A Day Among Old Friends

Enric stood in the soft rain next to the door of the church. He saw us coming, then took a second glance when our eyes met. I smiled and quickened my step and when we met Enric embraced me. “¿Cómo estáis amigos?”
 
I hadn't seen the Moreta family in 17 years. Kaitlyn was just a baby and we left her home with Grandma. I met Teo, Enric, and their daughter, Marta, 24 years ago during a 2-year church mission in Spain. I had kept loose contact with them through postcards, letters, and e-mails.
 
With pride that could be typical of a Catalán I introduced my daughter, “Esta es mi hija, Kaitlyn.”
 
With a light rain still falling we walked to the car of Enric and drove a few blocks to Teo's store called El Repunt. In addition to selling keys, she is a seamstress who repairs clothing and upholstery.
 
Enric unlocked and lifted a grilled gate, then unlatched the door inside. Teo sat at a sewing machine and immediately stood up when she saw us. “Oh, John,” she said in Castilian Spanish. “You haven't changed a bit! You are still very skinny.” She came right up to my face and gave me a kiss on both cheeks.
 

Soon we were back in the car and on our way from Girona to Palamós. Kaitlyn and I sat in the back seat and for much of an hour I talked to my old friends. For people in their sixties, they looked very healthy. Other than the fact that their hair was dyed jet black, they both appeared the same as they had 24 years ago.
 
Enric asked if we had been in the cloister of the Cathedral. He said one of his ancestors from the Mascot family is buried there. When I heard this I became excited to share that one of my great-great-great. . . . . grandpas, Ramón Berenguer II, is buried in the Cathedral also, but in the nave.
 
Teo reminded us that she was from Andalusia—from Granada. While we drove she played a C.D. of a local gerundense musical group, and sung along and clapped her hands.
 
In typical European fashion, there was nothing smooth about our ride. We made sharp turns, abrupt stops, and twirled on roundabouts. Kaitlyn, being sensitive to motion sickness, became very “mareada.”—but she survived.
 
Northern Catalunya is a very green place. Hills that are wooded with pine trees spread across the land, with much larger mountains peeking from the distance. Old farm houses with terracotta tiled roofs dot the countryside.
 
When the sea came into view it was a deep blue. We came to Palamós where the grand view opened before us. The long sandy beach abutted a sea filled with sail boats and a large cruise liner. We walked the boardwalk until it started to rain, then went to the restaurant where we found Marta and Juan beneath a black umbrella.
 

Marta greeted us with a beso on each cheek, and Juan with a handshake. The daughter of Teo and Enrique had grown since we last saw her. She was tall and slender with long chestnut hair. Juan, her Portuguese boyfriend, I had never met. “João” was his real name, but the Castilian version was much easier to pronounce.
 
I ordered from the menu of the day, eating fish soup for my first course, butifarra and fried potato strips for my second, and bizcocho de naranja for dessert. Teo ordered a pot of steamed mussels for us to share.
 
The conversation at our table was interesting. We spoke three languages. I spoke to them in Castilian. Marta spoke to Kaitlyn and sometimes to me in English. They spoke to each other in Catalán.
 
We spoke of many topics. They perceive Donald Trump as a businessman and clown. He talks of too many things he shouldn't even talk about. Most of all they are very scared because the American President has an extreme amount of world leverage and could create instability on a whim.
 
We talked of food. Marta has traveled to the U.S. Many times and gave us her opinion on American cuisine—we have too many sauces, much of the food is greasy, and everything is loaded with sugar.
 
As the conversation drew on, my Spanish became worse. Perhaps my tongue was tired of contorting in unfamiliar positions. My ability to understand seemed to slip. I found myself more and more asking, “¿Cómo?” Perhaps my friends were becoming more and more relaxed in their speech and cracking jokes that I didn't catch. I have always had a difficult time understanding Enric anyway, especially with how he pronounces his “L's," which he can't pronounce at all.
 
Marta proved to be the true linguistic queen. She was hesitant to speak in English at first, but in the end was able to articulate several complicated issues. She explained that she is nervous because when she speaks she is telling herself in her head that it doesn't sound right. She took seven years of English in school and has had several opportunities to practice.
 

When we finished our meal it was raining on the boardwalk. Teo forgot to bring an extra umbrella so we drove to another location. Near Calella de Palafrugell the downpour had slowed to a sprinkle. The road winds up a long hill where there is a lighthouse and 2,600-year-old Iberian ruins.
 
From a summit the expansive blue Mediterranean meets the shoreline below us, covered by a rugged declivity of pines. On a clear day one could almost see the Balearic Islands from here. Our view was blocked by heavy gray clouds on the horizon.
 

We descended to the village of Calella and walked the narrow streets that flank the coast. Small fishing vessels were pulled ashore and a rusty anchor leaned against a rock wall for display. On a small promontory walkway the Catalán flag blew hard with the wind. The wet smell of salt and rain filled my lungs. I didn't want to leave.
 
But at last we had to leave Palafrugell and the coast. We traveled a different route than we had the first time. Marta and Juan drove in a separate car. We passed through unfamiliar towns with old buildings. Enric pointed in the direction of a sanctuary where Salvador Dalí married his wife, Gala.  Then with pride he added, "And we were married there, too!"
 

I knew we were back in Girona when the imposing gray walls of the Cathedral came on our left, and the smaller, but very impressive Basilica of Sant Feliu just below it. We flanked Devesa Park and pulled into an underground parking garage on Carrer Remences. We took the elevator to the first floor.
 
The Moreta family lives in a flat near Teo's store and near Devesa Park. Their living quarters are simple, with souvenirs on their shelves from friends or their own travels around the world. Kaitlyn and I sat on a sofa so soft that I wanted to fall asleep.
 

They gave us a glass of water and we spoke of many topics while here. Most of all we talked of the battle for Catalán independence. Teo showed us pictures on her phone of the October referendum election when the Spanish National Police used violence to prevent the Catalán people from voting—images of bloody and battered people. Marta explained that one of the key issues is that Catalunya pays far more in taxes than it receives. The people here are fed up with it. Now the Spanish government has arrested several people connected with the rebellion, accusing them of sedition. The Catalán consider them as political prisoners. Both Marta and Enric emphasized that the Catalán are peaceful people and want to resolve this by non-violent means.
 
After the sun had set, Enric invited us to cenar, or to eat supper. The Spanish eat their largest meal during the day, so the cena is a lighter affair. We found an arrangement of jamón, olives, pork loin, tuna, roasted red peppers, and cheese. Teo made a French omelet.
 

The conversation continued and we talked of Muslim immigration in Spain, and local eating and sleeping habits. They said that the idea of the Spanish siesta is a myth because many don't take a nap during the day. Marta says the company she works for, Nescafé, doesn't observe medio dia because they are owned by the Swiss. But Teo, who owns her own shop, closes down between 1 and 4 pm and can't help but to take an occasional short snooze.
 
At last it was time to leave. Enric handed us two bags of gifts, including three bars of turrón. Teo hugged me tightly, kissed me on both cheeks, and cupped my face in her hands. A tear almost came to my eye as I realized that this could be the last time I saw this family. Then she gave Kaitlyn the same affection. “Will you please give your mother a hug for me?” she asked. I waved goodbye to Teo as the elevator door closed, and I never saw her again.
 
Marta and Enric accompanied us down to the street and the four of us walked on a dark Girona night, under street lamps and through rain-scented air. “Your hotel is not far from here,” Enric assured us.
 
We arrived at the Hotel Condal where I sat down my bags and gave each of them a hug. Words felt inadequate to describe how I felt toward them, but I think they knew I was grateful. One last time I said goodbye.
 
We entered the hotel lobby. “Seiscientos cuatro,” I said. She gave me the key and I told her, “gracias.” We stepped into the lift and went to the sixth floor. ♠

(L-R) Myself, Kaitlyn, Marta, Juan, Teo (Enric taking the photo).

Cementiri de Montjuïc

One of the most fascinating cemeteries I have ever seen lies on a hill called Montjuïc. This bulky mound rises from the edge of the sea and can be seen from all quarters of Barcelona. The word “Montjuïc” means “mount of the Jews,” named for the Jews who buried their dead on this hill before the Inquisition.

The new cemetery began in 1883 to accommodate the bustling population growth of Barcelona. There are over one million burials here. The lanes of the cemetery wind like a snake up the steep slopes of Montjuïc, overlooking the sea and the tombs below.
 

Some burials are in large mausoleums. If you peek inside you can see frescoes on the ceiling and walls. Others come with ornate statues of angels, Christ, and people in mourning. The headstones are carved with painstaking detail. Most of the graves for the “common folk” come in vaults, usually stacked six graves high. The death dates are spread over the last 135 years. I saw one from May 2018. Many had no death date at all, but only a family name.
 

In addition to the one road that goes from bottom to top, there are also multiple stone stairways for the pedestrian. Within the walls of many of the stairways are additional graves, showing that every possible space is being used. Fountains of potable water are easy to find.
 
We spent three hours at the cemetery and barely scratched the surface. We walked around and soaked up the new experience, seeing very few other people, especially at the upper levels.
 

As we walked down toward the memorial for Lluis Companys, we noticed a trio of speckled birds walking along the terrace below. Not thinking much of it we continued to the rock stairs where we would need to descend. We noticed two seagulls, one of them perched on a headstone. I didn't budge. Every five seconds it would make a loud call. We thought it was cute and took some pictures.
 
After we had our feel of watching the bird, we attempted to descend the stairs (we were sure they would fly away). Then suddenly the bird flew straight at us, pulling up to avert our head at the last moment! We took cover and were amazed at what had just happened. Then, as we had taken a couple more steps, another seagull from high in the air took a diving swoop that again almost skinned our skulls. By now we were frazzled. We quickly learned that the speckled birds were their babies they were attempting to protect.
 
After more failed attempts we retreated and attempted to descend by another set of stairs. These were better, but it was still a dicey situation. I crouched down and stayed close to the rock wall of the steps. A flock of seagulls circled above and cawed. At last we made it through!
 

Hidden in the northwest corner of the cemetery along a road that can be difficult to find is Fossar de la Pedrera, or Cemetery of the Quarry as it is translated from Catalán. During medieval days of Barcelona this site was used as a quarry for some of the major buildings under construction. For example, when Santa Maria del Mar was being built, the bastaixos would haul large stones secured with a sling that they would carry on their backs for several miles.
 
The stone cliffs that were once chiseled away are still visible, but now there is vegetation growing over the surface. The large niche in the hillside is isolated and peaceful. We were the only people there during our visit. A vast portion of ground is covered with grass and there are memorials and a statue.
 
During the dictatorship of Francisco Franco, Fossar de la Pedrera was used as a burial ground for those who were executed. It is estimated that between 1939 and 1952, nearly 1,717 people were killed, most of them by firing squad at Camp de la Bota on the northeast side of Barcelona.
 
Spending time here makes it easy to understand why the people of Catalunya have such resentment toward the rest of Spain and why they seek their own independence.
 

On the perimeter of the fossar is the grave of Lluís Companys. It's not your typical burial spot. It is covered by a low arch and surrounded by a pond with floating lilies.
 
Lluís Companys was the president of Catalunya and executed in 1940, not far away at Montjuïc Castle by the Franco regime. He is the only incumbent democratically elected official in European history to have been executed.

* * *
 
By now the sun angled high over our heads and we decided it was time to return to the city. We passed more stone graves and statues. In the distance we could still hear the caw of the gulls. We descended to the lower terrace, crossed under the motorway and waited for bus number 21. ♠

Barceloneta

We passed La Gamba de Mariscal and came to the walk next to the port that leads to Barceloneta. Sub-Saharan men, as dark as sable, sold merchandise on both sides of the walk, stretching all the way to the beach. In neat arrangements laid on shawls were t-shirts, sweats, sunglasses, shoes, bags, and anything else that might lure an innocent tourist on his way to the playa. We moved on.
 
The port leads to a point where it meets the beach. There we saw the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean. A boardwalk lined with palms follows along the water, with a fine stretch of sand between the two. Kaitlyn and I staked a spot about half way down where we unrolled our towels and laid them on the sand.
 
I grabbed my bag and waited in line for a small bathroom where I changed into my swimming trunks.
 
I returned to Kaitlyn where I sat on my towel and looked around. The beach was crowded today. Not many people dared the water, but most laid on their towels like us, with bags and sandals nearby. Some women laid on their belly with their strap undone to brown their back, while others wore no top at all.
 
More dark-skinned men from Africa advertized their goods. They waved around shawls and pushed cans of beer. Holding a tray of cold green drinks they'd broadcast, “Fresh mojito!”
 

I pulled off my shirt and stood from my towel. I slid off my glasses and placed them inside a shoe. The hot sun baked my shoulders. I walked across the beach and down a short slope to the water. The sand gave way to small pebbles at the fringe of the sea where miniature waves lapped the surface. I smelled a strong scent of fish. I waded to my knees, then hips. The water was green, but clear, and I could see at least ten feet down. Two long fish with silver scales swam in opposite directions. Then I dove in, head first.
 
Cold, but welcoming water enveloped my body. I kept my eyes closed and stroked forward with my arms until I slanted upward and emerged from the sea.
 
I wiped the water from my eyes with one hand and licked a strong salt from my lips. For a minute I tread water and bobbed lightly up and down with the waves. Sail boats slowly glided in the distance and nearby a figure maneuvered a stand-up paddle board. Beyond the shore I could see the twin towers of Olympic Village and the Golden Fish. I dove into the water again, holding my breath for longer, and wishing I could open my eyes to look for silver fish.
 
When I came back up I lazily swam to the shore and walked up the sand with salty sea water dripping from my hair and trunks. I walked past clusters of sun-worshipers, past a group of men playing volleyball, and entered the boardwalk. Beneath my feet I felt the gaps in the sandy wooden planks and almost instantly I felt the wetness evaporate from my back and shoulders. Cyclists, rollerbladers, and pedestrians used the boardwalk and I had to dodge them all.
 

Two more times I returned to the water, repeating the same scenario each time. After the final time I walked to the outdoor shower and rinsed myself with frigid fresh water.
 
When I dried off, Kaitlyn and I dusted our towels, folded them in half, and rolled them up. We returned to the boardwalk and bought ice cream on a stick at a kiosk—hazelnut chocolate! Much refreshed, we began walking again toward La Gamba de Mariscal. ♠

La Gamba de Mariscal

10 Pleasant Surprises in Barcelona

1. Frederic Marès Museum.  While wandering through the Gothic Quarter (and keeping our eyes peeled for a bathroom) we stumbled across the Frederic Marès Museum. I noticed it had free entry, so I thought we could take a look and use the restrooms on our way out. We ended up spending nearly an hour in the building, which used to house the kings of Aragon and Castile. Christopher Columbus was received here upon returning from the new world. But the museum is dedicated to sculpture, particularly really old sculptures. Some date back to Iberian, Greek, and Punic culture. The largest and most impressive display comes from the large collection of crucifixes from the medieval era. Room after room exhibits carvings of the crucified Christ, often with arms broken off. 

2. Street Festival.  Probably our funnest surprise came one evening around dusk when we heard explosions from somewhere on the street. I told Kaitlyn that we had to immediately leave our hotel and investigate. Near the San Antoni Market we found the street blocked off and a party like none other. Dozens of people dressed in orange jackets held torches with sparks shooting from the top. They would run up and down the street and onto the sidewalk and scare anyone they could by brushing the torch near their feet. Others lit off fireworks that would boom and scream. The entire street was one large pyrotechnic display, with no order, but chaos. Another group of people formed a band and played music, which included steady drum beats. Then they attached twirling sparklers to a giant pig on wheels and sent it racing down the street. In the end they lit a firework display right in front of us that echoed off buildings and was so loud I had to plug my ears.

The group responsible for the din was the Diables, or Devils, de Sant Antoni. I don't know much more about the occasion other than it was a local affair, a fiesta put on by people in the neighborhood. It was quite the serendipitous moment.

3. Cathedral Rooftop.  Tucked away in a nook in the Cathedral of Santa Eulalia is a door that gives access to a small elevator. Coming across this nook had eluded me during my other visits to the cathedral. The lift takes the visitor to the roof of the church, but it might as well be another world. Not only does it bring you up-close to the gargoyles and red tiles of the roof, but gives you an expansive view of a sea of other rooftops and steeples and bell-towers that one would otherwise never see. One can also see Montjuïc, the sea, Tibidabo. We spent at least half an hour up there, pleased to gaze upon a peaceful view that I had never seen before.

4. Camp Nou.  After church on Sunday we caught the metro and had traveled two stops on the blue line when Kaitlyn remembered she had left her watch on one of the pews. We got off the train at the Collblanc stop. Knowing where we were, I told Kaitlyn we had two choices: we could immediately get on the first returning train, or we could exit the station and see Camp Nou. We chose the second option.

Camp Nou is the home stadium for the world renowned soccer team, Barcelona, or known locally as Barça. The stadium is gigantic, holding 99,354 people. We had to walk ten minutes to get there, but it was totally worth it. We walked through the store and got our pictures taken in front of a couple icons outside. We didn't go inside, or pay for the “Camp Nou Experience,” but we still got to feel a bit of the atmosphere that comes with Barcelona football.

5. The Champions.  After eating lunch in a bar one day we heard echoes of excitement coming from up the street. Immediately we sought to investigate. We found a local soccer venue and a rowdy crowd on their feet, cheering the team who had just won the championship. It was a youth team, and I don't know what championship they just won. But the team was excited, throwing their arms into the air, jumping up and down, and putting on the winner's jersey. The crowd yelled, “Olé, olé,” and chanted a victory song. I wish we had shown up a bit sooner, but we were lucky to show up at all.

6. Santa Maria del Mar.  In Barcelona, as well as about any other city in Europe, you will have the opportunity to visit many old churches. I enjoy all of them, but will admit that after a while, they all tend to blend together. One church that stands out is Santa Maria del Mar. This church began construction in the 1300's outside the city walls, as a worshiping spot for the fisherman. For me, the thing I enjoy most is the openness of the church. Doors on three sides and a plethora of stained-glass windows let in a lot of light, thus Santa Maria is much more well-lit than many of the other churches and cathedrals. The design is open, allowing for an unobstructed view of the interior. On different inscriptions are memorials to those who helped build it, as well as to the mariners to whom it was built.

7. Hotel Balcony.  When getting a hotel in Europe, especially the cheaper ones in my price range, you never know what kind of window view you will get. It may be a wall, parking lot, or empty space in the middle of the complex. Our first hotel in Barcelona was nothing to brag about on the inside, but our view out the balcony was pleasant. Our fourth-story room looked over Carrer de Josep Anselm Clave, a narrow street just a block from the harbor. Far to our right we could see the mouth of the Rambla, almost to the Columbus statue. On our left we could see the dome and angelic statue atop the Basílica de Mercè. We could hear voices of people roaming the streets, mopeds zooming, and the occasional church bell.

8. El Raval at Night.  Our final hotel was in the Raval District of Barcelona, an area once known for drug problems and prostitution. Although the city has done a good job cleaning up, it is still a little on the seedy side. Each night as we returned to our room, I chose to wander a different route through the Raval. The streets, all narrow alleyways, were well lit. Some were full of bars and nightlife, while others were devoid of people. But it was always a pleasure to walk through these streets at night and take in the sites and smells of whatever we passed. Often I would have to pull out my map to figure out where we were. I watched old ladies at midnight going on a stroll. Shop-keepers sat outside their doors chatting. Independence flags hung from balconies and occasionally I heard television coming from an open window.

9. Castellers.  I was pleasantly surprised when I learned that, following our church services we would attend on Sunday, there would be a competition of Castellers. This is a sport unique to Catalunya where teams build human towers, standing on each others shoulders, often seven levels high. It had been many years since I had watched in person. We weren't disappointed. In the municipality of Esplugues (a suburb of Barcelona) we observed three teams take turns and build some amazing “castles” as they are referred to in Catalán. There was even an upper-level terrace that led to a park where we had a birds-eye view.

10. The Magic Fountain.  On our final night in Barcelona we climbed the stairs of Montjuïc to the famed Magic Fountain. I wasn't sure what to expect. The first time I went there (during the 1992 Olympics) I as thoroughly impressed. We had been exploring some of the Olympic venues when we happened upon the fountain. I didn't know it had a name back then. Thousands of people gathered around, so we thought something exciting was about to happen. When the show began it was a booming exhibition of light and dancing water, choreographed to the song Barcelona, sung by Freddy Mercury and Montserrat Caballé. The experience has stayed with me for 26 years.

In 2001 I visited the fountain with my wife, but found it not even running. I was disappointed.

So I tried again on this last trip with my daughter. We were not disappointed. As in 1992, there were thousands gathered around the fountain. At 9:30 promptly the display began and the song Barcelona blared into the air! I turned to Kaitlyn and explained that this is exactly what I had experienced 26 years ago! ♠

One Final Adventure

Ribbon Falls, Grand Canyon.

Some deaths are harder to take than others. This was a hard one for me. Dave was someone I saw nearly every day and heard his voice. I can still hear it in my head. It is as clear as if he were with me right now.

Dave and I have many of the same interests. We are both avid hikers, although he has far out-paced me in that category. He once told me that he may not have enough money to travel to exotic places around the world, but he certainly has enough till fill up a tank of gas. We are blessed to have some of the best hiking scenery in our backyard: Buckskin Gulch, The Subway, The Narrows, The Wave.

He loved to take his family. On his desk is a picture of he, his wife, Vickie, and five kids posing at the edge of a red-rock canyon somewhere near Moab. His son, Josh, tells the story of hiking the 12-mile long Narrows when he was ten years old, and the Virgin River being so high that his dad had to carry his pack so it didn't get too wet. This was the hike when he got the birds-and-the-bees talk.

Bright Angel Trail in the Grand Canyon, 2010.  Dave Bolton on right.  This was our rim-to-rim hike.

Havasu Creek, 2010.  Dave is on the left. (Russ Eyre photo)

On the trail to Havasu Falls.  (Russ Eyre photo)

David Bolton was my boss, but I also considered him my friend. Over the years we have done a handful of hikes together, including Havasu Falls and the Grand Canyon, rim-to-rim.  We have slept under the stars in the middle of nowhere, stayed in a simple lodge in Supai Village, ate breakfast at five in the morning at a cafe in Vegas, searched for Aron Ralston's choke-stone, and have had several spiritual discussions together.

As we traveled, most of our discussions centered around past adventures. He was always fond of his backpacking trip with his son and a friend through the Wind River Mountain Range in Wyoming. The hike was 85 miles long and took about a week. He was so worried about his son's pack being too heavy that he emptied his own food and carried his son's. When he returned to work he was twenty pounds lighter and still looked exhausted, but swore that it was the greatest adventure he ever had.

Lots of stray dogs near Supai Village.  Dave is in the green shirt.

Early-morning breakfast at the Havasupai Tribal Cafe.

Dave raises his arms in triumph at Navajo Falls.

Just last summer he was at it again, but this time on the Colorado River. He was anxious to pull out his phone and show a video of he and his son on separate inflatable kayaks called duckies. An eddie pulled them both under and Dave was underwater for nearly a minute. He said it was black and quiet. He thought it was the end, that he would die. He prayed fervently that his son would resurface. In spite of the situation, he said there was a peaceful feeling. Then, at once, he felt as if an arm had grabbed his shoulder and pulled him above water. His son had resurfaced shortly before him. He was so grateful to be alive.

That was typical Dave. He seemed invincible.

Dave, at left, relaxing in Havasu Creek in 2010.  Robbie Armbruster, seated; Russ Eyre, standing.

Little Wild Horse Canyon, 2017.

The last time I spoke to Dave was on Friday. It is interesting that neither of us were supposed to be at work that day. I was supposed to be on vacation, but came back a day early because I couldn't get Saturday off. Dave was supposed to be on vacation also, but the Postmaster forced him to come to work. He wasn't happy about coming in because he had a lot of packing that had to be done.

As I passed by his desk his face lit up and he asked, “John, have I told you what I'm doing next week?” He then went on to explain that he and the scouts were hiking Coyote Gulch, and possibly a couple other slot canyons. Then they would hike down Hole-in-the-Rock where Todd Boyer would meet them with his boat on Lake Powell. Then they would travel south on the lake where they would spend a night or two near Rainbow Bridge, then come out at Wahweap, where they would drive to St. George and cap off the week with a trip to the temple. He was so excited. He had been planning this trip for a long time. I was excited for him. I was anxious to hear every detail when he got back.

Five days later, on Wednesday morning, I knew it was no ordinary morning when I came to work. Everyone was gathered around the time clock weeping. I came a few seconds late and Carol turned to me and whispered that Dave had died from a heart attack while hiking. Not many details were known at the time. All of us were in disbelief. A hike couldn't kill Dave Bolton.

I later learned a few additional details. Dave had successfully led the scout group out of Coyote Gulch on a very hot day. They crouched under the shade of a juniper tree while they waited for the rest to catch up. He started getting a little delirious and talking to himself, and then collapsed just 100 yards from the vehicles. He passed away with his fifteen year old son, Jacob, holding his hand.

* * *

Dave is buried in the nethermost part of the Cedar City Cemetery. In fact, he is so far west that no one is buried beyond him. Past his grave are sticks, bushes, dirt and a little stream with trees growing along it. A very fitting resting place. ♠

Dave relaxing at Colorado River in 2010.

Nightmare in London

This has been one of the craziest days of my life!

As if a 10-hour flight from Las Vegas to London wasn't enough. Cramped seats. No sleep. Hot. Claustrophobic. Tiny trays of food. Miniature bathrooms. Turbulence, lots of turbulence. No window. Night flight.—You get the idea.

And knowing that when we got there we would have only 70 minutes to make our connecting flight to Barcelona, the minimum allowed at Heathrow for an international connection.

I watched the screen on the back of the seat in front of me and followed our tracker across the globe. Over Greenland. Now flying above Scotland. Passing Liverpool. At 37,000 feet in elevation. Now dropping. Below 16,000. Getting lower. Now I could see green fields through the foggy clouds. The red rooftops and cars. Now touching the runway at 200 mph and in a lurch the reverse thrust is turned on and a minute later we come to a rest.

We had the unfortunate luck of having a man on our flight whose health became very serious during the final four hours of passage. An announcement was made asking for a doctor who could lend expertise to the situation. Once we landed the Captain told us that paramedics were attending the man and we could not leave until they were finished. After 40 minutes they decided to drape blankets around the man to keep his privacy. We filed out on the opposite side.

By now I was very worried that Kaitlyn and I would miss our flight. We walked with haste through the long halls of Terminal 3, following the purple signs that said “flight connections.” We were whisked to the front of a checkpoint where Kaitlyn was frisked and asked to empty a portion of her bag.

When we continued, I was dumbfounded when I checked the departure board. British Airways Flight 486 to Barcelona had been canceled! What would we do now? I had never experienced this before. I thought there was another flight in two hours. Maybe we could catch that.

₤20 worth of  goodies at the airport store.

To sum up the next four hours, it was pure chaos. We learned that all flights that night to Barcelona were canceled. Reason: inclement weather. British Airways would put us up in a hotel, shuttle us there, and give us a voucher for dinner. Wow! What a change of plans!

Luckily we met up with a group of four who were destined for the same flight. They had circled the terminal for an hour, getting the “run around” from several employees. They were from Vancouver and planning to begin a Mediterranean cruise from Barcelona. We decided to stay together.

We spent 1½ hours going through customs. The line snaked back and forth a half a dozen times. Every corner of the world seemed to be represented in this long queue: Asian, deep African, Muslim, Indian, American.

By the time we left the airport we had vouchers not only for the hotel, but for ₤20 worth of goods at the airport store. We loaded a bag with strawberry scones, British Pork & hogroast crisps, lentil curls, and Belgian wafers. They gave us two tickets for a 6:40 am flight to Amsterdam, with a connecting flight to Barcelona.

Waiting in line for the bus to our hotel.

We would spend an hour waiting in another line to catch a 15-minute bus ride to the Sheraton Hotel. At least we were outside in the cloudy, damp London world.

The hotel is nice. British Airways has treated us well. They gave us a voucher for dinner. We ate with our new friends from Vancouver: Jeff, Bill, Maureen, and Sue. We talked about the impossible price of housing in British Columbia, occupations, and health care (they have to wait a very, very long time if they go to the emergency room, but if it is bleeding, they can jump to the front of the line).

It is now past midnight, London time. My body has slept little in the last 36 hours, if at all. I am in a comfortable bed, happy that I was able to walk for half an hour with my daughter on an obscure road in London. We did it after dinner. Now I can finally sleep in a real bed before I have to wake up—and that's at 3:30 am! ♠

Heathrow Airport.  This was the plane we took to Amsterdam.