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Chapter III.A - India

The Voyager sailed west from Burma to ports on the Indian subcontinent. Until the middle of the twenti-eth century, India was part of the British Empire. After World War II the Indian Empire was divided into two independent countries, India and Pakistan, in order to minimize religious strife between Muslims and Hindus, but the opposite happened. Terrible wars and threats of war continued between the two nuclear powers up until our first arrival in India in 2006.

It could be argued that India’s Hindus Valley was the cradle of civilization. Writing, art, and science pros-pered from about 3000 BC. Some of the world’s most important religions started there. Hinduism dated from 4000 BC and Buddhism from 700 BC. (For some reason, Buddhism was never adopted in India as it was in coun-tries to the East.) Kingdoms scattered across India were constantly at war, and occasionally one warlord ruled over the whole subcontinent. In 1100 AD Arab Mus-lims invaded and controlled the north. About 1600 AD Mughals invaded and controlled all of India. Starting as early as 1400 AD, strong European powers established trading centers along the seacoasts, often using force. Today India is a bewildering mixture of races, religions, dresses, languages, and tribal loyalties. With over one billion people, about one sixth of the people on earth live in India. She is also world’s largest democracy and the “I” of the economically promising BRIC countries.

Cochin – Cochin is a major seaport on the Ara-bian Sea coast. The port was important in the Middle Ages for spice trade, and it was heavily influenced by Christian traders. Today Hindus are 47 percent of the population and Christians 35 percent, with Muslims only 17 percent. At one time there was a small commu-

nity of Jews, almost all of whom have left, but Jew Town was still a major tourist attraction. Della and I visited the only remaining synagogue there. Shopping in Jew Town was poor. There wasn’t much variety and available goods were overpriced.

Della and I took a van from the dock to an ancient twin-hulled, wooden riverboat propelled by an old auto-mobile engine. The boat was on a damned and quite calm river surrounded for the most part by jungle. We boarded for a three-hour river cruise to a rubber planta-tion for lunch. On a tour of the plantation, we saw how latex was extracted from a rubber tree. Slanted cuts in the bark oozed white, sticky sap, which flowed along the cut and into collecting cups.

More interesting to me was tapioca. I had no idea of the origin of that popular pudding we eat. The plant from which it is derived looked similar to an elderberry, a semi-woody plant growing to about six feet high. What we eat from a tapioca plant comes from the root, which, when pulled, looks like a group of long, skinny, brown potatoes. These roots are washed, dried, and powdered to make tapioca. Who’d of thunk it?

People used the river as a major highway, parking and locking up bicycles at ferry piers, presumably to come back later on their return trip.

Along the river I saw fifteen-foot-diameter fishing nets, each suspended from four sixteen-foot-long tim-bers, the center of the nets weighted with rocks and lowered into the river. An intricate system of counter-weights made it possible for a crew of three or four men to lift the net up from the river. Every few hours fisher-men pulled on ropes, huffed and puffed, and hoisted the net. I never saw anything caught.

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Della and I took a van back to the ship and pre-pared to sail north along the west coast of India.

The Sunglasses Incident – Back on Voyager the next day, Della was quite upset. “Jim, I think I left my sunglasses in La Veranda this morning.”

“Go ahead and get them. I’ll be at the bridge game.”So Della left our cabin and went to the informal

restaurant on the eleventh deck. Lunchtime was over and cleanup was almost finished. She approached the manager. “I think I left my sunglasses on table thirteen this morning.”

“Oh yes, Mrs. Daughton. I thought you might come back for them, but when you didn’t, I took them to Lost and Found at the Reception Desk. They should be waiting for you.”

So Della took the elevator to Deck Five and approached Jean at Reception. “You should have a pair of Chanel sunglasses I left in La Veranda.”

“We don’t have any sunglasses now. We did have a pair that came down from La Veranda, but another pas-senger signed for them. What did they look like?”

“The frames were white with gold highlights. I hope we can get them back.”

“I thought that woman acted strange when we asked her to sign for them,” said the receptionist. “Leave it to us. We will contact her.”

She picked up a phone. “Hello, Mrs. Sanchez, you know those glasses you signed for this morning. Are you sure they were yours?”

Mrs. Sanchez must have said something unpleasant on the phone, indicating in no uncertain terms that of course they were hers. Jean hung up.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Daughton. I’m not sure what to do. Do you have a picture of the glasses so we can identify them further?”

“I don’t think so. What else can I do?”“We’ll turn this over to Security. We’ll get back

to you.”Distraught, Della told me the whole story back in

the cabin. “Wait a second,” I said. “I took a picture of you in Burma. I think you were wearing the sunglasses.”

I hooked the camera to our PC and loaded the pic-ture of Della in her Chanels. I enlarged it, loaded it on a CD and printed it in color on the ship’s printer, and gave it to Della.

“That’s them for sure,” said Jean.“I recognize them, too,” said Roberta. “I was at the

desk when Mrs. Sanchez took them.”The Regent security man didn’t look the part. He

was short and portly, and only his white uniform with gold braid gave him any sort of authoritative appearance. Accompanied by Della and Roberta, who could speak Spanish, they went to Mrs. Sanchez’s cabin door and buzzed.

Mrs. Sanchez came to the door and opened it a crack.

Roberta asked in Spanish, “Would you mind show-ing us the glasses you signed for this morning?”

Mrs. Sanchez grunted something, shut the door, and returned handing Roberta an ordinary pair of read-ing glasses.

“No, the glasses you signed for,” said Roberta.Mrs. Sanchez uttered some Spanish profanity and

slammed the door.“What did she say?” asked Della.“You don’t want to know,” said Roberta.“It’s up to the captain now,” said Mr. Security.Room service searched Mrs. Sanchez’s suite when

she was went to supper. They didn’t find the sunglasses.“Just pay Mrs. Daughton for the glasses,” said Cap-

tain Dag with a sigh.Della was paid $450 from the ship. She had bought

them for $600, but they were four years old, and she thought the settlement fair. Of course, that didn’t make up for the mental aggravation.

The case of the stolen sunglasses was related to Nicky and Bob Goode and John and Pat Doyle, two couples we considered close friends. Della was obviously shook up over the whole incident, and our friends might have been tempted to harass Ms Sanchez.

We thought it odd that someone with enough money to sail on an upscale world cruise would steal used sunglasses.

“Not so unusual,” said our steward. “Last year there was a rich kleptomaniac woman who would take silver-ware from the dining rooms and items from the store every sea day, mostly jewelry, and the next morning the staff would take it all back. It was sort of a game. Some people just have a disease.”

Paris Sanchez reigned over a small cadre of LOLs (little old ladies). We noted that her whole bunch would stare at us and sometimes point and chatter.

Our friend Nancy called us. “Could I come see you?” she asked.

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“Sure, we’re both here.”Nancy explained that Mrs. Sanchez was consider-

ing suing us and the cruise line for harassment. We were aghast.

“What does she want now, the case for the glasses?” said Della.

“She is guilty beyond any doubt,” I said. “What does she say about the sunglasses?”

“She says that any person as rich as she is wouldn’t take a pair of sunglasses. That would be ridiculous. She has so many pairs already. She is rich and very pow-erful in Puerto Rico. And she claims to be constantly harassed. She is really serious about suing you.”

So we went to see Captain Dag. “Don’t worry. Secu-rity has tracked phone calls to her suite, and we know that you and your friends are not the ones bugging her. She has had other problems on this ship, and her old ene-mies have been taking advantage of this opportunity.”

For the remainder of the cruise we tried to avoid her. On a ship with about 600 passengers, it is really difficult to avoid one of them in the passageways, on elevators, in dining halls, at the theater, on tenders going from ship to shore and returning, on tour buses, or in bathrooms. To make matters worse, her cabin was on our deck. I was upset by the whole experience, but Della even more so. Her appetite wasn’t good for the rest of the trip.

I dreamed I knew what happened to the sunglasses. A fisherman off the Indian coast saw something shine in his net. He bent over and picked up a corroded pair of Chanel sunglasses.

Goa – This is the smallest state in India, roughly forty miles on a side. Its largest city is Vasco da Gamma, which might hint at a Portuguese influence. The reli-gious mix was 66 percent Hindu, 27 percent Christian, and 7 percent Muslim. The Jews were all gone after the inquisition in about 1500 AD.

The heavy port traffic carried industrial materials like coal and iron ore.

Seven Seas Cruises arranged for a nice lunch for world cruisers at a hotel. There was a circus there just for us. Clowns and tumblers performed in garish cos-tumes. But the show wasn’t worth the hot two-hour bus trip each way.

Back on the ship Della packed our suitcases for our trip from Mumbai to New Delhi, Agra, and the Taj Mahal.

Two years later we docked in Goa a second time,

Della and I didn’t get off the ship.Bombay (Mumbai) – In 2006 Della and I took the

Voyager to Bombay. We spent most of the morning rid-ing a bus to the airport, waiting for an airplane to New Delhi, and then waiting for another bus to Agra. It is about a thousand miles from Bombay to New Delhi in the north of India.

Bombay had about eighteen million people. While there, I spent a lot of time looking out of bus win-dows. There were crowds of brown people, dressed in all manner of clothing. Bearded Sikh men with turbans stood out.

The traffic was mainly cabs and cars with some buses, bicycles, and motorbikes. This is in sharp contrast to other big Asian cities we had visited where motorbikes dominate. In Bombay the traffic was super dense, with a constant contest to get ahead but to avoid collisions. Vehicles proceeding through traffic reminded me of fly-ing geese continually honking to let the others know where they are and when they intend to cut in. The dominance of car and cab traffic was an indicator that India may be getting more prosperous than other Asian countries.

But what I remember most was garbage. Piles of refuse lay on both sides of the road and along streams. In poorer neighborhoods, homes with no sewer systems squatted over ditches, receiving human waste directly from above. Animals, particularly cattle, roamed free in the streets.

Agra - In Agra we checked into a first-class hotel for lunch, and then set off to visit the Taj Mahal, one of the world’s most famous landmarks, attracting eight million tourists annually. We got on a bus toward the Taj, but had to get off that bus and get on a battery-op-erated bus. No gasoline motors are allowed near the Taj for pollution reasons.

As we transferred to the electric bus, we were accosted by swarms of little brown people, both adults and children, all trying to sell some trinket or piece of clothing. “One dollar. One dollar,” was a common refrain.

The same mayhem transpired on our exit from the electric bus to get into the security lines for entering the Taj area, one line for males and another for females. Finally we got past the walls and into the grounds around the Taj.

It was really magnificent, to be sure. The funer-

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ary mosque was built by Shah Jahan about 1653 AD in memory of his third wife, Mumtaz. The buildings were constructed of white marble inset with occasional semi-precious jewels. Four minarets each about sixty feet high formed a square at the corners of a garden area with a central domed building in the center which contained the actual tomb. Extensive lawns, flowers, and reflecting pools provided excellent background for this architec-tural marvel. Della made it a point to sit on the same bench Princess Diana sat on at one time.

There were some disappointments, too. There was a little trash lying around and water pools contained some algae. Then inside the crowded mosque, body odors from sweating visitors were sickening. But we got to check off the Taj Mahal from our “to visit” list.

We went back through the lines to the electric bus where skinny brown arms of beggars and merchants thrust in through any open bus window. Then we boarded the gas bus and got back to the hotel for supper. A classic Indian meal was served outside. A drummer and an Indian guitar played music and there was folk dancing with Della taking part. That evening we were told,” You really haven’t seen the Taj in all its glory until you see it at sunrise.” So we went to bed early for a wake-up call at 5: 00 AM.

We got up and endured the transfers from gas bus to electric bus starting at 5: 45 AM. Things went much better at the Taj in the early morning. There were fewer hawkers and shorter lines. Then the sun came up, giv-ing the white marble a golden glow with an occasional sparkle from a jewel. The place was beautiful. We stayed there for about an hour ogling and taking pictures, and then got back on the electric and gas buses to the hotel for breakfast.

I took a tour of an ancient fort and Della went on a shopping tour. I saw the cell in which Shah Jahan, the builder of the Taj, was imprisoned by his third son and sixth child, Aurangzeb. That son was the most fierce and successful of the shah’s sons, and he felt compelled to rule absolutely when he assumed the throne. The poor father was still able to stare from his prison cell, look-ing across the Yamuna River to see what he had built. After his death, a daughter saw to it he was buried next to Mumtaz.

I also saw how they weaved beautiful rugs, both silk and wool. If Della had been there, we might have bought one. Monkeys ran wild in trees around the fort’s gate.

While Della was on her shopping tour, a young Indian boy showed Della an elephant carved from a light-green stone. The sides of the elephant were carved as a lattice, and visible inside that elephant was another, smaller carved elephant. She couldn’t figure out how it could be made.

“How much?” Della asked.“Five dollars, Madam,” the boy replied.“How about two?” Della asked.“No, Madam, but maybe four.”“How about three?”“OK, Madam.” He handed the carving to Della.Tender-hearted Della gave him five one dollar bills.

His brown eyes bloomed open wide in surprise. “Oh thank you, Madam,” he said. Bright white teeth shone from dark-brown face.

We went back to the hotel for lunch and took a bus to the airport in Agra to stand in more lines. After a two-and-a-half-hour airplane ride back to Bombay and the hour-plus ride to the ship, we re-boarded Voyager. We scrubbed off India with hot showers and had a drink with dinner. An Elton John impersonator was the show in the Constellation Theater. We were too tired to go, but we heard he was good.

India still had many poor people living in filth. Beggars were ever present. Some were young girls car-rying hungry-looking babies. Cows and goats and water buffaloes were in the streets. We had lectures on the ship about India’s rapid financial progress and how wealth was being spread across the country. The trickle down of wealth did not appear to be working as well as we had been led to believe.

Mumbai (Bombay) - Two years later Della and I visited Bombay for a second time. It was hot—90 degrees Fahrenheit and 90 percent relative humidity. More than one hundred ships crowded the harbor. On the pier thousands of Tata cars were lined up like an army in for-mation, ready for export. We were docked next to an old British aircraft carrier, which served as a museum. The tower at the terminal had two clocks—both stopped. I rented a computer to send my journal home. The mouse pad was sticky and dirty. I washed my hands thoroughly after using it.

Della and I spent most of our time on this visit shopping with our friends, Bob and Nicky Goode and John and Pat Doyle. In Bombay bargaining is a way of life. A two-mile cab ride could cost one dollar or three

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dollars, depending on negotiations. Street vendors sold everything: all kinds of jewelry, sugar cane juice, hot food items, books. Almost nothing was fixed price.

Fortunately, John and Bob relished bargaining, thus saving me the trouble. They even negotiated the prices of very short cab rides, trying to get fares down from seventy-five cents to sixty cents, and usually succeeding. Small, old cabs were big enough for only three passen-gers, one in the front passenger seat and two in the back seat. We traveled in a group of six, with three men in one cab and three women in the other. We always insisted that the drivers could speak English.

From street venders we bought some gold-and sil-ver-colored expanding metal necklaces and bracelets, which happened to be popular in the US. We paid about one-fourth the asking prices by buying large quantities, thirty of the necklaces and twenty of the bracelets. To gather the total quantities, vendors from several blocks around congregated around the chief street vendor we bargained with. Bargaining required quite a commo-tion with a lot of sign language and “No, no” and “Too high.” And “OK, OK.”

We paid two dollars each for the necklaces and one dollar each for the bracelets. Della had seen the necklaces priced at twenty dollars in Minneapolis. We divided the

purchases among us.Our group of six took cab rides to the Taj Mahal

Palace Hotel, where for many years experienced travelers bought linen shirts (and pants and blouses). Typically, shoppers bought several items, taking advantage of the best place in the world to buy linen garments. I bought one shirt and Della bought nothing. The Doyles and the Goodes stocked up. We took a cab to the Oberoi Hotel for a great Indian lunch and some more shopping.

The next day we shopped again at the Oberoi and Taj Mahal hotels. Goodes and Doyles bought quite a few silk rugs. We bought a couple of jewelry items in honor of our twentieth wedding anniversary.

The garbage and begging situations appeared much improved from 2006, but there were still many begging women with babies on their hips.

Tired out from two days in Bombay, Della and I had dined in our cabin while we sailed from India for the last time.

A few months after our visit, Muslim extremists from Pakistan entered the Oberoi and Taj Mahal hotels and killed over one hundred people. I watched news reports on TV thinking about the horrors Della and I might have faced.

Land-anchored fishing nets, Cochin, India.

Roots of tapioca plants are dried and powdered for our puddings. Cochin, India.

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Goa provided a circus for world cruiser entertainment.

Della and author at the Taj Mahal, Agra, India.

Typical garbage scene in Mumbai, India.

Mumbai street-shopping is very crowded.

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Chapter III.B - Dubai, Oman, and Petra

Dubai – Voyager sailed through the Strait of Hormuz into the Persian Gulf. Countries on the gulf produce about one fifth of the world’s oil, and we met huge out-bound tankers weighed low in the water and headed to global petroleum markets. Dubai was the most pro-gressive and glamorous of the United Arab Emirates. Its population of two million is ruled by Islamic Arabs.

A male Arab band greeted us on the pier in Dubai. Three drummers and six bagpipers wore formal white, full-length robes and white scarves with black head-bands. Except for the rhythmic beat of drums, we might have been in Glasgow.

The port was clean and tidy and, for that matter, it was so everywhere we went in Dubai. Della and I noticed and appreciated the lack of garbage, especially after our recent visit in India.

Dubai was not as rich in oil as many of its sister states in the United Arab Emirates, but she had very high financial ambitions. Her strategy was to establish a place for the oil-rich countries to spend their money, sort of like Las Vegas in the US. Drinking and wild living were frowned on in most Arab countries, but “what happened in Dubai stayed in Dubai.” Some freedom of expression was allowed, elegant restaurants were crowded, and busy retail stores carried the finest goods. No prostitution or drunkenness were allowed in public, but in private, some was very likely.

The city was built along the Persian Gulf, and one major road had to carry much of the eclectic traffic—trucks, cars, buses, and limousines. During rush hours, vehicles made a snail-paced migration toward their even-

tual destinations. Midday and evenings the traffic could still be a little slow, but wasn’t as bad. Our ship provided for shuttle bus service from the port to the city, and once there, cabs were relatively available and quite inexpensive because government-subsidized gasoline cost only one dollar per gallon, one third of the US cost.

“Well, Della, we’re here. What’s first?”The gold souks (shops), of course,” said Della.About fifty souks were located in a few city blocks.

Never had I seen or ever even imagined gold jewelry of the size and quantity in Dubai. Store windows were full of oversized gold jewelry. Some necklaces had two- or three-inch-wide gold bands that hung from the neck most of the way to the navel. Most jewelry was 22-carat gold, 24-carat being pure. And the workmanship was superior. Della bought a pair of earrings and a bracelet, both with intricate engravings. Even using a high-pow-ered magnifying glass, she couldn’t find a flaw.

Gold was shipped from Dubai to India for jewelry production, and then the jewelry shipped back to Dubai for sale. Jewelry was sold by weight, the price almost entirely determined by the market gold value with very little attributed to workmanship. We saw a woman wear-ing a black burka enter a souk, pull out some jewelry from somewhere, and indicate she wanted to sell. The clerk put a scale on the counter, weighed the pieces, pointed to a sign indicating today’s price, and paid the woman. The clerk, who spoke some English, told us that women elsewhere in the region considered owning some gold jewelry a sort of security against being turned away by their husbands.

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Near the port Della and I visited a canvas-covered market that sold fruits, vegetables, meat, and fish, all of which appeared to be of high quality. Although the morning air temperature was about ninety degrees Fahr-enheit, shade furnished by canvas over our heads and breezes flowing through open sides made for a comfort-able visit. The market was very large and quite clean, the best we’d seen on our cruise. At a spice stall we bought a package of saffron. We tried to bargain, but the clerk would have none of it.

“The price is the price,” he said.We found dress-up, fun stuff for our grandchildren,

a little gold camel for Della’s charm bracelet, a silk rug, and a painting in a wood frame inlaid with green jade and red cinnabar. Maybe yet another suitcase would be needed to get all of it home.

From a bus, we saw an amazing variety of build-ings, both completed and under construction. It seemed that any project man could dream up was being built in Dubai. What was to be the world’s tallest building, Burj Khalifa, was rising skyward. When completed it would be over a half a mile high. The unusual shapes and colors of some new buildings seemed inspired by Harry Potter movies. I couldn’t imagine a city better than Dubai for a young architect to practice in.

We went to the Burj Al Arab, rumored to be the most expensive and luxurious in the world. It was “over the top” and referred to as a “seven star” hotel, when a “four star” hotel was considered a top rating. It was built on a man-made island connected by a driveway to shore. Inside was the world’s tallest atrium, 590 feet high. Fountains in the lobby were lined with colorful tiles. From the outside the structure appeared as a giant sail near the shore of the Persian Gulf. Della and I went to the top of the building and looked out over the gulf to see Palm Jumeirah, another example of the really grand building projects in Dubai.

Jumeirah was a collection of small artificial islands created from sand dredged from the gulf floor. An aerial view suggested a palm tree with sixteen fronds extending from a trunk growing from shore, and with a breakwater of rocks encircling the perimeter. The islands spanned a three-mile square area. Hotels, apartments, and beaches made Jumeirah a tourist attraction. Some residences built on the island had docks for ocean-going yachts. A similar project, Palm Jebel Ali, was under construction.

Della and I rode in a car driven by an English-speak-

ing driver. ”How can we find out more about these island properties,” I asked.

“We’ll stop at this real estate office. They have all the information.”

The driver was right. Well-dressed clerks showed us layout of the islands and plats labeling sold and avail-able residential lots. Minimum-sized available lots were priced at about half a million dollars. The salesman said the prices had doubled in just the last year. We didn’t buy.

An even grander project, The World, had been started. It was to be two-and-a-half miles offshore, with the islands formed to represent continents on Earth. The composite of islands was to span an area almost six miles long and four miles wide. We heard that Rod Stewart had already purchased “England.” No fantastic enter-prise in Dubai seemed out of reach.

“Della, do you think this construction mania can last?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “There’s a lot of oil money. What do you think?”

“I think they’ll have trouble,” I said.Della and I took a cab to the world’s largest shop-

ping mall. It was over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit outside, but the mall was pleasantly cool. The stores were nice, more or less like the Mall of America, but the Mall of America didn’t have a ski lift. At the end of the mall we looked through a glass window to see Captain Dag and our cruise director skiing down snow-covered slopes.

“Don’t those two seem to get in the middle of everything new, Jim?”

“Yes, Della. But they do deserve some fun after working eighteen-hour days on the ship.”

As I watched the skiers, I just shook my head, almost in a state of disbelief. I couldn’t imagine the size of the air-conditioning bill.

We took a cab back to the ship before the evening rush hour, and two more ships were in the harbor with the Voyager. One was The Queen Victoria, a deluxe cruise ship twice as big as Voyager, and the other The World, a residence ship where people owned full-time homes and traveled from port to port. Dubai’s strategies were attracting not only Arab oil money, but flocks of tourists from elsewhere as well.

Through our ship we signed up for a desert experi-ence that combined a safari with dinner. A bus ride out into the desert found free camels wandering across the

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highway. We approached our safari location. We were going on a wild trip on a four-wheel-drive vehicle, which had much of the air let out of its tires for better traction in sand. We made it a point to ride with Bob and Nicky Goode and John and Pat Doyle. Our driver led a cara-van of similar vehicles up and over sand dunes.

Once nearing the top of a dune, our driver said, “Look! There’s a camel!”

As we all turned to look, the driver gunned our Toy-ota over the edge. We went into free-fall before crashing into sand. The women screamed.

I muttered a muffled “Wow,” then pretended it didn’t bother me. John and Bob did something similar. Once back on terra firma, we all agreed that the ride was a highlight of our trip. As little children know, it’s some-times fun to be scared.

With the approach of darkness our tour group took a bus to a remote desert yard surrounded by a mud-brick wall. Big wood fires blazed and took away the chill of evening. Canvas roofs overhung walls on two sides of the yard, and tables were set for dinner. The food was amaz-ing, the most memorable being lamb chops cooked over charcoal. Della went back for seconds and then thirds. After-dinner entertainment featured men dancing while tossing around burning torches. As the dark of desert night descended, a crescent moon shone, stars glittered, and charcoal coals glowed. It was a magical scene.

On the bus ride back to Dubai we met many buses with brown faces staring from every window. Arabs, only about 10 percent of Dubai’s population, did no hard labor. The buses carried people who did the actual work in Dubai, immigrant Asians from India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh. They were on their way out to primitive desert encampments for the night. Before sunrise, they would return to the city on these same buses to con-tinue their labors. It was on the backs of these folks that miraculous Dubai was being built.

I re-boarded Voyager, happy to have seen one of the most memorable ports of our cruise. However, I did wonder what life was like in those poor workers’ camps out in the desert.

Oman – Voyager stopped at two ports belonging to the Sultanate of Oman, a country the size of New Mex-ico occupying the southeastern corner of the Arabian Peninsula. Muscat, the capital of Oman, lay just outside the Strait of Hormuz on the Arabian Sea. It had been a trade center since before 700 AD. In the past Oman

was cruelly subjugated by Portugal and Turkey, but it was now an independent country. Our ship arrived at sunrise and sailed past an ancient fort, Al Jalai, guarding the entrance to the harbor. The fort glowed golden in morning sun.

We took a short tour around this city of one million people. There were few tall buildings, most were only two of three stories. All were white to minimize solar warming. There was no trash in the streets. We saw the Sultan’s Palace, but weren’t allowed to get very close.

We had heard that the most interesting place in Muscat was the market.

It was very hot, and Della and I decided to shop at the market the rest of the morning and then return to the cool of the ship for lunch and the rest of the day. From the pier, we walked for a few blocks along the har-bor to an area teeming with pedestrian traffic.

Shopping was fantastic. Roof-covered streets dead-ended at the harbor road. Shops lining these streets sold pashminas (large scarves), purses, shoes, tee-shirts, and saffron. We bought a little of everything, always careful to offer less than half the asking price before reaching a negotiated settlement. Some older Arab men congre-gated on benches, contemplating people going by. One English-speaker complimented Della as being “good looking for a non-Muslim.”

Della was surprised, more shocked than flattered, and she didn’t look in his direction.

It was very hot. Both of us were sweating and thirsty. We were relieved when we got back to our air-conditioned ship.

While leaving the port in the late afternoon we saw what looked like a container ship, but instead of steel containers on its deck, wooden crates were stacked ten deep. A strange and somewhat unpleasant smell was evi-dent on its downwind side. It was a sheep boat. Lamb and mutton are primary meats in the Arab world, often killed as sacrifices, and these animals had do get to the consumer some way. Captain Dag navigated a “three sixty” so all Voyager passengers could get a good look.

The next morning Voyager reached our second stop in Oman, Salalah. Della and I endured long, slow lines getting off the ship and onto a tour bus. The bus was an experience by itself. Driving out into a true desert wil-derness, it broke down twice, once out in the middle of nowhere with a non-mechanic bus driver taking an hour to get it started. Finally a different and more reliable bus

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came along to take us onboard.Our tour guide was a jolly Omani named Ali who

made the whole bus misadventure seem like normal life. He wore a white tunic and a beaded, white, round hat. He was a small man wearing a broad smile. He had ten children and had been married sixteen years to a wife, whom he declared, he loved very much. During the bus problems he maintained that God would look after us. He wasn’t worried. He said that we all worship the same God, we just call him different names. Ali had the women on the bus eating out of his hand. He was the kind of man they had always wished for.

Then Ali said, “I’m thinking of getting another wife.”

Women on the bus let out a collective gasp. “No, no you can’t do that,” said one.

“Why, yes I can,” said Ali. “Islamic law allows me four wives. It doesn’t mean I would love my present wife less. It’s just that after sixteen years it may be time for a new one.”

Ali still held the women captive. For the rest of the tour, individuals and small groups of women tried to talk him out of taking a new wife. Della and I thought he was just having fun.

The bus passed by lovely, but mostly deserted, beaches. Much of the country was very, very dry desert, although some rain fell in the distant mountains. Cam-els, cows, and goats roamed as though wild, but their owners were not far away. They lived in little shacks out some distance from the seashore.

We drove along a highway through desolate desert for some time until we spied some buses and cars parked a hundred yard off the highway. People were studying a lonely little tree, the kind from which frankincense was harvested. Its sap was dried and used in perfumes and incense. Frankincense was one of the gifts the Three Wise Men gave baby Jesus. It was strange seeing all those people around the only little tree for hundreds of yards. I wondered if they would gather there if it weren’t for a biblical reference.

After another hour bus ride across the desert, we continued to the tomb of Job. There were other places in the world that claimed that same honor, but this was Oman’s. Islam had adopted some of its beliefs from Juda-ism and even quite a bit from Christianity. It surprised me, but perhaps shouldn’t have, that the Old Testament story of Job was part of Islamic tradition.

It took a long time and “the patience of Job” to get into a small building with a rectangular hole cut in the floor, but Della and I persevered. The head end of the hole was covered with a green silk scarf with Islamic writing in white, and the rest of the hole covered with a rug of many colors, also inscribed with Islamic writing. That was it. I took a picture.

The bus returned us to our ship, and we sailed on around the Arabian Peninsula for two days to the Red Sea and then into the Gulf of Aqaba.

Petra, Jordan- The Voyager anchored at Aqaba, Jordan, a clean port city of 100,000 people. But Della and I were much more interested in what lay north near the Israeli-Jordan border—the ancient Rose City, Petra. Petra means “stone” in Greek. We were to see why that name was appropriate.

We rode on a van with Bob and Nicky Goode on a two-hour journey across a rocky and sparsely populated desert. The highway seemed in good shape compared to the other roads in the region.

“Do you know how we got this road?” asked Saleh, our driver.

“No,” we chorused.“Saddam Hussein built it for us.”We were surprised that anything good could have

come from that despicable son of a bitch, but he must have wanted it for military purposes. He had been hanged earlier that winter, Iraq never having used the road.

Access to Petra is down from a plateau lying at a considerably higher altitude. Our van parked in amongst other vans, tour buses, and cars. A few bed-and-break-fasts and restaurants were in small city nearby. Next to the parking lot, about twenty stalls sold trinkets, post-cards, and other touristy stuff. It was still early morning, and the stalls were just opening.

“Damn it’s cold up here,” Della complained. “I’m shivering. I’m going to need something to keep me warmer.”

“Me too,” said Nicky, the female half of our travel-ing companions.

“You were warned,” Bob and I chided. “The tour director said it would be chilly early in the morning.”

Nicky and Della both purchased native-style head-scarves and received elaborate instructions from the stall owner on several different ways to wear them. With their heads and shoulders covered, the women were more

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comfortable. We walked to a small plain, maybe twenty acres in area, with young Bedouin men galloping back and forth on horseback. About a half mile away, a trail, Al Siq, led down a narrow canyon to Petra.

“Wanna ride to Al Siq? It’s only five dollars,” said one of the horsemen.

With the sincere hesitancy of genuine tenderfeet, we all decided to ride instead of walk to the head of the canyon. We were each mounted astride a horse with its reins held by a rider on another horse. We took off on somewhere between a brisk pace and a full gallop with the Bedouins taking pleasure in our almost falling off, and we rode to the head of the canyon trail.

When we paid the horsemen, they tried to sell us guide services to the sites down the canyon. We refused, they took money they had earned, and left in a huff, not at all happy. They were very unfriendly.

We took our bearings by studying a site map provided by the ship. Once again, there were rides avail-able—horse carts and burros. All four of us decided to walk two miles on the Al Siq down to the “Treasury” and other historic sites.

We entered the narrow canyon carved by water in ancient times, and we wondered at the steep walls ris-ing two hundred feet above us. The canyon was just wide enough in places for one horse cart, but only pro-viding that pedestrians hugged the canyon walls to let it pass. Blue sky and an occasional cotton-puff white cloud peeked down from high above. The walls, oh the magnificent walls of colored rock! Some were yellow, some orange. Some were mottled of rose and the other two colors. The walls combined with the view overhead added to the sense of being in a long, narrow cathedral. Della and I walked hand in hand, not even whispering. Then a horse-drawn cart would clatter down the canyon, breaking the spell, and we had to cling to the canyon wall to avoid being hit.

Carved in the left-hand wall about chest high was a water trough, no longer in repair. In ancient times, this trough carried water from a reservoir on the plateau above to the desert below for caravans plying the silk trade. This water was a source of economic power for the rulers of the area, and an important reason for the his-toric sites at the foot of the canyon.

We walked carefully and rubbernecked down the canyon, avoiding a few burro riders and horse carts, and the occasional Bedouin rider. The canyon echoed and

amplified the noises from the travelers. Finally, we came to an opening to the mouth of the canyon, and there it was, the most famous structure in Petra, a temple called Al-Khazneh, or “The Treasury.” No visitor can ever for-get his or her first view of The Treasury.

The Treasury was carved eighty feet into a solid rock face. The rock was primarily of a rose color with yellow streaks. Magnificent columns and arches formed the facade, and steps led up from the desert floor. The visible structure was about two hundred feet high and one hundred feet wide, and sand still covered some of the base of the original structure.

It was built by the Nabataeans before the Christian Era. I was in awe of the engineering and artistry needed to create such a masterpiece. The Treasury was deserted and largely covered with sand after Roman times, and was rediscovered by western explorers in 1812. Cur-rently, a half-million tourists visited it every year. Its name really has no good explanation. It appeared in sev-eral movies including Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. It has been named one the New Seven Wonders of the World.

Although Nabataeans were the primary builders of Petra, Egyptian, Greek, Syrian, and Roman civilizations also influenced and added to the site. All built shrines and tombs along the wider and less steep route from The Treasury out to the desert. We strolled along the wid-ened valley leading to the desert floor and viewed many of these edifices, including a Roman theater capable of seating two hundred people.

A tour guide offered to take us to see one of the tombs about a hundred feet up the side of a hill. Nicky and I decided to go, but our spouses thought the journey would be too strenuous. The carved rock of the tomb had much more brilliance than aged, natural stone. It was colored like a kid’s marble with swirls of red, yel-low, and orange. We could see the tomb was empty by looking through a small window about four feet from the ground. The guide scrambled through the window and beckoned for us to follow. Nicky got her upper body through, but her bottom wouldn’t make it. She laughed while helplessly flailing her arms and legs. The guide pushed and I, being cautious not to offend another man’s wife, pulled discretely, and got her back out. Then I went by myself through the window into the small room. The sun shone through the translucent walls displaying the rock’s colors in all their glory. It was like being inside a

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brilliant sunset looking out.We paid the guide and rejoined our group to take

turns riding a camel. Getting on a sitting camel wasn’t hard, but then a camel pitched forward by raising on its hind legs in order to stand, threatening to throw the passenger over its head. When the camel was upright on all fours, the world appeared more stable, but riding the camel was like being in a small boat on a rough lake. Getting off the camel was the scariest part of the adven-ture. When Della’s camel brayed and went down on its front knees, she actually let out a small scream and said “shit” under her breath. She had hoped no one heard her swear, but Nicky said, “Honey, everyone in the valley heard it.”

The string of historic buildings ended as the wid-ened ravine ran into the flat dry sand of the desert. We could look out and see Israel, only two miles away.

Bob and Nicky choose a horse cart for the return to the parking lot, and Della got on a burro. Her long legs nearly touched the ground as she sat on the poor little animal. I walked up the canyon, again viewing its wonders, all the way to the top. It had really warmed up through the morning and afternoon, so we needed a quick stop for liquid refreshments.

Visiting the historic site was fun, but the reasons Petra ranked as a favorite place were the indelible images of the magnificent canyon, the wonderful Treasury, and the brilliantly colorful tombs. We didn’t really want to leave this magical site, but we had to get to a dinner event. Our van drove off to “Little Petra” for a ship-sponsored dinner in the desert, and we were the first guests to arrive.

The layout was impressive: oriental rugs on the sand floor, tables set with white tablecloths, and red lights shining on the walls of rock on two sides of the din-ner area. An orchestra was playing. As guests (about 400 of them) filed in, the lights were out, and candles on the tables furnished only a meager illumination as the mostly old folks shuffled in, some stumbling.

No one got hurt in the dark. But was it cold! The guests were forewarned about the low temperature, but most were unprepared for its extent. A brisk business in headscarves was a boon to the little shops outside the eating area. Guests without headscarves wore their cloth napkins on their heads to preserve some body heat. The food was cold and not very well prepared, so everyone got up and left after the first course. There were no bath-room facilities at the dinner, so we used toilets on buses in which the other guests came. The ship made an hon-est attempt to make the dinner special, but most of us had a good time only by laughing at our misery. At the port, our van driver couldn’t get through Security, so we had to walk some distance to the ship, perhaps a half mile. On the ship, we took a shower and ordered a light meal in our room.

Della and I have often been asked, “What was your favorite place on your cruises?” As you can probably understand, that question is of similar ilk to “What is your favorite song?” or “What is your favorite movie?” It was really not possible to name just one without recall-ing many other serious alternatives. But both Della and I agreed, one place always comes to mind—Petra, Jordan.

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The band greeted Voyager at the dock in Dubai.

Window of a gold souk, Dubai.

The Burj Arab Hotel, Dubai.

Palm Jumeirah, man-made islands, Dubai.

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Covered mall in Muscat, Oman.

Frankincense tree in Oman.

The “Treasury” in Petra, Jordan.

Della and author on camels in Petra, Jordan.

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Chapter III.C - Egypt

Voyager sailed south out of the Gulf of Aqaba and then turned west in the Red Sea in preparation for docking at Safaga, Egypt. Passengers would have the opportu-nity to go cross-country by bus to Luxor, stay overnight, and then return to Safaga. Not everyone felt comfortable about visiting Luxor.

“Della and I need some advice about Egypt,” I said to our dinner companions, Mary and Robert Pierpont. They had cruised around the world for about ten years after he retired as an Exxon executive, and they had vis-ited Egypt several times.

As our waiter poured wine, I continued. “We are somewhat concerned about security in Luxor.”

“Fewer than ten years ago terrorists killed sixty-two tourists there,” said Della. “Should we be worried? Is going there worth the risk? ”

Mary didn’t hesitate. In a southern accent, she asserted, “Don’t worry. Go to Luxor. I understand the ship is planning another dinner this year in the Hebu Temple. Last year that was the best thing on the cruise. I have dreamed about that night ever since.”

Mary, dressed to the nines in a black gown and white pearls for formal night, was bouncy and animated as usual. She was an attractive woman, rather tall with dark hair streaked with white. She carried herself regally, much as she did as a debutante at her “coming out.”

“To good health,” said Mary. We clicked glasses around, and sipped some wine.

“I would agree with Mary,” said Robert in mea-sured East Coast English. “Luxor is just too interesting to miss.”

Robert, graying at the temples, was handsome in his tailored tuxedo. He stood several inches taller than

Mary. She was impulsive and excitable, and it was up to Robert to calm her down, taking care to do so in a loving way.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about security,” con-tinued Robert. “We went that route last year and had no trouble. The Egyptian government has probably over-reacted in order to prevent another massacre. For a few years after that trouble, tourism plummeted. And tour-ism was Egypt’s most important revenue source next to agriculture. She doesn’t have oil like others in this region. So she has taken very strong precautions to pro-tect tourists.”

“We’ll have way more guns on our side than the bad guys,” said Mary.

“We’re going to Luxor,” I said.“I suppose so,” agreed Della.Our waiter brought hor d’oeuvres and took dinner

orders.“Another question for you,” I said. “When the ship

gets to Suez, we have a choice between spending an extra day in Cairo or staying on board and going through the Suez Canal to Port Said.”

“Oh, don’t take that boring trip through ‘The Ditch,’” said Mary.

“What would we be missing?” asked Della.“Well,” said Robert, it is an important waterway.

Over 7 percent of the world’s commerce passes through the canal. It’s over a hundred miles long, but carries only one lane of traffic. Convoys travel to ‘turnout points’ and wait for convoys coming in the opposite direction to pass. That gets a little interesting. It’s slow traveling. Speed limits depend on the type of ship, but they are under ten knots. Once in the canal, the transit takes

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twelve to sixteen hours, but you might wait quite a while to get in queue.”

“It’s a total yawn,” said Mary. “You wouldn’t be missing a thing.”

“One interesting point is the difference between the east and west sides of the canal,” said Robert. “The west side is irrigated by water from the Nile and has a lot of vegetation. The east side is barren desert. After a number of years of Israeli occupation, Egypt regained control of the east side in 1982. But that side is undeveloped.”

“Is Cairo that interesting?” asked Della.“Oh my, yes,” said Mary. “The pyramids, the

Sphinx, the Cairo Museum. Not to be missed.”We finished our dinner with dessert and coffee.

“Thank you very much for your help,” I said to the Pier-ponts. “I guess we’ll see you in Luxor.”

“Robert and I are going to the dance,” said Mary. “Are you going?”

Della said, “No, I’d better be sure we’ve packed enough for two days off the ship.”

As we walked back to our cabin, Della asked, “Jim, are you sure we’re doing the right thing?”

“Yes, Della, there’s nothing to worry about.”The next day Voyager docked at Safaga, Egypt. After

passing through customs, Della and I, along with four hundred fellow passengers, boarded buses bound for Luxor (the ancient Thebes). Leading the eight-bus cara-van out of Safaga was a military vehicle with a mounted machine gun. A similar armed vehicle brought up the rear on the two-and-a-half-hour trip. I didn’t know how fast we were traveling, but I guessed seventy miles per hour. A security man sat in the front seat of every bus, and our guard sat a few rows in front of us. He lay back in his seat and his jacket opened to reveal a machine pis-tol. He quickly sat up and pulled his jacket shut.

Light-brown and pale-rose rock and sand domi-nated the landscape. It bore almost no vegetable matter. We saw two camels in a hundred miles. Along the high-way there were a few individual deserted mud-brick houses and once in a while a small group of them. There were police stops every ten miles or so. At every road intersection stood a man with a gun and radio. At the few small towns we passed through an armed man stood in a lookout nest overlooking the road.

Della squeezed my hand a few times and didn’t say much. Fortunately there was some shopping on the bus to take her mind off potential perils. Marketing entre-

preneurs had made up an alphabet using hieroglyphic symbols to replace each of English’s twenty-six let-ters. Maybe there was some similarity between English and the sound of the original Egyptian. Probably no one really knew. But it didn’t matter. “English” could be written in hieroglyphics, and you could buy tee-shirts or gold cartouches (pendants) with your name (or your loved one’s name) in ancient Egyptian hiero-glyphics. Purchased goods could be picked up at the hotel the next day. Credit cards were swiped and orders sent ahead. Della ordered a gold cartouche for herself, another for a friend, and tee-shirts for each of our seven grandchildren.

All at once when we hit the Nile River Valley, and as if by magic, the land turned green. The world’s longest river (a title disputed by some Amazon advocates) flowed north paralleling the Gulf of Suez. Its source lay four thousand miles to the south at or near Lake Victoria. Looking out the bus window we could see irrigated fields of sugar cane, palm date trees, vegetables of all kinds, bananas, and wheat. There were just a few tractors, but many more donkeys. One poor little gray donkey was completely dwarfed by the huge rack of freshly cut sugar cane it pulled. An Egyptian farmer, whip in hand, sat atop the load.

Ninety-nine percent of Egypt’s people live in the fertile Nile valley, which occupies only five percent of the country’s area. It is an elongated oasis in the middle of a vast desert. This was the heart of Egypt’s ancient civiliza-tion and, still today, is its most important region.

Buses deposited Voyager’s passengers at a modern hotel in Luxor. Armed soldiers in green uniforms stood on either side of the entrance. Our room presented us with marvelous view of the Nile. The Nile appeared bright blue, from the sky’s reflection. Plying the waters were several feluccas, wooden boats with triangular sails looking very much like their predecessors had for thou-sands of years.

My favorite place in the hotel was a backyard court covered in colorful carpets. Both chairs and floor cush-ions were available for sitting. In the rear of the yard next to the Nile was a wood-fired oven used to bake flattened loaves of bread.

After check-in and a good lunch, we visited two temples, the Temple of Karnak and the Temple of Luxor (in town). They were similar. Both were ancient having structures dating from 1400 BC. Round, sand-

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stone columns thirty feet high were built by stacking three-foot-high segments. Ten-foot-high statues of vari-ous important pharaohs were carved with a great deal of detail, much of which was well-preserved. Obelisks carved from more durable rock seemed to have survived the ages well. Hieroglyphs were carved in many rock faces. At one time brilliant paints decorated most sur-faces in the temples, but only a few well-protected areas still showed some of the original color. Time and van-dalism had done extensive damage to the ruins, but the structures still retained much of their ancient dignity. The broad extent of the buildings was very impressive. Each temple area of about five acres was densely covered with ancient treasures.

A few soldiers stood watch outside the temples. But if there were security people inside the temple grounds, they didn’t make their presence known.

At one point in the Luxor temple tour I peaked between two ancient columns toward downtown. The golden arches of a McDonald’s sign stared back.

I thought, A thousand years from now these columns will still be here. MacDonald’s will surely be long gone.

Two things really surprised me about Luxor. One was how many ruins there were. The second was how many people came to see them. There were so many buses! And floating hotels that provided river cruises were lined up three abreast in the Nile in Luxor.

When we returned to the hotel in the late afternoon, Della bought three gold charms for a travel bracelet she was assembling—a camel, the pyramids, and a felucca.

“Sweet Della,” I said, “tonight is the big dinner in the temple. I’ve been hearing that people are getting dressed for the occasion. Why don’t you find something special to wear in that little open-air shop next to the hotel?”

“We were told not to go outside the hotel by our-selves,” said Della.

“Oh, I saw a lot of people from our ship walking on the street,” I said. “”I’ll go with you.”

Della bought an Egyptian-style white cotton dress and a headband with strings of bright-green beads hang-ing down on all sides below the chin. The costume cost twenty-five dollars. She put a raspberry-colored shawl around her shoulders and looked for all the world like a Caucasian Cleopatra.

We saw a golden sunset over the Nile with many feluccas sailing about.

That evening she wore the outfit to the dinner at

Hebu temple. Della’s outfit attracted a lot of favorable comments. One of “Pharaoh’s soldiers,” bare-chested and wearing brass armbands, a short skirt, and leather sandals escorted us from the bus to the temple.

Della and I marched hand in hand across brilliantly colored carpets laid on sand to a big yard surrounded by majestic columns and walls. The “Wedding March” from Aida played over a loudspeaker. Red colored lights illuminating 3,000-year old walls, the view transporting us back to the days of the pharaohs. Walking together with Della felt like getting married and graduating from college and getting a Nobel Prize, all combined.

Della and I were seated around a well-laid table with six other Voyager passengers. A string quartet played Vivaldi’s “The Four Seasons” during dinner. The food, catered from the hotel twenty miles away, was ordinary. But that didn’t matter. A quarter moon was in a dark sky overhead. It was really beautiful.

“Jim,” Della whispered. “Mary was right. We’ll remember this night the rest of our lives.”

“This is unforgettable,” I agreed.After a ride back to the hotel, it took a half hour

to get the accounting straight on Della’s purchases of tee-shirts and cartouches. We finally got to bed about eleven PM.

We arose for an early breakfast, and from the back courtyard of the hotel we viewed twenty, brilliantly colored, hot-air balloons floating over the Nile in the stillness of the morning. If I would label the picture, it would have been with a title quiet.

A half-hour’s bus ride into country growing no veg-etable matter whatsoever brought Della and me to the sere Valley of the Kings—resting place of five hundred years of Egypt’s rulers. In a flat area of perhaps twenty acres, many entrances to tombs angled down some twenty feet or so below the desert floor to rooms below which once held the sarcophagi of pharaohs along with their possessions. Tombs were planned in advance of the passing of the ruler, and partly as a matter of prestige, they were loaded with as much riches as could be found. After a pharaoh was buried, it didn’t take long for grave looters to try to steal whatever treasures they could, and my personal guess is that pharaohs would probably have stolen from their predecessors’ tombs to enrich their own. Could politicians in those days have been less unscru-pulous than today’s? Tutankhamen’s tomb, for whatever reason, was mostly undisturbed when opened in the

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twentieth century by an American, Howard Carter.Della and I toured three tombs including that of

Tutankhamen (King Tut). Each tomb was over 3,000 years old. They were sheltered from the weather better than the temples, and hence writing and paint colors in the tombs were better preserved.

We were walking down a stairway to one of the tombs and had to pass a small group of tourists being lectured by a small, dark-haired woman. The woman was Sandra Bowern, my favorite lecturer from our ship. She was explaining the meaning of some hieroglyphs. That woman was amazing! She knew everything! We passed by without interrupting her talk.

Before getting on back on our bus, I surveyed the area. On the high ground surrounding the valley I counted six men with guns.

Our next stop was Temple Hebu, where we had the fabulous dinner the night before. We saw it differently in daylight. Carved features and brilliant colors appeared that we just couldn’t see the night before.

The bus made two photo stops. One at Queen Hatshepsut’s Temple and the other at the Colossi of Memnon. We didn’t get closer than a quarter mile from the queen’s temple, but did get near the Colossi. Two twenty-foot-high statues of pharaohs on thrones were standing side by side. They weren’t carved from single rocks, but rather were a composite of many carved rocks. Some of these pieces were missing and others looked ready to fall out. I speculated that these statues wouldn’t stand many more years.

We returned to the hotel for lunch and then made the long bus trip back to Sagafa. Security precautions were similar to those taken on the trip to Luxor—lots of guns in front and in back and on our buses.

At the ship we relished a hot shower. Della washed two pairs of brown socks so Jim wouldn’t “look like a dork with black socks” in Cairo. Then we went to cock-tails and dinner with seven other couples to celebrate John Doyle’s sixty-ninth birthday. The dinner was too long, lasting until after 10: 00 PM. It would be a short sail to Suez the next morning, and Della had already packed our suitcases for our overnight stay in Cairo.

We docked about noon at Suez near the south entrance to the canal, and got on buses for the long ride to Cairo. Again we had an armed police escort. There wasn’t a lot to see on the way. It was desert until we reached the Nile Delta on the outskirts Cairo. As soon

as the land could be irrigated, it was intensively farmed.Cairo proper had a population of over eight mil-

lion, making it the largest city in Africa or the Middle East. The total population of the urban area was about twenty million. Cairo didn’t seem as dirty and poor as we were led to believe. The houses were small, and some-times made of scrap materials, but there wasn’t a lot of trash lying about. The average household income was about $3,000 per year, so living standards were low. One thing I noticed was that even the poorest homes had sat-ellite dishes.

We stayed at the Four Seasons Hotel, a really beau-tiful hotel in the heart of Cairo and overlooking the Nile River. Our room was large and comfortable, and every one of the hotel employees was smiling and helpful.

In the afternoon Della and I went to a formal tea, and then, as it was getting dark, we went by bus to the pyramids, which were visible from Cairo, for a laser light show. It was sort of “Disney Land.” You would have thought the pyramids would have been important enough without trying to make them more attractive for tourists. A “fakey” voice blasted over loudspeakers, pretending to be various characters, like one of the pha-raohs and the Sphinx itself, while colored lights played on the pyramids and the Sphinx. To me this show was a sacrilege, unbecoming particularly to the Great Pyra-mid, the only surviving ancient wonder of the original seven that well-traveled Greek tourists just had to see in Hellenistic times.

Then back at the hotel we heard a short talk by the famous Egyptologist, Dr. Zahi Hawas. He said there were over one hundred known pyramids, and he expected to find many more buried in the sand.

Della was very excited to meet him. When I had traveled on business, she listened to Art Bell on late night radio, and Dr. Hawas was a frequent guest. So we intro-duced ourselves. He was swarthy and stocky and wore a tweed sport coat a little too large. I took advantage of the meeting to broach a frequently asked question. “Dr. Hawas, does anyone really know how the pyramids were built?”

“Yes,” he said. “I do.”“How did they do it?”“Read my book,” he responded, and he walked away.Della and I had a very nice supper and then went

to bed.We woke up early and looked out over our bal-

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cony to see fishermen plying their trade in the Nile. We ordered coffee in our room. It was accompanied by a fresh red rose in a vase. A carafe and two cups was placed on a small table on our balcony. Della and I sat in chairs on either side and drank the best coffee of the trip, maybe the best coffee of our lives. A splendid view of the city may have helped make the coffee special.

After a hearty hotel breakfast we took a tour bus to a mosque, which was built about 1850. Ninety percent of Egyptians are Muslims, but they don’t inflict as severe punishments for violations of The Law that other Arab countries, like Saudi Arabia does. We saw another mosque on the horizon dating from about the year 1000 AD.

The Cairo Museum was very crowded. We had to shuffle around like penguins for an hour to get a good look at King Tut’s famous golden mask that over-lay his mummy, and many other contents of his tomb. Although this and other displays of Egyptian antiquities were fascinating, it was a relief to get out of the crowd and back on the bus for a trip to see the Sphinx and the pyramids in daylight.

The pyramids are so close to Cairo that the city’s automobile fumes may be attacking the structures and contributing to their deterioration. Our bus took its place among the other hundred in the parking lot, and Della and I joined a steady stream of visitors. We were met by vendors hawking miniature statues of the famous struc-tures, and camel drivers offering rides. The Sphinx, the three main pyramids, and several smaller pyramids (much the worse for wear) were within easy walking distance.

The largest three pyramids were built about 4,500 years ago, probably as tombs for pharaohs. The largest, the great Pyramid of Khufu, was almost 500 feet high. Huge limestone rocks were used in its construction, but despite Dr. Hawas’s assertion, the methods used are still a mat-ter of conjecture. Modern attempts to duplicate building techniques using primitive tools have been unsuccessful. The great pyramid was originally faced with polished white limestone, but most had slid off. The sides of the pyramid line up precisely with the cardinal directions.

The Sphinx was built about the same time as the Pyramid of Khufu. It is a statue of a man’s head on a crouching lion’s body. It has suffered the ravages of time. Someone or something took off much of its nose.

It is puzzling to me how ancient peoples could cut huge stones, weighing up to a hundred tons, transport them long distances, and fit them so precisely with neighboring stones,

that a knife blade couldn’t be inserted in the gap between them. This feat was repeated many times at many sites by many ancient civilizations around the world.

The tour bus next stopped at a market where Della bought some low-cost paintings on papyrus, a paper manufactured from reeds growing along the Nile. We saw demonstrations on how papyrus was made just as it was in the time of the pharaohs.

Our bus then made the long drive to Port Said. During the last part of the journey we drove along the Suez Canal. Very late at night we arrived at the dock, and the driver opened the luggage compartment before we could get off the bus. There were many scruffy-look-ing characters hanging around, and we were afraid they would take our luggage, but they didn’t. Then we ran the gauntlet of peddlers back to the ship, went to our cabin, and ate supper in suite.

After a short overnight sail Voyager docked the next morning in Alexandria, named for Greece’s Alexan-der the Great who conquered this part of the world in 331 BC. The dock lay in the east harbor, once the site of another of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, the Lighthouse of Alexandria. This structure was about 400 feet high, and a fire burning on its roof was visible far out to sea. Unfortunately, a series of earthquakes had brought the structure down. To this day divers continue to find its remains on the harbor floor.

After breakfast a tour guide showed Della and me where the lighthouse had once stood. She then took us into the city to the site of another famous landmark of old, a great library, largest in the ancient world. The library was burned after the Roman conquest of Egypt. However, a marvelous modern library has arisen in its predecessor’s stead. It was one of only a few places in the world today where a single book, selected from the library’s long list, could be printed and bound in less than an hour by a special machine.

We drove by King Farouk’s palace (twentieth cen-tury) and then ended up back at the dock, shopping for mementos. We had lunch on the ship, then stayed on board and relaxed in the afternoon. This was a very quiet ending to an absolutely fascinating visit to Egypt. I felt I had visited the ancient world.

It had been a peaceful trip, and our doubts about safety had proved unfounded. All the same, a combina-tion of so much poverty and so many guns might foretell of problems to come.

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Our armed bus caravan on the way to Luxor, Egypt.

Patio of our hotel overlooking the Nile at Luxor, Egypt.

A sample of ancient ruins at Luxor.

MacDonald’s sign in the distance peeking over the ancient ruins at Luxor.

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Della dressed for the gala at Luxor.

Scene from the gala.

Della with Egyptologist Dr. Zahi Hawas in Cairo, Egypt.

The Great Pyramid near Cairo, Egypt.

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Chapter III.D - Turkey and Greece

The Greek island of Rhodes lies only eleven miles off the coast of Turkey in the Mediterranean Sea, so-called by the Romans “a sea in the middle of the land.” Della and I were both anxious to visit the ancient ruins of Greece and Rome in hopes of gaining some insights into the foundations of western civilization. We were coated with sunscreen and wearing visors and tennis shoes, just wait-ing to get off.

The eastern Mediterranean has changed hands many times. Over the centuries control of the region has gone from Egyptian to Persian to Greek to Roman to European to Ottoman and then sometimes to various European powers. It is as though the Almighty drew a geopolitical map on a magic slate, and after a few cen-turies, got bored, erased old boundaries, and then drew completely new partitions of the lands, which lasted only until His next whim.

Our ship entered the harbor where the Colossus of Rhodes, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, once stood. After the one-hundred-foot-high, bronze statue fell in a 226 BC earthquake, it was sal-vaged for scrap. Darn it, missed by only 2,200 years.

Rhodes is fifty miles long and twenty-five wide with a population of about 100,000. In 1600 BC, Greeks over-came the original inhabitants, about whom little is known except from what can be learned from the few tools and chards they left behind. Persia subsequently took over for a few centuries before Greece regained control at the time of Alexander the Great in 330 BC. Then the Ottoman Turks controlled the island from about 1500 AD until Italy took control in 1912. In 1946 at the end of World

War II Rhodes again became part of Greece.We had only an afternoon on the island, and Della I

went a tour with an English-speaking guide so as to make the best use of time. We went to the site of an old mon-astery, a Roman ruin atop a Greek ruin, which was later occupied by the Turks and then the Italians and now the Greeks. The existing building had rows of windowless, single-monk rooms fronted by solid wooden doors painted black. Once-colorful frescos on a wall were faded images of Byzantine saints, staring out robotically from ancient times, a circle drawn around their heads because the art-ist couldn’t do halos with depth perception. They were painted to last forever, and had come at least part way.

Our guide informed us that Guns of Navarone, a 1961 movie starring Gregory Peck, David Niven, and Anthony Quinn, was filmed at the monastery and at other sites on Rhodes. The movie described the destruc-tion of a Nazi gun emplacement, not on Rhodes, but on Leros, another Greek island.

One of the remaining early Christian relics was a baptismal well lined with gray rocks. The well was about three feet deep, suitable for complete emersion. It con-tained no water, but a few weeds grew at the bottom. A foot-high, one-inch water pipe painted black circled it, protecting it from tourists. Its principal attraction was its age.

Nearby a twentieth century church served both Roman Catholic and Greek Orthodox parishioners. Inlaid in the church’s sandstone wall was a Maltese cross, symbol of the Knights of Malta, a clear indication of its Italian origin.

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We went with our guide to an elevated site cov-ered with blooming wildflowers, including red poppies, which I thought especially impressive. We had a grand view of the city and its harbor. Cliffs met the ocean along the shoreline, and white sand beaches were dotted with sun umbrellas. One- and two-story buildings in the city were packed into the city.

Our guide suggested a local restaurant for a snack. A lettuce salad laced with ripe olives and feta cheese was excellent. I coerced Della into trying a retsina wine.

“Jim, this stuff is just awful,” she said.“It takes some getting used to,” I replied. “It gets its

taste from resins in the oakum used to plug leaks in the aging barrels.”

I didn’t admit it, but I got my glass down mostly to show bravery. “Here, Della, try some ouzo to wash down the taste.”

Ouzo is a clear, anise-flavored, very strong alcoholic drink. The licorice flavor is so intense that, with one sip, you fear that any food you will eat the rest of your life will taste like licorice. Della tried a little, wrinkled her nose, and then dutifully took a little more. We drank enough to get a little buzz on, said goodbye to our guide, and returned to the Voyager. We then set sail north into the Aegean Sea, which is bounded on the east by Turkey and the west by Greece.

The next morning I arose early for my exercise walk on the jogging deck. The breeze was cool and smelled of saltwater. The deep blue of the Aegean Sea was so strik-ing that it was easy to see why it gave its name to the universally recognized color. A school of porpoises fol-lowed Voyager, surfacing and submerging at random, but swimming apace with the ship.

I went to our cabin, took a shower, and breakfasted on the stern deck with Sweet Della, both of us taking in a panorama—clear skies, bright sun, Aegean-blue water, and flocks of white, squawking gulls flying above the ship’s wake.

The next stop on the cruise featured two Turkish cities, Kusadasi, where we docked, and Ephesus, where we would have docked 2,500 years earlier. Ephesus was an early trading center from before 1000 BC. A branch of the Menderes River provided a bay and a prosperous shipping port. That river meandered into the Aegean, and provides us today with that well-known verb mean-ing “wandering around.” Greeks first and then Romans prospered in Ephesus until 400 AD, but silt filled the

harbor, leaving the city over three miles from the sea. Malaria mosquitoes flourished in marshes left by the receding water, making Ephesus almost uninhabitable. The river, seeking a new outlet, flowed into a new bay near what had been a smaller city, Kusadasi, which took over as a trade center. The dock was clean and neat, and the terminal was a beehive of activity with languages of many countries floating in the air.

From Kusadasi we took a tour bus destined for Ephesus, but with a couple of stops along the way. According to verbal history, Mary, the mother of Jesus, was taken to Ephesus in the first century AD by the “beloved” apostle John, the youngest of the apostles and a cousin of Jesus, and the only apostle to escape martyrdom. Our bus stopped near a plain white mar-ble tombstone lying flat and inscribed with “St. Jean In Mezari, The Tomb Of St. John.” We stood quietly by, contemplating what he must have gone through.

From there we went to Mary’s house, at least what many believe was Mary’s house. About 1800 AD, Ann Catherine Emmerich, a bedridden nun in Germany, had a vision of Mary’s life that included details of the mate-rial and structure of her home in Ephesus and a detailed description of the surrounding terrain. Scholars studied written descriptions of her vision and discovered amaz-ing similarities with a small stone building on a hill overlooking the town. Building materials and construc-tion techniques were consistent with the apostle period. The building now serves as a chapel. A small side room may be where Mary slept. Although not officially recog-nized by the Roman Catholic Church as Mary’s home, it has been designated a holy site. That it is also a Mus-lim shrine was a reminder that Islam has adopted much from Jewish and Christian religions.

Della and I waited in line to walk past the small building constructed of tan sandstones. Over the entrance was an arch using a capstone at its center and utilizing the weights of stones piling up to it to make it stable. The Romans were the first civilization to make widespread use of this type arch, and so it was probably built in Roman times. The building’s interior was a very plain sanctuary with a few rows of wooden pews. Along the walkway to the house was a wall plastered with hun-dreds of small papers rippling in the breeze, each with a prayer to Mary for helping its author with a problem.

The bus then deposited us on the entrance to the ancient city of Ephesus, and Della and I wandered freely.

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Past occupants included bronze-age peoples, Greeks, Romans, and Muslims. Some of the original Roman structures were still standing, although no one had lived there for over a thousand years. It reminded me of a bombed-out city in Europe after World War II. That some structures still stood was a credit to the engineer-ing skills of its Roman builders.

Our guide was wonderful. She was probably in her thirties, a little overweight, and wore a black headscarf. She had been an English teacher and an archeologist before becoming a tour guide. She timed our visit to the highlights of Ephesus to minimize the crowds from other tours.

Near the entrance were piles of ancient terra cotta tiles looking just like the ones we used back in Iowa. They were about eighteen inches long with an inside diameter of about eight inches. The grout used to con-nect them together was made from marble powder and beeswax. The city had running water and an efficient sewer system in Roman times.

There were public toilets (only for men, our guide told us). Rows of twenty open toilet seats lay along the streets and in the marketplace.

“What did the women do for a toilet?” Della asked.“They weren’t seen much in public,” replied our

guide.“If they couldn’t use a toilet, I’ll bet they were

crabby,” I said. Then I called to Della, “Come on over here and sit down. You look like you could use a break.”

Good-natured Della did as asked, and I took her pic-ture sitting on a stone toilet and posing like “The Thinker.”

I recalled one hard-nosed Honeywell general man-ager who felt that employees were taking advantage of restroom breaks. He had all toilet booth doors in his factory removed. It apparently had the desired effect of shortening potty breaks. I wondered if all those Romans, sitting elbow to elbow with their togas pulled up, were embarrassed.

Roman homes were spacious and decorated with paintings on walls and inlaid ceramic tiles on floors. Some of the colors were still bright. Many homes adjoined businesses of their owners. The citizens appar-ently lived well, but maybe not their slaves. In the first two centuries AD, Kusadasi was the world capital of the slave trade. Slaves were prisoners of war, or family mem-bers sold by other family members. They made up about one-fourth the total population of the city. They were

branded with hot irons like cattle.One of the most famous structures in Ephesus was

the library. Although the wall fronting the two-story building had collapsed, rooms on both floors were still partially complete and visible from the outside like the back of an open dollhouse. Near the library was a tunnel leading to a brothel, also partially standing. On the side-walk on the harbor side of the brothel was an engraving of a phallus and an arrow pointing out the way for sail-ors coming into port.

Della said, “I’ll bet those Roman businessmen would tell their wives they had to go to the library for the evening, and then would exit off through the tunnel.”

We visited an amphitheater that seated two hun-dred fifty and then a much larger theater that seated twenty-five thousand, about half the population of Ephesus at that time. In both places I went to the front and pretended to give a serious technical talk to a sparse audience of tourists.

“Stop it, Jim. People are looking,” Della would say. But she did laugh a little under her breath.

We walked to the gates where the city met the old port. The Aegean was now over three miles distant. It was as though the mother sea had left the city to an orphan’s fate.

We said goodbye to our Ephesus guide and took the bus back to Kusadasi. The olive orchards we passed were well-tended and weed-free. There was no garbage anywhere.

Our tour bus took us to a rug factory. Women without headscarves wove intricate, colorful, wool rugs on hand looms. The factory manufactured dyes from natural products and dyed wools in heated copper pots. We were told by our factory guide that rugs purchased there were real bargains. That may or may not have been so. The guide surely got a commission.

Anyone interested in buying got the full-service treatment. A salesman had a cadre of two or three strong Turks ready to drag out and spread this or that rug at his command. He was guided to colors and pat-terns by expressions on customers’ faces or their trivial comments. Soon there were eight or ten carpets spread out, and then, one at a time, the less-favored were car-ried away by the helpers, leaving the customer to choose among a few top picks. I had never seen such an adroit salesperson. We bought a rug and filled out paperwork to have it shipped back to Minnesota.

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The factory furnished a wonderful lunch of Turkish food. I figured it cost me about fifteen hundred dollars.

Della and I had an afternoon to explore the city on our own. It was a busy and vibrant city of shops selling jewelry, watches, and yes, rugs. Kusadasi’s population was about 50,000 in summer and 150,000 during the tourist season.

Della and I were impressed with the salesmanship of the Kusadasi merchants. In many Asian countries goods would be displayed in your face with aggressive pleas to buy. A Turkish merchant would sit quietly by his shop, and if you looked his way, would ask a question in good English, “What ship are you on?” or “What state are you from?” (I don’t know how they knew we were Yankees, but they always knew.) If you answered, they would offer cold drinks or coffee or even a lunch. Talk about buying something would come later. “Just look around,” they might say. “Were you looking for anything in particular?” they might ask. If they didn’t have what you were looking for, a runner would be sent to another store (usually owned by a relative) to bring back things you might like. But later in negotiations, they were very firm in closing a sale.

Turkey’s rapid political and economic progress would not have been possible without one man, Mustafa Kemel Ataturk, Turkey’s George Washington. Ataturk means “Father of the Turks,” a unique title granted him by the government.

The Ottoman Empire was allied with Germany in World War I, and the empire, already in trouble, crum-bled completely with the Allies’ victory. Britain and France were ready to partition off and rule Turkey as they did other parts of its empire. Ataturk rallied a gue-rilla army and drove the war-weary Allies from his new country, the Republic of Turkey. He separated govern-ment from the Muslim religion, creating a secular state. Freedom of religion and equality of women flourished in the new country. Ataturk died in 1938 leaving behind a transformed country.

Turkey maintained neutrality in World War II until the later part when she joined the Allies. She fought with United Nations forces in Korea. Turkey is the most friendly to the west of any Muslim country.

Della and I really enjoyed Kusadasi, and were a lit-tle sad to return to our ship and shove off to Athens.

That evening Della and I ate dinner with Bob and Nicky Goode and John and Pat Doyle. After the cus-

tomary toast ending with “And may our friendship last forever, peter in or peter out,” we discussed plans for our Athens visit.

“I did business there for years,” said Bob Goode. “We don’t need a tour guide.”

“Can you speak Greek?” asked John.“No, but many Greeks are multilingual. And if they

don’t understand English, then maybe they’d under-stand Nicky’s Italian or my German.”

“We only have a short day. What should we see?” I asked.

“Well, everyone goes to the Acropolis to see the Parthenon. So that’s a ‘must,’” said Bob. “Then there’s the Temple of Zeus, or what’s left of it. That’s walking distance from the Acropolis. And I know a wonderful Greek restaurant for lunch. The ship’s shuttle bus will take us to the city and back. How does that sound for a day in Athens?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Della. We all agreed.The next morning Voyager docked at Piraeus, the

port city for Athens, which had been continuously occu-pied for more than 7,000 years. The six of us took the shuttle to the city proper which had a population of over 600,000. The urban area sprawling around the capi-tal city was home to over three million people. We got off the shuttle bus near the Acropolis, which in Greek means “upper city.” And true to the name we were awed by its “upperness,” and we wondered about the difficult walk to the top.

“I won’t be able to make the climb,” announced Pat. “My hip has been bothering me. I have a book to read. You guys go on and tell me about it.”

We paid twelve Euros at a ticket booth that would cover seeing both the Acropolis and the Temple of Zeus. We fell in with the long column of tourists headed for the Acropolis. The zigzag, winding climb took us about forty minutes, and by time we reached the plateau, we were hot, tired, and puffing, and had exhausted our water bottles. But the climb was worth it. Ancient mar-ble structures some 2,500 years old filled the area.

Most amazing was the Parthenon. This best-known example of classic Greek architecture is a large build-ing, covering an area of about 23,000 square feet. Eight columns on each end and seventeen on each side stand thirty feet high and six feet in diameter. The columns are not single pieces of marble, but rather a number of shorter sections stacked together. Scaffolding hung

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about to assist in the continuing process of repairing and storing the structure.

In 438 BC the current Parthenon replaced a pre-vious version destroyed by the Persians in 480 BC. The temple was dedicated to Athena, goddess of every-thing—wisdom, courage, inspiration, civilization, justice, and etc. Athena was never married, hence a vir-gin. The temple was also a treasury for the government.

The Roman Emperor Hadrian helped repair and preserve the building in the second century BC, although he probably preferred to worship Minerva, the Roman equivalent of Athena. While he was at it, he also finished constructing the Temple of Zeus. Yes, this was the same Hadrian who built a wall across the north of England to keep the Scots out.

In about 450 AD, the Parthenon was made a Chris-tian Church, dedicated to the Virgin Mary. In 1460 the Ottoman Turks made it a mosque. In 1687 Venetians went to war to try to make it a Christian church again. The Turks hid their gunpowder in the building trusting that no one would harm that sacred building. A Vene-tian shell found the magazine and destroyed much of the building, bringing down the marble plate roof. Since the dismemberment of the Ottoman Empire, Greece has worked on repairing and reconstructing the historic structure. The Parthenon has had more owners than Liz Taylor had lovers, although over a much longer time scale and with even more hard feelings over breakups.

A breathtaking view of Athens spread out from the Acropolis in every direction. After gawking about and taking pictures, we made our way back down, past a Roman coliseum on the way, to pick up Pat and walk to the Temple of Zeus. Construction of that temple was finished in 200 AD and destroyed in 300 AD by barbar-ians. Only a few columns now stand. It was really old, but there wasn’t much left to see.

Bob Goode led us across the city to a restaurant he used to frequent. We sat outdoors under a shade tree on a bright sunny day. On the table, a white cloth lay over a blue-and-white-striped oilcloth similar to the Greek flag. We ordered wine, including a white retsina, and ouzo along with Greek bread, olives, and a spread made of yogurt, garlic, and olive oil. Our classic Greek meal included Greek salad, moussaka (like a Greek version of lasagna), fried calamari, and lamb chops with lemon and oregano. Bob very generously insisted on buying.

We walked through the busy Athens streets back to

the shuttle bus. As we reached the port, we thanked Bob for showing us the best of Athens in just a few hours.

Showers on the ship washed off the sweat accumu-lated on our climbs to the Acropolis, and Della and I sat on our balcony enjoying the view and sipping gin and tonics as Voyager left Piraeus.

The next morning our ship docked at Katakolon, a Greek island where the original Olympics were held. It is a cruise ship stop for tourists. The full-time population of the island is only a few thousand people. The Olym-pic site was flourishing in 776 BC when the first games were held to honor Zeus and promote peace among the Greek city-states. The Romans invaded in 100 BC, added to the site and continued the games. But in the fifth century they decided the games dedicated to Zeus were unChristian, and much of the site was demolished. Earthquakes pretty much finished the job, and by the time Della and I got off a tour bus, there were no stand-ing buildings. Previously erect marble columns spread their cylindrical segments out on the ground like a fallen stack of children’s blocks. One of the seven wonders of the ancient world, the Statue of Zeus, had been moved to Constantinople where it later burned. But many tem-ple ruins remained, and Della and I looked forward to our brief visit.

After we left the bus, the man with the bad blond wig got off the bus, but without his on-again, off-again buxom blonde. She must have stayed on the ship.

Chirping birds celebrated a bright spring day. Pink blossoms blanketed the many Judas trees lining the cement sidewalk leading through a Roman arch to where a stadium had been, now just a green, grassy field. Starting and finishing lines for a footrace had been laid out, and about twenty young tourists stood shoulder to shoulder about 200 meters across the field from us, ready to repeat an ancient Olympic race. With a whoop they ran to us where we stood by the finish line.

To my dying day I will regret a missed opportunity. I should have handed Della the camera, dashed out about ten yards onto the race course, and led the pack of runners across the finish line, with Della snapping a photograph for history. That picture would have shown Jim Daughton winning an Olympic event. Regrettably, I came up with the idea one minute too late. No laurels for me.

Della and I got back on the bus to the port after that very short visit to Katakolon, and sailed away from Greece.

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Tourists left prayers to the Virgin Mary on this wall near Her home in Turkey.

Della contemplates on a stone potty in Ephesus, Turkey.

The library ruins at Ephesus, Turkey.

The Parthenon in Athens, Greece.

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Chapter III.E - Malta and Italy

Della and I stood on deck as Voyager sailed into the busy commercial port city of Valletta, Malta. In 2006 we would be two of the approximately 1.2 million tourists to visit this island, which was ten miles across and pop-ulated by fewer than half a million permanent residents. Our ship approached the docks through a quarter-mile-wide waterway divided into two lanes, one for incoming ships and the other for outgoing, with wharfs on both shores. A two-lane, blacktopped road ran next to the dock where lines secured our ship fore and aft. Across the road three-story light-gray stone buildings stood side by side in a long row. A sheer stonewall rose above them for more than a hundred feet serving as a barrier to any invaders who managed to gain access to the shore.

Malta had a legacy of invasions. Pottery relics from 5200 BC suggested that peoples related to those on Sic-ily lived here before being invaded about 4000 BC by the first Mediterranean-wide traders, the Phoenicians. There followed a long, long list of successive invasions by Romans, Moors, Normans, Aragons, Habsburgs, Span-ish, Knights of St. John, French, and British. Malta was vulnerable due to its small size and strategic location in the Mediterranean, just fifty miles south of Sicily, 170 miles east of Tunis (Carthage), and about two hundred miles north of Syria. In World War II, Malta held out against the Axis powers, and was subsequently granted independence by Great Britain in 1964. The country is now a member of the European Union and a favorite retirement place for Brits.

Considering Malta’s history, I wondered if the inva-sions were over. Who would be next? India looking for living space for her people? Gay Knights of St. John look-ing for a country to call their own? Maybe aliens from

outer space? I wouldn’t bet against another invasion.Della and I took a guided tour of Valletta. We vis-

ited the Grand Master’s Palace where hundreds of past rulers of the Knights of St. John are buried under color-ful inlaid marble tombstones. After the Ottomans had forced them to leave Rhodes in 1530 AD, the knights ruled Malta for three centuries. But when Napoleon invaded Malta at the beginning of the nineteenth cen-tury, he took power from the Knights because of his own difficulties with the Pope. This was after he crowned himself emperor instead of letting the pope do it.

Today the palace houses government offices. Walls and ceilings are still covered with faded, ornate frescos, and an occasional full suit of armor stands at attention.

We paid a brief visit to the co-Cathedral of St. John, which houses famous art including “The Beheading of St. John” by Caravaggio. No cameras were allowed.

The city of Mdina sits on a hill, providing won-derful views of the countryside and the city of Valletta. Phoenicians established the city, but most standing structures were built by the Normans after they ousted the Muslims in 1048 AD. A tall city wall surrounded its neat, pedestrian-only streets, which were lined with shops selling clothes, jewelry, leather goods, and memen-tos meant for tourists. A few restaurants sold lamb and chicken dishes.

St. Paul’s Cathedral was a highlight in Mdina. The Apostle Paul’s ship was wrecked at Malta in 60 AD. Our guide did not take us inside the cathedral for some reason, but we were able to walk around it. Light gray and tan stones were laid in decorative patterns on the structure’s exterior. Large round clocks hung below the bells in the two belfries that were erected on either side

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of the central section. There was a crucifix with two cross-members (instead of one) perched on top, suggest-ing an Eastern Orthodox influence.

We had some free time for shopping in Mdina. “Where should we go to look, Sweet Della?” I asked.

“I have something in mind, Jim, and I would like to go by myself,” she said in a firm and determined voice.

“Oh, let me help you find it. What are we look-ing for?”

Slightly irked, she said, “I want to do this by myself. Just walk up and down these streets and see if you can find something interesting for yourself. I’ll meet you at the city gate in an hour.”

So I strolled up and down the streets not fathom-ing how she could do without my assistance. I saw every storefront twice. We met at the city gate to take the bus back to the ship.

“Hi, Della. Did you find it?” I asked.She put an index finger to her lips to stop questions.

“I’ll show you when we get back to the ship.”We sat out on the balcony outside our cabin as

Voyager was getting ready to cast off. Della’s eyes spar-kled as she opened a purple velvet box containing a gold charm about the size of a nickel. It was Maltese Cross, the symbol of the Knights of Malta. Four main branches emanated symmetrically from the center, and each of the branches split into two at the ends.

“Gee, that’s cool,” I said.“Each of the eight end points represents a basic

principle for the Knights,” she said.I thought to myself, I’ ll bet they had the symbol first

and then found eight principles later. One source had told me earlier the knights had originally come from eight Euro-pean countries. Another said the points represented the eight Beatitudes. Christians could usually get by with just “Love God.” And” Love thy neighbor.” for principles. Reminds me of having to persuade employees to give to the United Way. “Here are the eight reasons you should contribute this year.” I hated doing that. Just “Love thy neighbor” would have worked there, too.

“The cross is another charm for our cruise necklace, Jim. See, it goes here.” At this point, just beaming, she brought out a gold chain she had purchased in Dubai and attached the cross, joining it with about twenty charms previously attached. “See, here are the Sphinx and the Great Pyramid from Egypt, the Parthenon from Greece, the Burj Arab from Dubai, and the Taj Mahal

from India.”She continued, “Jim, when our cruising days are

over, we can get out this necklace, and every charm will bring us back to when we saw these wonderful things.”

“I think I see,” I said. “They will be sort of like prayer beads.”

I thought: Another example showing Della is a spe-cial wife.

The Voyager pulled out of Valletta with the high wall overlooking the shore seeming to glow light gold.

The night before arriving in Siracusa, Sicily, we had dinner in the Compass Rose with our Baton Rouge friends, Janice and Frank Sanders. Frank told a joke featuring Boudreaux and Thibodeaux, two rubes from Cajun country.

“‘Hey, Boudreaux, wat dat?’‘Dis here’s a new fangled ting, wat dey cals a termos

bottle. It suppose’t keep hot tings hot and col tings col tils you ready fo dem.’

‘Wot you got in dere?’‘A bowl of hot gumbo an two popsickles.’”I hooted. Both Janice and Della grimaced. I

rejoined with a joke about Ole and Sven, two rubes from rural Minnesota.

“Ole and Sven had spent all day training their new bird dog with no success. Finally, Ole said to Sven ‘Yust trow him up once more, and, if he don’t fly this time, yust shoot him.’”

“Oh, Jim, that was just awful,” said Della.“Frank’s wasn’t any better,” said Janice. “By the

way, what do you think would happen if those four guys ever got together?”

“I’ll give that some thought,” I said.“Changing the subject,” Frank said, “our travel

agent has taken care of us. We have a van, driver, and guide at each of the next two stops.”

“Our Rosalyn has never steered us wrong,” said Janice. “I’ll bet the guides are good. Would you like to go with us?”

“We sure would,” Della and I said together.The next morning before breakfast I took a very

windy and chilly walk on deck eleven. Ordinarily twenty people would be walking at that time, but only one other person was there. It was still early spring in Italy.

Della and I ate breakfast and then joined most of the ship’s passengers in the Constellation Theater for a frustrating two-hour wait for tenders to take us ashore

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in Siracusa. The locals were insisting on the use of their own boats because of a union agreement, but Captain Dag judged those boats inadequate for transporting over three hundred passengers between the ship and port in any reasonable time. Finally the port authorities relented and we were transported to the dock on a Voyager tender.

Frank and Janice spotted our guide carrying a sign proclaiming SANDERS. Marie was in her early for-ties, animated as you might expect in Italy, and spoke English loud and fast with an Italian accent. She wore dark sunglasses and a rose-colored, broad-brimmed straw hat, blue jeans, a lime-green patterned cotton shirt, and a long purple sweater with an orange pin proclaiming Guide.

The five of us made our way to a clean and comfort-able van with a driver waiting inside. The driver might as well have been a robot. All our communications on our tour were with Marie, who took complete charge.

Our first stop was an archeological park where Marie showed us Greek ruins dating back to 600 BC. She was very knowledgeable and sure of her facts. She showed us an aqueduct system dating from 500 BC. One of the oldest Churches in Christendom stood on the site of a Greek temple. The church used some of its predecessor’s columns. A Greek stadium, still in use, could seat 20,000 people, and of course I had to pretend to give a speech from a stone podium.

Siracusa was like Malta in that multiple civiliza-tions had controlled it. Starting about 300–400 BC the Romans invaded and then tore down most of the Greek structures or built onto them. Then came the Arabs and then the Christians and so on. Maria recounted about eight invasions, the last of which was the United States in WWII. But despite all the invasions, the Greek struc-tures that remained are among the best-preserved in the world, even better than most in Greece itself.

Of particular interest on our visit was a cave known as the Ear of Dionysius, famous for its acoustics. The entrance to the cave was about one hundred feet high and about twenty feet wide, and tapered to fifteen by fif-teen feet about fifty feet back from the entrance. Marie told of hundreds of Greek prisoners perishing horribly after being confined to the cave without food or water. Frank and I walked into the cave that was crowded with tourists, and we yelled to hear our echoes. It worked. Della, Janice, and Marie stayed outside.

At a restaurant near the dock we ate a pasta lunch

and then bid Marie goodbye and took a tender back to the ship.

I whispered to Janice, “You sure were right about your travel agent. That was first class. Much better than taking one of the ship’s tours.”

That night Della and I ate in our room. We had crab cocktails and “cowboy steaks,” chunks of meat hanging over two sides of the plate. Mediterranean sal-ads and crème Brule topped off the meal.

Della said, “I’m really excited about seeing Pompeii tomorrow.”

“Me, too,” I said. “Just think, Della, the eruption happened a few decades after Christ died, and until the seventeenth century, no one knew there was anything preserved under all that ash. I hope Pompeii lives up to our expectations.”

The Voyager’s itinerary called for anchoring at Sor-rento. The ship entered the harbor, and although the swells were much lower than they had been during the night, the sea was still too rough to get passengers on and off safely. So we sailed on north about twenty miles to Naples (Napoli). There we were able to step out on a dock instead of waiting in line to get on tenders.

For a second day Janice had arranged for a van with a guide. By telephone she had alerted our guide about the change of ports, and he was there waiting for us on the dock with a SANDERS sign. Eugenio was mid-dle-aged and partially bald with a ruddy complexion. He was about five feet nine, a little stocky, and wore blue jeans and a white zip-up jacket over a long-sleeved shirt. He was all business, intent on earning his fee.

We first stopped at the ruins of Pompeii with Mt. Vesuvius lurking in the background. Its last really vio-lent eruption was in 1944, but lesser ones had occurred up until about twenty years before our visit. On this day the lady was calm.

Eugenio was very knowledgeable and he patiently explained the site’s history. He took us first to a large map of Pompeii, showing the layout of roads and streets as is it was in 79 AD before the ash fell. A city of 10,000 people had covered a sixty-acre site, much larger than I had imagined. Most of the city, with sewers and run-ning water, was built about the time of Christ. Theaters, fountains, fancy homes, and businesses were built using cement and bricks with plaster overcoating—a combina-tion much cheaper than marble, but looking very much the same at a much lower cost.

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When at Honeywell I was often surprised at cost reductions that our poorly paid Italian engineers at Milano suggested. They were very adept in engineering savings. Perhaps it was in the blood. Or maybe necessity was just the mother of invention.

Pompeii was buried under about one hundred feet of volcanic ash until the seventeenth century when exca-vations began, and the non-wood parts of the structures were found well preserved. The uncovered site was abso-lutely amazing. In the old city square a sundial sat atop a column some twenty feet high. Many pedestrian walk-ways were still covered with colorful stone mosaics. It was an odd feeling to walk on them just as those fated people had almost two thousand years ago.

Other walkways and roads for carts were paved with larger gray stones. Where heavy rains could cover roads with water, stepping stones about six inches high and separated by six inches would have allowed pedestri-ans to keep their feet dry while allowing water to flow. Between those stones cart wheels had worn grooves most of an inch deep. The stepping stones, in addition to con-centrating wheel paths, may also have acted as speed bumps.

Paintings on the ceiling of a Roman bath still had much of their color. Some of the walls of the building were a well-known shade of red known as Pompeii red.

An amphitheater seating several thousand was largely intact and was still used for Greek and Roman plays.

The population of Pompeii had died from the eruption’s heat, not from suffocation. Excavators who uncovered ash layers noted spaces between layers where corpses lay. With care they were able to coat bodies with plaster to retain the posture of the person as they had died. Those human statues displayed at Pompeii are among the most haunting objects I had ever seen; a man lying on his side, one arm under his head, a women trying to protect her child. I felt sorry for them, even (irrationally) feeling guilty for not having rescued them.

Then Eugenio directed the van on a seacoast road to Positano. This was the Malfi Coast, one of the most scenic coastlines in the world. There were said to be sirens living in the rocks and luring ships to their doom. The roads were narrow, and several times I feared the van might go over a sheer cliff. The Mediterranean was deep blue, the sun bright, and flowers bloomed. Blue-blossomed wisteria vines overhung gates to houses,

white with orange-tiled roofs and clinging to the steep shoreline.

Della and I strolled around Positano for a bit. I saw lemons the size of small cantaloupes in a store window. The locals were pushing a lemon-based liquor, limon-cello. I tried some and couldn’t wait to drink water to kill the taste.

Our van stopped back at Sorrento for a great lunch—calamari, mussels, pasta with four cheeses, and red wine.

“You know, Frank, I think that may have been the best tour we’ve taken so far,” I said.

“Absolutely,” said Della. “I will never forget the Malfi Coast.”

“And those poor children encased in plaster,” said Janice.

“Eugenio, you did a fantastic job,” said Frank.The four of us said thanks and goodbye to Eugenio

and re-boarded Voyager. On our way toward Rome, Voyager sailed by the Capri seacoast with Frank Sinatra singing “On the Isle of Capri” over the public address system. The ship passed the entrance to the Blue Grotto at the water’s edge. On sunny days its interior glows blue from the water’s reflections. The tide was high enough when we went by that a person would have to duck when entering by canoe. Della and I accompanied the Sanders to the Observation Lounge for a quick drink before dinner. Della said, “Thanks again for making the last two stops so interesting.”

“You were great company,” said Frank.I said, “Janice, I did come up with the world’s first

story about Ole, Sven, Thibodaux and Boudreaux,” I said. “Wanna hear it?”

“Lay it on us, Jimmy.”“Thibodaux and Boudreaux decided to go north

fishing in April to get away from the heat, and drove until dark to wind up near a boat rental on Grand Lake of the Cherokees in Oklahoma. Ole and Sven, seeking an ice-free fishing lake, a geographical feature not to be found for months to come in their home country, staked up their tent right next to the open bed pickup where the two Cajuns were sleeping. At sunup all four men wan-dered to the boat rental office. ‘Sorry, boys, I got just one boat,’ said the attendant. ‘Fishing is good and all my boats is reserved but one, and it don’t even have a motor. You want to share or flip a coin?’”

“They decided to share and share alike on every-

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thing. The cost of boat rent and bait was split evenly.“Their boat floated over a hot spot where they

caught thirty-seven fish. They couldn’t figure out a way to divide the fish equally, so they threw three back, leav-ing seventeen for each pair.

“As they said farewells back at the dock, Thibodaux said, ‘Boys, if youse come hir to fish agin, just look for were I marked an X on the side of the boat when we wir on da hot fishin spot.’

“Thank you,’ said Sven, ‘but with our luck we would never get the same boat.’”

“Not too bad,” said Frank.“That was OK, Sweetheart,” said Janice, “but all

the same, you should probably keep your day job.”The next morning Voyager docked at Rome’s busy

commercial port city of Civitavecchia, Italy. Load-ing and unloading cranes were silhouetted against the cloudy early morning sky, looking something like giant robots in a cheap sci-fi movie. There was a good deal of carping among the passengers as the ship was secured in its berth.

“Goddamit, Bev, all the way around the world, and just one short day in Rome,” one old gentleman com-plained. “Some on this ship have been here before, but this our first time.”

“You’re right, dear, of course,” his wife said sooth-ingly. “But let’s just see what we can.”

I felt the same way as the old “gent,” but was deter-mined to make the best of it. Della and I boarded a small bus with fifteen other tourists and headed from the dock to Rome.

First stop was the Coliseum. The weather was chilly and threatened rain. I had a light jacket and wasn’t warm enough. Della was comfortable in a white pants suit and a long green scarf. Smart woman. Because of the crowd and noise, our tour guide handed out radio receivers so we could hear what he said.

The Coliseum was huge and partially deconstructed by locals stealing a lot of the marble and invaders trying to wreck it, but as a result the Coliseum may actu-ally have been easier to visualize than if it had been untouched. Only one side of the Coliseum had all four stories intact above grade. The floor of the arena was at ground level. Beneath it was a lower level, from which animals, gladiators, and prisoners were transported up into the arena. The word, arena, comes from Latin describing a very fine sand used for soaking up blood of

animal and human combatants and executed prisoners. The seating area held fifty thousand people, almost all males at that time.

Christians were among the criminals executed. Their crime was refusing to honor traditional Roman gods. Some were crucified, including St. Peter, who was actually crucified upside-down. Nero apparently liked a little variety. Lions held for days without food in the darkness of the lower level were transported up into the arena to tear Christians and others limb from limb to the cheers of the crowd. A fallen gladiator would live or die depending on the whim of the audience. I got the impression that the Romans were a bloodthirsty lot.

Persecution of Christians ended with the Edict of Milan in 313 AD. Emperor Constantine was victori-ous in the Battle of Milvian Bridge in 312 AD, and laid part of his success to a Christian vision. Soon thereafter, Christianity dominated Roman religion, thought, and even politics.

The tour bus stopped by Villa d’Este, the home of Tivoli fountains. They were made famous by the movie, Three Coins in the Fountain, and a song with the same title. By tradition a coin thrown in the fountain could make a wish come true. I prepared to toss a coin.

“No, No, Jim, Nicky Goode told me how you’re supposed to do it,” said Della. “Throw with your right arm backwards over your left shoulder.”

I did as bade.“What did you wish for, Jim?”“Would telling you negate the wish?”“Oh no, I don’t think so.”“OK. I wished your cancer would stay in remission.”Della said nothing and fell silent for a few min-

utes. Then she gave me a little hug. “There’s always that chance,” she said. “Let’s try to forget it and have a good time.”

I gave her a little kiss on the forehead.Our tour provided a quick lunch at a restaurant

with a view of Rome. Della and I had cheese ravioli, a garden salad, and red wine. We climbed back on the bus and got off at a crowded St. Peter’s square. A line one hour long snaked around the square. That began a race through St. Peter’s Church, the Vatican Museum, and the Sistine Chapel. It was sensory overload. Beau-tiful mosaics adorned the St. Peter’s Church. Priceless statues lined the hallways. Gold gilding was everywhere. Michelangelo and other famous artists had painted the

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walls and ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. No flash photog-raphy was allowed in the Sistine Chapel, so we had to rely on a pamphlet to remember what we saw. All that magnificent medieval art in just two hours! It was worse than getting a drink from a fire hydrant.

Della and I got back on the tour bus tired and

disappointed with the brevity of our visit. “We have to come back, Sweet Della.”

“Next time we should spend several days here, Jim.”We returned to the ship and prepared to sail for

Monte Carlo.

Entrance to the Ear of Dionysius, a cave known for its acoustics, once an infamous prison where its occupants were starved to death, Siracusa, Sicily.

A tall sundial in Pompeii, Italy.

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Ancient pedestrian walkway used in wet weather. Note the chariot tracks worn in the

stones. Pompeii, Italy.

Preserved body of a victim of the Vesuvius eruption, Pompeii, Italy.

The Malfi Coast, Italy.

The Coliseum, Rome, Italy.

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The Vatican, Italy.

Tivoli Fountains, Rome, Italy.

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Chapter III.F - Monaco and Spain

It was a cool moonless night in 1297 AD. Two Fri-ars approached the fortress atop a 459-foot rock megalith overlooking the Mediterranean. They banged on the gate, crying, “Please let us in.”

After a while a guard approached. “Can’t let any strangers in. Sorry.”

“But we’re men of the cloth, and we are cold and hun-gry. Please, in our Savior’s name.”

The guard started to turn back, but changed his mind. He unlocked the gate and lifted the securing bar. “Come in and I’ ll show you where you can sleep.”

One “ friar,” Francesco Grimaldi, suddenly grabbed the guard, drew a sword from his habit, and with one stroke slit the poor man’s throat and threw him to the ground. With blood gurgling from the wound, he drove the point of the sword through the guard’s heart.

“Quick, Ranier, open the gate and signal the others,” said Francesco, later to be known as “The Cunning One.”

Soon four other men joined the “ friars” and together they killed all of the occupants, securing the fortress for the House of Grimaldi.

Since that day, the Grimaldi family and their descen-dants or (pretenders) have governed Monaco. Two bearded men in brown habits appear on the coat of arms for the principality.

About to turn in on the night before we were to land in Monaco, I had been reading the ship’s newslet-ter “Good God, Della. These people actually seem proud of such skullduggery! What kind of country are we going to?”

“I read that, too. Back in those days there were a lot of nasty people. The next generation of Grimaldis got rich from piracy. But when I think of Monaco, I see

in my mind’s eye Princess Grace and Prince Ranier, the palace, the wealth, the Grand Prix. There’s a lot of glam-our there, and I want to see what I can.”

“Della, if we had rich friends who live there like Bob Goode, we might meet royalty. He and Nicky would take us with them if they could. Janice and Frank Sanders are visiting here for the first time, and we will be touring in a van with them. They are really good com-pany, and it should be fun.”

The Voyager sailed to Monaco the next morning with the moon just a small orange dot setting over the Mediterranean coast, the deep-purple sky reflecting the same color off the sea.

Monaco is a very small country, less than a square mile, about the same size as my poor little farm in Iowa. The country is bounded to the south by the Mediterra-nean and by France in the other three directions. Most of its 36,000 residents speak French. It is a constitutional monarchy with the prince having more power than in many governments of that type. Monaco has no individ-ual income tax, no capital gains tax, and no inheritance tax, making it desirable home for banks and for the rich. And you have to be rich to live there. The cost of living is sky high.

You are never far from France when in Monaco, and together with the Sanders, our van traveled east a short distance along the coast into France for spectacu-lar views of cliffs and the Mediterranean. In the distance we could see two small harbors, one where Voyager was docked and another smaller one chock full of sailboats, one of which was previously owned by Errol Flynn.

We parked next to the Hotel d Paris, an over-the-top deluxe hotel. Not wanting to pay hundred-dollar-a-head

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fee to step into the lobby, we took coffee at the nearby Cafe d’ Paris at an outdoor table. It reminded me of Paris—café au lait (coffee with milk, usually hot) and a fresh croissant, a real taste treat.

Nearby was Monaco’s first casino, which was built in 1860. We didn’t enter that building either, which inci-dentally, was designed by the same man who designed the Paris Opera House.

Our driver took us over a portion of the wind-ing route of the Gran Prix automobile race, which was going to be run in two weeks. After driving through all sections of Monaco we finally reached the top of “The Rock” where the cathedral, administration building, and palace sat. Della and Janice straightened their pos-tures and took deep breaths as they exited the van. Frank stifled a yawn.

At the cathedral where Princess Grace and Prince Ranier were married and then buried, Della paused at the front and lit a candle for the royal pair and for her cancer survivor group. The four of us stood in line to pass the side-by-side resting places of the noble couple, which were marked by inscribed slabs of brown gran-ite bearing small bouquets of fresh flowers, purple and white orchids for Grace and red roses for the prince. Della dabbed her eyes with Kleenex as she filed past, still remembering her cancer-victim friends who shared the same long sleep of the Moroccan couple.

“The descendants in the royal family are still living well if you believe the magazines,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Frank.” But Stephanie is having a prob-lem learning to ski.”

“That so?” I said.“Yep. She couldn’t keep her knees together long

enough to learn how to snow plow.”“Like mother, like daughter,” I said.“Stop that, you two,” said Janice.“Yes, please,” said Della. “Grace tried to lead a very

proper life after leaving Hollywood. And she was usually successful.”

The fortress of ancient times was now an admin-istrative building. Over the main entrance were white marble statues of the two murdering “friars” with swords raised high and with their free arms resting on a shield decorated with red diamonds on a white background.

We toured the two-story palace with its mediaeval art, and then witnessed the changing of the guard in front. The soldiers carried old-fashioned rifles and wore

blue uniforms with red cuffs on their jackets, red stripes on the pant legs, and white gloves. They wore blue hel-mets, which might have belonged to firemen if they had been red. These soldiers didn’t seem very fierce. More like the Keystone Cops.

After some shopping for postcards, the four of us went down to a restaurant near our ship for lunch. The table was set with white linen and a vase with fresh red roses. I had French onion soup, green beans a la Proven-cal, and a small filet. I loved the warm French bread with unsalted butter.

We re-boarded our ship and prepared to sail for Spain. “Well, Della, did you experience the glamour of Monaco?” I asked.

“Only a little glimpse. I think you have to be very rich to see it as the rich see it.”

Voyager sailed southwest along the coast of France, and continued along the Spanish coast to dock at the port city of Barcelona. It had been the stronghold of Republican resistance in the Spanish Civil War (1936–1938). Francisco Franco received assistance from fellow Fascists, Hitler and Mussolini. A half-million people died in that war, about a hundred thousand by summary execution of civilians and clergy by Franco’s forces in an attempt to eliminate all traces of communism in Spain. Many of the world’s artists fought along with the Repub-licans, including our own Ernest Hemingway. Franco won though, and he ruled Spain with an iron fist until 1975. Spain was neutral in both world wars, but the country suffered for decades from its bloody civil war.

After lunch on the ship, we took a van tour of the city with Frank and Janice. Barcelona is Spain’s second largest city with 1.6 million people in the city proper and 4.5 million in the surrounding urban area.

“Well,” said Janice, “Rosalyn says that Gaudi’s architecture is what we should see here.”

“Is that where our word gaudy comes from?” I asked.

“Oh no,” said Janice, “Not at all. But I understand that some of his work could be considered gaudy.”

“Where do we go to see Gaudi’s work?” Frank asked our driver.

“It’s everywhere in Barcelona. I suggest we drive around the city where you’ll see many of his buildings. We will stop at the cathedral and let you walk around the place. We will finish with Park Guell where Gaudi lived and made some of his most beautiful structures.”

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The Greeks, Romans, and Carthaginians had been prominent in the city at different times in history, much as with other stops on our cruise. Our tour guide pointed out the old-town street structure and parts of some buildings, which were designed by the Romans.

Sidewalks in Barcelona were really different, very few just plain cement. Inlaid patterns using colorful stones, bottle bottoms, broken porcelain, metal gears, or combinations of those decorated most. A little of Gaudi’s spirit must be innate in Barcelona’s sidewalk builders.

Some Gaudi-designed houses and apartments used broken, colorful, glazed ceramics set in cement to dec-orate the exteriors in sharp patterns, no curves. Other buildings had no corners. It was as though gray bread dough had first coated the structure, and then was baked, puffing out everywhere. Blue and red tiles were in widespread use for roofs.

Antoni Gaudi started the cathedral, Sagrada Familia (Holy Family), in 1882. In 2006 it was still a long way from completion, now scheduled for 2026, the centenary of Gaudi’s death. It will be 300 feet long, 200 feet wide, and 560 feet high with a seating capacity of 9,000. Only eight spires of the eighteen planned had been completed when we visited. It is a World Heritage Site, unusual for a building still under construction.

This structure is difficult to describe. It is not of one single style. Architects coming after Gaudi have had more modern tastes. A modern crucifixion scene was at one end to the cathedral. El Greco could have sculpted the artificially elongated Christ.

Gaudi’s original stone spires were very narrow, very tall, and made widespread use of colorful ceramics. Var-ious-sized stones of neutral colors, browns and grays, lay in decorative patterns. These structures would have fit into the Hogwarts campus.

Our last tour stop was Park Guell, a Gaudi-designed park where he also lived. There were even more broken and cracked colorful ceramics in the park than in town. They were in the sidewalks, on walls, on steps, and on the ceiling of a shelter. A ten-foot-long dragon (salamander?) threatened the world, and would have been even scarier had it not been all colors of the rainbow. Della and I sat on a gracefully curved bench surfaced with broken pieces of blue and green ceramics. We gazed at the care-taker’s house built of round, brown stones, and graced with windows with white stones dotted their periphery. Its sculpted white and gray ceramic roof was the base for

a cupola of the brightest possible orange, blue, and red ceramic fragments, their color contrasting strongly with the neutral colors of the rest of the building.

“Della, what do you see here?” I asked.“Well, that man sure had an imagination. I see joy

as I look around.”“You, too? This view somehow touches the child in

me. I feel happiness.”We returned to the ship and cleaned up for a

ship-sponsored dinner in the commodity exchange building in the old city. We were served paella, a classic Spanish dish cooked over a wood fire in a shallow, four-foot-round pan with wide-ranging contents including; chicken, mussels, fish, rice, sausages, and massive doses of saffron coloring everything a vivid yellow-orange. This was my first experience with this tasty dish, which I found very pleasant despite what would have seemed an unlikely combination of ingredients.

Picasso had lived at one time in Barcelona, and a museum there displayed his paintings. I didn’t under-stand his later work, but I had to admit it was very interesting. Then, completely bushed, we returned to the ship and went to bed.

After sailing for two nights and a day along the southern shore of Spain, Voyager reached Malaga. We had planned to go on a van tour set up by Frank and Janice, but they couldn’t go because she wasn’t feeling well, and so we had a guide, Rolando, and a driver, Michael, all to ourselves.

Rolando was about five-foot-six with an olive com-plexion. He wore a white open-collared shirt and a sport coat. Fortunately he spoke understandable English. He guided us to vantage points overlooking the city of half million people city.

We walked for about half an hour with Rolando around a fort near the top of the hill. The Moors built it in about 1200 AD. One interesting feature of its con-struction was the use of stone and red bricks interleaved at random in the walls. The stones were about ten times as large as the bricks, but the bricks were about ten times as numerous.

Further down the hill was a fortress (kasbah) and a city founded even earlier by Arabs.

Similar to other places in the Mediterranean, this region had many masters; the Phoenicians (770 BC), Carthaginians (660 BC), Greeks (400 BC), Romans (200 BC), Moors (687 AD), and a united Spain (1492 AD).

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We saw archaeologists down on their hands and knees carefully uncovering a Roman theater. Stretched above their work was orange netting protecting them from rocks coming down on their heads. Carved stone seating in the theater looked just like it must have in Roman times.

The largest Christian church in the city was still under construction after one hundred years. One of its longest and highest brick walls was once the wall of a mosque. No sense in wasting a good wall.

Rolando introduced us to a local delicacy, a sort of cylindrical donut, not to be eaten plain, but only after being dipped in delicious hot chocolate. He also took us to a local bar where a glass of wine cost about one dollar.

In Malaga we tried, but failed, to buy a cheap suit-case to carry the touristy treasures we had accumulated.

Granada and the Alhambra were only a two-hour tour bus ride from Malaga, and Della and I wanted to visit the last stronghold of the Moors in Spain. Starting in 687 AD the Moors invaded Spain from the south, and within a hundred years controlled most of the country. Several hundred years later, Europeans, start-ing from northern Spain, pushed south until 1492 when Granada was captured by the forces of Ferdinand and Isabella. Yes, the same Queen Isabella that gave Christo-pher Columbus a charter to go to the new world.

Jews had been banished or killed earlier. In 1492 Muslims were given the choices of converting to Christi-anity, leaving Spain, or dying. The new king and queen

were ruthless in making Spain a Christian-only country.We had a disappointingly short two hours to spend

in the Alhambra, the palace of the last Moorish ruler of the area. In 889 AD the site held a small fortress, which was later abandoned and left to decay. The ruins were largely ignored until the mid-eleventh century when it was rebuilt by the Moors as a grand palace and fort. After the Europeans recaptured Granada in 1492 AD, they occupied the grounds and built a large Christian church.

The features of the Alhambra that I found most unusual were the ornately decorated interiors of the Moorish buildings and the grandeur of the gardens. Room after room was decorated with colored molded plaster and ceramic tiles on the walls, ceilings, and facades. The colors were mostly pastels, but the designs were intricate with small features. Some of the ceilings were wood.

Fountains surrounded by greenery fed reflecting pools. My father had opined that Moors, after spending their lives in the deserts of North Africa, couldn’t have been blamed for their fascination with water.

The gardens were lush and well designed, mixing tall and short plants and different colors of blooms. Little knot gardens popped up everywhere over the grounds.

We had a very nice lunch at a hotel nearby, and then returned to the ship at 5: 30 PM, just in time for the ship to cast off at 6: 00 PM and head for the Gibraltar.

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Figures of the murderers who established the royal line in Monaco.

Tombstone of Princess Grace of Monaco.

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A Gaudy building in Barcelona, Spain. Della is in the forground.

Ceiling in the Alhmambra, Spain.

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Chapter III.G - Gibraltar, Madeira, Bermuda, Home

Voyager sailed from Malaga toward Gibraltar, prepar-ing to cross the Atlantic to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, where our world cruise would end. Della was efficient as always, separating what we would carry on the airplane from what we would leave to Luggage Free, the carrier which would deliver the remaining items to our home in Minnesota. We still needed another suitcase to hold all accumulated presents for friends and family.

“These two suitcases are packed with clothes we won’t need for the rest of the trip,” she explained. “Now just use the clothes hanging on this end of the closet. The others are washed and ironed, ready to pack.”

As always, I had the last two words on any topic. “Yes, Dear,” I said.

Our time for the last few days of our trip was packed as carefully as the suitcases. Every lunch and din-ner was scheduled so we could see couples we liked best. These meals were a mixture of joy for cruising together and sadness of parting. Phone numbers and addresses were exchanged along with tentative schedules for trav-eling together in the future. The last dinner on the ship was especially reserved with John and Pat Doyle, Janice and Frank Sanders, and Bob and Nicky Goode.

Captain Dag had a “packing” problem of his own. For the trip across the Atlantic, he had planned to refuel Voyager in Tunis, but at the time oil prices were spiking and supplies were shrinking, and the Tunisians asked prices beyond what was reasonable. So the captain sailed away without stopping. Plan B was to buy oil in Gibral-tar, but as we approached, the sea turned too rough to go to port, and at dusk a fuel barge pulled alongside our

ship just outside Gibraltar and started pumping. Bright floodlights and noise kept us awake until four in the morning. We could see the lights on the Rock of Gibral-tar, but never docked.

I would like to have landed there. Neanderthals had lived in there before being eclipsed by modern man, and after them by the now-familiar progression of Phoenicians, Romans, and other Europeans. Great Brit-ain owned this strategic entrance to the Mediterranean from the eighteenth century, on through Nazi attacks in World War II, and still owns it to the present day, although Spain disputes British possession because it connects by land to Spain.

During the Ice Age, the Mediterranean basin was bone dry. According to geologists, the Strait of Gibraltar was the site of massive waterfalls as the ice melted and the oceans of the world rose, thus refilling the sea. I wish I could have seen it.

We sailed the next day and night out of sight of land. Then at dawn of the next day we came into Fun-chal on the Portuguese island of Madeira. The city of one- and two-story buildings with orange tile roofs was just blinking off its lights. Voyager docked inside a break-water on a dock just long enough for herself and two more ships.

Della and I took a shuttle bus from the dock to the foot of a chairlift, and we caught the next vacant glassed-in car going up. Plant life seemed to cover all available ground space. Brilliant red blossoms hung on African tulip trees. I couldn’t identify most of the wildflowers, but was familiar with the yellow- and

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red-blooming nasturtiums hanging in profusion along a wall on the way up. The ride to the top took about ten minutes, probably climbing five hundred vertical feet. We could see the city and our ship tied at the dock.

We had the option of taking the chairlift back down, but a more thrilling ride beckoned. Young men in blue jackets (buttoned at the neck), white pants, and straw hats with black bands waited for tourists to get on wooden sleds for a slide down very steep streets back to flat land. We sat side by side on a wooden board in a sled body of woven twigs. A photographer snapped our picture. Then two of the men, one on each side, walked or ran in back of our sled using long rods attached to the front of the runners to steer around corners. The streets were smooth, flat stones which had been sprayed with water, making them very slippery. When the sled went fast, the two drivers could ride on the back of the sled. We sped down the hill like the wind. Della’s grip just about cut the circulation in my right arm, and she screamed at the first turn. I also wondered if we would crash, but after a wild ride down to the city, we came to a safe stop. For twenty Euros we were offered a photo-graph of our pose at the top, which had been sent down electronically and printed out below. We didn’t buy it, but later wished we had.

A cab took us to the old market area. I particu-larly enjoyed looking at fruits and vegetables, always my favorite things and always different in different coun-tries. Della favored baskets, embroidery, and clothing. She bought a ceramic trivet, and together we found a duffle bag, which would serve just as well as a suitcase to get our surplus purchases home.

A short walk away a galvanized sheet steel building with tall ceilings housed the fish market with its brown stone top tables and stainless steel sinks. The floors were wet, but clean, and surprisingly, there was no odor. Many kinds of fish, including tuna, were displayed, but one was very unusual. The black scabbard fish had vicious-looking teeth, large metallic button eyes, a body slimmer than a northern pike’s, and a length up to four feet. It was fished commercially at depths 600 to 6,000 feet off the coast of Madeira, and was one the area’s favorite foods.

On the way back to the ship I got a badly needed haircut for ten Euros, about half the ship’s price.

In the afternoon Della and I attended a ship-spon-sored soirée featuring local foods. I made it a point to

try black scabbard fish. It wasn’t as good as Minnesota’s walleyed pike.

We both enjoyed watching folk dancers in colorful Portuguese costumes performing traditional numbers. Della, impressed with a particular native hat, found a replica at the dock, and bought it. It was basically a beanie, but a round, flat band mounted it on her head. Further up, a circular pointed “tent” was topped by a six-inch-long green-and-yellow pole sticking straight up. Red, blue, yellow, and green patterns completely covered the cap.

“Where will you wear that damned thing?” I asked.“Anywhere I damned please,” she answered.Again I made my point. “Yes, Dear,” I said.We got back on board the ship and prepared for the

routine of days-at-sea, six of them until we were to reach Bermuda. I walked, played bridge and Trivial Pursuit, talked with friends, and spent much of my time worry-ing about getting our stuff back to Minnesota. Della did the planning and packing, all the real work. Goodbye meals with friends filled in our spare time. Those were days of dreading the end of the cruise while anticipating going home. Bermuda was to be the last stop before the Fort Lauderdale.

Buildings, homes, and churches in Bermuda were painted in muted colors—light green, pale blue, weak pink, faded orange, or dull yellow. Some had white trim and almost all had white roofs. As our ship made her way into port I saw not one exception to this color rule, which made the place seem ultra-clean and a little magi-cal, a semitropical paradise.

The bright-colored flag of Bermuda flew over many buildings, contrasting almost garishly with their soft col-ors. Bermuda just didn’t seem British.

Voyager docked along a pier at Hamilton. As Della and I stepped off the gangway, stores lay just across a narrow street, not more than twenty feet from the ship. Looking back from shore it appeared the ship was just another store facing the business district.

Located one thousand miles northeast of Miami, and at about the same latitude as Atlanta, Georgia, Ber-muda is a British territory with 64,000 inhabitants on a group of islands formed from the remaining walls of an ancient volcano’s caldera. The warmth of the Gulf Stream provides it with year-round warm weather, which, along with beautiful beaches, provides a powerful draw for tourists, primarily from the US, but also from

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other countries around the world.Like Monaco, Bermuda had neither income taxes

nor capital gains taxes, making it attractive for the rich. Unlike Monaco, it didn’t even have a corporate income tax, which made it also attractive for insurance busi-nesses, the primary source of income for the country. Bermuda’s per capita gross nation product was about $90,000, the highest in the world, but living there wasn’t cheap. Import duties made goods high-priced, and a million dollars bought only a very modest house.

Bermuda has a water supply problem. Cisterns to catch rainwater from roofs are built into the foundations of most houses, and they supply more than half of the territory’s water usage. Sewage disposal is also a problem. Septic systems and disposal at sea generally provide solu-tions, but periodically beaches are contaminated.

Della and I went ashore with Janice and Frank Sanders. Frank led the four of us in a brief prayer before the women went off shopping. “Lord, please protect Jim’s and my credit cards from abuse,” he said.

“Amen,” I said, but the women had already left. They had heard this before.

I walked with Frank to a Federal Express Office just a few blocks from our ship. He and Janice had decided it would be better to ship a few fragile items to Baton Rouge rather than to carry them through customs and on the airplane trip home. We saw to it they were packed carefully and addressed properly.

Our mission accomplished, I said, “It’s a nice sun-shiny day. Let’s find somewhere to sit, look at the ocean, and drink cold beer.”

“Thet sounds like a winnah,” Frank said.We found a hotel veranda overlooking blue water,

and sat at a table with a beach umbrella overhead to shade us from the bright sun, and ordered beer.

The hotel took our dollars one for one, the same as for Bermuda currency, the Bermuda dollar. The coun-try had converted from the Bermuda pound a few years back, a sign that their economic bond might be stronger with the United States than with Great Britain.

Frank and I traded tall tales and drank beer for a few hours until it was time to meet our wives back by the ship. I was a little wobbly walking back. We forgave our spouses their clothing purchases and praised their taste and frugality. What else could we do? The four of us ate fish and tropical lobsters near our ship at a restau-rant called the Lobster Pot. Then we stepped across the

street and up the gangplank to re-board the ship.Voyager cast off and sailed along Bermuda’s coast.

Della and I sat on our balcony, entranced by the pastel structures we passed along the shore as we set to sea.

The next day in mid-ocean we met the Voyager’s sis-ter ship, the Seven Seas Navigator, outbound from Fort Lauderdale and headed east for the summer season in the Mediterranean. Passengers on both ships cheered as their vessels blasted out greetings, three loud, continuous blasts on their horns.

The two leviathans anchored a couple hundred yards apart. By email we had prearranged signals with cruise friends on the other ship. We waved towels off our balcony and peered through binoculars, looking for cruisers from the Navigator doing likewise. We saw three acquaintances and they saw us.

Both ships deployed small inflatable boats that raced around in the space between vessels, each flying its own flag. Jamie, our cruise director water-skied and waved to the onlookers while Captain Dag gunned his outboard engine.

The small boats were re-stowed, anchors were weighed, passengers cheered again, and ships’ horns blasted three long ones as the rendezvous ended. It was childish fun, but fun nonetheless.

Per plan, our last dinner on the ship was with the Doyles, Sanders, and Goodes. John Doyle proposed his classic toast, “Some friendships last forever, some friend-ships peter out. May our friendships last forever, peter in or peter out.” The ladies were e all said, “Amen.”

Along with the Doyles, we had made arrangements for that summer for the four of us to visit the Goodes at their homes in Tuscany and Austria. In the fall we planned to go to New York City with Janice and Frank Sanders.

“I just love cruising,” said Bob Goode. “I will miss you all.”

“Our lives will change abruptly tomorrow, won’t they?” said Nicky.

“No butler for coffee in bed in the mornings,” said Pat.

“When I throw a towel on the floor, I’ll have to pick it up myself,” I said.

“No three meals of great food selections, and we’ll have to wash our dishes,” said Della.

“We’ve really been pampered,” said Frank. “Tomor-row it’s back to the real world.”

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As we parted, men and women hugged, giving each other a kiss on each cheek. Women and women did like-wise, and even men hugged each other, but without the kisses.

Della had carefully labeled our baggage, a suitcase and two carry-ons, to go with us on the airplane and six pieces to be delivered later by Luggage Free at a later date. All nine were lined up in the hallway before we went to bed. Down the hallway Mark and Harry, the couple from Florida, had thirty-two matching suitcases ready to go. When Della and I went to bed for the last time on the cruise, only the clothes we would wear the next day and a couple of small carry-ons remained in our cabin. I peeked out our cabin door to see the crew, many with wide leather belts to aid in lifting, carrying luggage through the hall toward elevators.

“Are you sad it’s over?” I asked Della.“Well, yes and no. It’s been wonderful, but I look

forward to seeing our family and being home. How about you?”

“I’m like you. I’m also worried about getting all our stuff back home.”

The next morning I dressed and opened our cabin door to an empty hallway. Ship’s crew had removed everything during the night. I took an elevator to deck twelve to see luggage loaded into huge wire nets, some twenty items per net. These were lifted from the ship by a long, skinny crane on the wharf and banged down on a dock nine decks below. I wondered if our suitcases would survive. The baggage was then carried by motorized cars to a warehouse and sorted according to color-coded tags, which were assigned according to the order of their own-er’s departure time from the ship.

We ate breakfast and cleared our cabin, which had to be prepared for the next occupants by that after-noon. Five hundred passengers and their luggage were leaving that morning, and five hundred more with their luggage were getting on for a late-afternoon departure.

Fuel, water, and provisions were also required. It must take a lot of planning to turn a ship around in such a short time.

I filled out duty forms for all our purchases and had them stamped by officials who came aboard the ship. Then we waited around the ship until our color was called.

Our airplane was scheduled to leave at 5: 00 PM, a relatively late departure, so most of the passengers got off the ship before we did. We even had time to eat lunch on the ship. Finally our color was called and we left the ship, saying our goodbyes to many of the crew as we departed.

At the pier warehouse we found our nine pieces of luggage and retained a porter to take them through immigration and customs inspection. Customs gave a cursory glance at our duty forms, took a personal check for duty, and stamped our passports. Our porter put the three pieces we were to carry home on an airport limou-sine, and the other six by a sign that said “Luggage Free.” We hoped we would see them back in Minnesota. (Two weeks later our remaining baggage would be delivered by Luggage Free. Two of the six suitcases were damaged beyond repair.)

After a limousine ride to the Fort Lauderdale air-port, we waited several hours before boarding a flight to Minneapolis. There we were met by family and driven home. Exhausted, we climbed into our own bed for the first time in four months with our hearts full of gladness for all our blessings.

“My friends were wrong,” Della said. “I don’t need a divorce attorney after being cooped up with you for four months.”

“You are the very best of traveling companions, Sweet Della. Let’s do this again sometime.”

“We should do it next year, Jim.”“Yes, Dear.”

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Della and author ready to slide down the street in Madeira, Portugal.

Voyager virtually anchored next to a street in Bermuda.