6iNoWocCUllM5LE08OvjHUbqWh_vzXWxHk40VU8HfK0f9rUSnWXyXUG-_L97xpPHxNBkEHEtXWja1lUg5I6OZnJMjiSnonvDm0DW/s1600/10993453_10205026959606400_6493695923039392697_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijMMLVuUXuWAZtJJfWiMc_f1MLtk5zoB-xcUIl726A6iNoWocCUllM5LE08OvjHUbqWh_vzXWxHk40VU8HfK0f9rUSnWXyXUG-_L97xpPHxNBkEHEtXWja1lUg5I6OZnJMjiSnonvDm0DW/s400/10993453_10205026959606400_6493695923039392697_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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We visited Akaka Falls in February, 2015.</div>
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Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Akaka Falls State Park, Honomu, HI 96728, USA19.853944659839716 -155.1522151334211219.852077659839715 -155.15473663342112 19.855811659839716 -155.14969363342112tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-34723883723990370202015-07-01T18:01:00.001-04:002015-07-01T18:01:12.849-04:00Potato Hedonism in Central New York<div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;">
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A delicious dish is a sensory experience that always takes you back to its place of origin.</div>
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Nineteenth century Irish salt workers in Syracuse, New
York lunched on young potatoes boiled in the brine of natural salt springs
"mined" for production of consumable salt. They inadvertently invented
a regional summertime classic that is unique to the area and proof that the simplest
recipes sometimes deliver the most sublime flavor.<br />
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An overdose of the three deadly sins of the food
pyramid--carbohydrates (simple sugar), salt, and fat--Syracuse salt potatoes are not a
recipe you'll find in the pages of popular fitness magazines or Vogue.
Excluding water, the ingredients list is so simple, it's a wonder the dish is so
little known outside Upstate New York. Simply, small white potatoes in-the-skin
are boiled in a brine that's at least one part table salt to six of water
(about a pound of salt for every four or five pounds of potatoes!), then after
20 minutes the hyper-saline water is drained and the potatoes drizzled
generously with melted butter and perhaps some fresh herbs.</div>
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Sound like simple boiled potatoes? Think again. Salt
potatoes are fair food, and in the United States that means indulgence. The
higher boiling point of the salt water is believed to more thoroughly break down starch in the
potatoes, resulting in an indulgently creamy, denser, almost mashed texture.
And, a salt crust seals the skin of the potatoes and prevents water-logging, yet
ensures that the interiors of the potatoes themselves are not overly salty. The resulting flavor of perfectly seasoned new potatoes is both refined and intense
at the same time.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You're going to need a lot of this, at least one pound salt (.45 kg) per four pounds of potatoes. The volumetric water to salt ratio is about 6:1.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitoQp_rUTmKBTpsCUSv31Pk6fytEx633bnTlBM7WrgG-aUUI_9QCD9TV1pb6BkeGAmSY6NkQZFnuRgA05piF9_EyNxzx2Ubl-7jGLVvc1TqsUq1AdJ59cInKX_tlK4JO2mNo6nSuDjshe0/s1600/10446047_10206039250033028_2833900823238745285_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitoQp_rUTmKBTpsCUSv31Pk6fytEx633bnTlBM7WrgG-aUUI_9QCD9TV1pb6BkeGAmSY6NkQZFnuRgA05piF9_EyNxzx2Ubl-7jGLVvc1TqsUq1AdJ59cInKX_tlK4JO2mNo6nSuDjshe0/s640/10446047_10206039250033028_2833900823238745285_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Notice the rind of salt developing on the rim of the steel pot.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcsiC0VMjW8DOmqZfUoYKkRUQ11krQnYoLhfyVmNbD-YF2fkcxpvQ4u4ICvBgKRfXzm237vR5N__pSSXaYrXPOvEZyI1NEV-wS-Dqf6c4qzBHT8MO9fit7Q_kI08aMSro9dS0JKg8v9Qsi/s1600/10682187_10206039249793022_1488141697831089857_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcsiC0VMjW8DOmqZfUoYKkRUQ11krQnYoLhfyVmNbD-YF2fkcxpvQ4u4ICvBgKRfXzm237vR5N__pSSXaYrXPOvEZyI1NEV-wS-Dqf6c4qzBHT8MO9fit7Q_kI08aMSro9dS0JKg8v9Qsi/s640/10682187_10206039249793022_1488141697831089857_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spattering brine will coat the top of your pot and the surface of your stovetop.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Notice the white salty rind that's developed on the drained and air-drying potatoes. Also, the skin is wrinkly (not a typical characteristic of boiled potatoes), indicating a slight dehydration that contributes to the extra-creamy texture along with the breakdown of starch due to the higher boiling temperature of the brine.</td></tr>
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I used small red potatoes for this demonstration, and results were similar. To be strictly authentic, <a href="http://hinerwadels.com/salt-potatoes/">salt potato kits</a>, which are sold in markets all over Central New York, specifically use Size B, Grade US no. 2 new potatoes. Just stay clear of larger potatoes with thick skins.<br />
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As you lick the melted butter off your fingers, you'll
happily think that deprived supermodels and vegans must live in some unhappy circle of
hell. There will be no leftovers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="text-align: justify;">Upstate New York is the ancestral home of the potato chip
and Buffalo wings. For the region, a side dish of salt potatoes is no less of a
passion during summertime barbecues or picnics. Welcome to Syracuse.</span><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Syracuse, NY, USA43.0481221 -76.14742439999997742.9552721 -76.308785899999975 43.1409721 -75.986062899999979tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-90792173479327731222015-06-25T17:30:00.000-04:002015-07-27T21:53:02.134-04:00Picture of the Moment - Minnesota Misty Summer Morning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsE0ja1VL4d4ifP6hu-Kj74XEc0Lyhd742TT72Hyj5mPZmzTXB1a0X227wcU4w2daCiLieyMjB9oq3JL4mJ2qJf938n51wwUD1xGYQrkWxp5wUadZA-gLuco-k4IJduOQfbzcMwBYFLNCw/s1600/IMG_0771.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsE0ja1VL4d4ifP6hu-Kj74XEc0Lyhd742TT72Hyj5mPZmzTXB1a0X227wcU4w2daCiLieyMjB9oq3JL4mJ2qJf938n51wwUD1xGYQrkWxp5wUadZA-gLuco-k4IJduOQfbzcMwBYFLNCw/s640/IMG_0771.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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An iPhone 6 isn't the best camera, but you use what you have when the moment is magic.Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Hellwig Creek, New Independence, MN, USA46.991848 -92.47855900000001846.970186 -92.518899500000018 47.01351 -92.438218500000019tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-26968832086832732102015-06-21T17:34:00.001-04:002015-06-25T13:16:11.802-04:00Northern Minnesota Wildflowers - Colorful Summer Invaders<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg97G0WkwDc_6bfL7n18fPzIfK0euciJ7aYj9or6hq4XwPE7Hc4ZPrDuh62JhF4SDcDav2joAhe1QPb5hTT_elSiptyETP2eFiZUzbQ9kuL2HmMBbcrK-n_Mullg3lIz80SxxP1jj20-FIX/s1600/11060114_10205933369386078_4329222399763318860_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg97G0WkwDc_6bfL7n18fPzIfK0euciJ7aYj9or6hq4XwPE7Hc4ZPrDuh62JhF4SDcDav2joAhe1QPb5hTT_elSiptyETP2eFiZUzbQ9kuL2HmMBbcrK-n_Mullg3lIz80SxxP1jj20-FIX/s640/11060114_10205933369386078_4329222399763318860_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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It's late spring or early summer in northern Minnesota, <a href="https://www.minnesotawildflowers.info/page/flowers-by-color">wildflower season</a>. Roadside and forest meadows burst forth in early June, heralding the short growing season. It's a vibrant explosion of color, where some of the most prominent blooms are expatriates. We humans are not the only world travellers. Duluth, on Lake Superior, is the natural base from which to set out and appreciate the display. The great port on the greatest of lakes was also the entry point for these beautiful invaders.</div>
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Some, like Queen Anne's lace (<i>Daucus carota</i>) and common lilac (<i>Syringa vulgaris</i>), are widely regarded as naturalized and generally don't pose a threat to native species. Queen Anne's lace, the ancestor of cultivated carrots, has an edible root (when young) but can easily be confused with poisonous hemlock (so I won't show a picture of it, lest I court Murphy's Law).</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglG3wmCaVs_pGnYdt0jjsYTW1RsoIdKoqye3GZswQDUfBIHfU5jlsMR5RcF16tg9gU1ys4nEA3aLq6kuo2SG8ViJS6M7hUDLtfNm3DRQm2srhXQmx2vJ4fNJ5SEu0dArs9w2GV3MTM79TQ/s1600/IMG_0746+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglG3wmCaVs_pGnYdt0jjsYTW1RsoIdKoqye3GZswQDUfBIHfU5jlsMR5RcF16tg9gU1ys4nEA3aLq6kuo2SG8ViJS6M7hUDLtfNm3DRQm2srhXQmx2vJ4fNJ5SEu0dArs9w2GV3MTM79TQ/s400/IMG_0746+%25282%2529.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The lilac is so common in domestic gardens throughout North America, it's easy to forget this non-aggressive immigrant originated in the Balkans.</td></tr>
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Others, like the orange hawkweed (<i>Hieracium aurantiacum</i>), are highly invasive. Non-native plants were typically imported for aesthetic reasons or some value to humans, usually to the detriment of the native populations. While much may be lost, isn't it in the nature of <i>our </i>species to modify the environment? <i>Homo sapiens</i> is an agent of inexorable change, which will come sooner or later to a world that's never been static. How similar it is to the age-long clash between new and indigenous cultures. Will some unexpected beauty yet come out of it? It's an interesting philosophical question. Yet, while I admire the beauty of what is, I wonder what was lost.<br />
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The Glaucus King-devil (<i>Hieracium piloselloides</i>) is a yellow variety in the European hawkweed family that often grows alongside its orange cousin. It's another import; conservationists might consider King-devil an appropriate name..</div>
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Another common roadside flower is the large-leaved lupine (<i>Lupinus polyphyllus</i>), which is in fact native to the western United States. It was intentionally planted in gardens and along roadsides along the north shore of Lake Superior. The pea-shaped petals are typically a vibrant indigo or violet, but pink and white are also common. One of the most beautiful displays--or is it an infestation--is immediately adjacent to an "adult" shop just outside of the city. Apparently, porn is beneficial for the growth of non-native flowers. Who knows what they are fertilized with?!</div>
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The ox-eye daisy (<i>Leucanthemum vulgare</i>) is another European import. How many people assume such common flowers to be native? As with the lilac, perhaps the secret is with the suffix of its latin name, <i>vulgare</i> (common). These flowers are so common it's natural to think they have been part of the environment from time immemorial.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_G1Vl89EivJM2aucd2h_NgPfz0v6SHSFZ0tLHn3mCNBMqnhyphenhyphen4KCLjupOXCAXYzZFPT_qlMNlDcvC88_eikZLFQZgXG_zu1cUn-NrK9z7C61yzWqrPLv3K-L_9H62F0sX2cIqoFVJ4rZ66/s1600/10259064_10205933614912216_306496875393119368_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_G1Vl89EivJM2aucd2h_NgPfz0v6SHSFZ0tLHn3mCNBMqnhyphenhyphen4KCLjupOXCAXYzZFPT_qlMNlDcvC88_eikZLFQZgXG_zu1cUn-NrK9z7C61yzWqrPLv3K-L_9H62F0sX2cIqoFVJ4rZ66/s640/10259064_10205933614912216_306496875393119368_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tall buttercup (<i>Ranunculus acris</i>). There are approximately 15 native buttercup species in Minnesota. This common immigrant isn't one of them.</td></tr>
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Together, the mix of flowers can make for a spectacular display of color. The immigrants tend to like each other's company.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfzBpFY_izbYYhMHDklKbRSEujHbBmg62xSrvZdRKmGtkePVwCF6Yh_VaaSJZeMWi33KDuv1pHgQU4uaYar8NWT8Beixh75cW-eRMIEocgw2rKdQ_RzTr7pSYOvyQh-Ll3nSNG6U_p_NFP/s1600/11411648_10205933416587258_855944094714004481_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfzBpFY_izbYYhMHDklKbRSEujHbBmg62xSrvZdRKmGtkePVwCF6Yh_VaaSJZeMWi33KDuv1pHgQU4uaYar8NWT8Beixh75cW-eRMIEocgw2rKdQ_RzTr7pSYOvyQh-Ll3nSNG6U_p_NFP/s640/11411648_10205933416587258_855944094714004481_o.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>E pluribus unum</i>.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFcv_SvdPARa2yz3oZ72xkI624qTLJUyB8nxRTCLcqhDHWRfmXIPd5udd5Pc56Thg65DFK4lm0y-Hjw83bwXND1glaLj1_iygziABSK-WdRAoweD02tzCS6bfdRZwPLzMfGeG4JlbZ6UJn/s1600/10481128_10205933417147272_598798977438163866_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFcv_SvdPARa2yz3oZ72xkI624qTLJUyB8nxRTCLcqhDHWRfmXIPd5udd5Pc56Thg65DFK4lm0y-Hjw83bwXND1glaLj1_iygziABSK-WdRAoweD02tzCS6bfdRZwPLzMfGeG4JlbZ6UJn/s400/10481128_10205933417147272_598798977438163866_o.jpg" width="266" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaZa5RJVfH_V0g-MI5hNai-eM1j37bEHrIbSIk6gkMH4SAp4eHwOhpY1mEgpJ2cRIBKnE3_t7Zb7Dqfsnfy2ei8A7i4KihbdPLvyGCDDiEm6zV9WgSFit16N6NNMsBlwY_dV-ZKe_jdSYV/s1600/11242792_10205933412187148_4236167595666277142_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaZa5RJVfH_V0g-MI5hNai-eM1j37bEHrIbSIk6gkMH4SAp4eHwOhpY1mEgpJ2cRIBKnE3_t7Zb7Dqfsnfy2ei8A7i4KihbdPLvyGCDDiEm6zV9WgSFit16N6NNMsBlwY_dV-ZKe_jdSYV/s400/11242792_10205933412187148_4236167595666277142_o.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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Some non-native plants have colonized other environments, such as streambanks. One such immigrant is the Forget-me-not (genus <i>Mysotis</i>).</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH6KlvmzQKQJ3YP6bjlkkX6lOgKomfs9a0L9LTkVVFkvEax5CZWczu1sIBlbwAUjXfmET0gPrP2N-MGctPnlz0SxtPEmEpDwuTWs2c30ovTDfREZqST6Y2mYuSa7xAD6bIE17NU_b4AhzK/s1600/11147220_10205933376986268_3201080458662238676_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH6KlvmzQKQJ3YP6bjlkkX6lOgKomfs9a0L9LTkVVFkvEax5CZWczu1sIBlbwAUjXfmET0gPrP2N-MGctPnlz0SxtPEmEpDwuTWs2c30ovTDfREZqST6Y2mYuSa7xAD6bIE17NU_b4AhzK/s400/11147220_10205933376986268_3201080458662238676_o.jpg" width="266" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnkv2SQN6fVyah9c-4Pu5J2qOf_Nwnptu6TFgp_nIOSbcK2PCXY53glusSIFxObWiSYaTfXP1QKXtPTE_K3LaBmL2CgqLtn9S98fL2E8bU5wkV9Yrb-202TH9aqC8XB3de_rYUmFbI3ga/s1600/IMG_0724+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnkv2SQN6fVyah9c-4Pu5J2qOf_Nwnptu6TFgp_nIOSbcK2PCXY53glusSIFxObWiSYaTfXP1QKXtPTE_K3LaBmL2CgqLtn9S98fL2E8bU5wkV9Yrb-202TH9aqC8XB3de_rYUmFbI3ga/s400/IMG_0724+%25282%2529.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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There are, of course still many beautiful examples of native flowers, such as the harlequin blueflag (iris), <i>Iris versicolor</i>, and the prickly wild rose (<i>Rosa acicularis</i>). Some, like the wild strawberry (<i>Fragraria virginiana</i>), are nature's bounty. Where people are, there are the invasive species. To see the endemic wildflowers, one has to get off the beaten path, which happily is never more than a stone's throw away in the Northland.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harlequin blueflag.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Prickly wild rose.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Canada anemone (<i>Anemone canadensis</i>).</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMEm8ZVf8v2Kqw3qgxd-sRJnG-EI0n2Cj06LCfJ2XPRQK0XjU4uEaV_YjMQoKOhZq6fPxBNx9hAo3FzjNLf2U3Ut_Xs1M-EVfEqr1DfUZt83rZe7l9BOn4RU-yGgiHdD0CCAB7jqdlFWB5/s1600/10333794_10205933375546232_4741289464925158322_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMEm8ZVf8v2Kqw3qgxd-sRJnG-EI0n2Cj06LCfJ2XPRQK0XjU4uEaV_YjMQoKOhZq6fPxBNx9hAo3FzjNLf2U3Ut_Xs1M-EVfEqr1DfUZt83rZe7l9BOn4RU-yGgiHdD0CCAB7jqdlFWB5/s640/10333794_10205933375546232_4741289464925158322_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A colony of bunchberry (<i>Cornus canadensis</i>)in flower.</td></tr>
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If you live on the other side of the world and can't make it here, the <a href="http://michael-orobona.blogspot.com/2014/08/MingeneWildflowers.html">Western Australian wildflower</a> season begins in only a couple short months (August-September). The Australian continent is another place that's seen the conflict of indigenous and exotic species and cultures. Meanwhile, whether you are in North America or Europe today, the spread of exotic species means there is much likeness in a change of scenery.</div>
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Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com0Duluth, MN, USA46.786671899999988 -92.1004851999999846.43861489999999 -92.745932199999984 47.134728899999985 -91.455038199999976tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3500326057541054804.post-75108043284537365472015-06-15T21:57:00.000-04:002015-06-18T14:04:29.535-04:00Support Your Local Red Cross Heroes<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAFfgtMk1LcmpVKCXCOil6lL_C4PjlJ_1jGn0WAyLMfbiAVl92SNldABoxaXiGWZsWpC-i06fdnEXa2UmAG2wKS5zYgpnjOCZEspYZCUArFivnpF-8IUSUc0mT5iMs4IP5rzSnGLC-kZwh/s1600/ARC-Oklahoma-helpOPT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAFfgtMk1LcmpVKCXCOil6lL_C4PjlJ_1jGn0WAyLMfbiAVl92SNldABoxaXiGWZsWpC-i06fdnEXa2UmAG2wKS5zYgpnjOCZEspYZCUArFivnpF-8IUSUc0mT5iMs4IP5rzSnGLC-kZwh/s400/ARC-Oklahoma-helpOPT.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oklahoma tornado relief from responsibility.lowes.com</td></tr>
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Hello friends around the world. As you may have recently seen, I am now a "Social Advocate" for the American Red Cross in Minnesota. As a frequent traveller, I am aware that any any moment I may need to rely on the emergency services provided by the Red Cross at home or abroad.</div>
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I'll be attending the 2015 Minnesota Red Cross Heroes Breakfast to be held at the Radisson Blu <a href="http://www.mallofamerica.com/">Mall of America</a> in Minneapolis (Bloomington) this Thursday, June 18 from 7-10 am CST. This inspiring event will honor everyday people who helped others during a time of great need. See their stories <a href="https://minnesotaredcross.wordpress.com/2015/05/11/gathering-to-honor-everyday-heroes/">here</a>. If you're in Minnesota, you can register for the event <a href="http://rdcrss.org/1G4f2vS">here</a>.</div>
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If you have a Twitter account, please consider retweeting messages I post (from @MichaelOrobona ) or those from others on the team during that time (Thursday, June 18th from 7-10 am CST), so we can keep the hashtags for the breakfast -- #RedCrossHeroes and #MNRedCross -- trending! Or, please share my related <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Likeness-in-a-Change-of-Scenery/1416739618617235">Facebook</a> posts between now and the event (and after).</div>
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Be a hero. Consider <a href="https://www.redcross.org/donate/nn0215-d?flow=oc1&loggedIn=false">supporting your own local Red Cross chapter</a>, whether by giving blood, time or treasure. You may need it someday.</div>
Michael Orobonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00550442641158621860noreply@blogger.com02100 Killebrew Drive, Bloomington, MN 55425, USA44.8529116 -93.24174819999996119.3308771 -134.55034219999996 70.3749461 -51.933154199999962