Embraced by the verdant Euganean Hills, an archipelago of conical-shaped peaks dating back some 35-million years, the thermal baths of Abano Terme, just 54 km southwest of Venice, form the oldest and largest benessere (wellness) center in Europe and, arguably, the world. Specializing in fango-balneotherapy, La Città Termale (The Thermal City) has an ancient, mythical past.

A blend of marshland and forest, sulfulreous waters sprang spontaneous millennium ago in bubbling, cauldron-like springs, creating a lake that covered the near earth as far as the eye could see. A phenomenon of extraordinary proportions, this à ponus (Greek for relieving pain) reservoir, considered divine in origin, played host to cult ceremonies, complete with sacrifices offered up to Aponus, the god of thermal and curative water, and from whom Abano Terme derives its name.

Legend also has it that Hercules himself and his warriors soothed their battle-weary bodies in the miraculous waters in the land of Aponus. Many late-antiquity literary sources confirmed the fame of the fons Aponi during the imperial period of the Roman Empire, including Claudius Claudian, a 4th century AD poet, who waxed:

“…The soft soil sighs, and closed beneath the boiling pumice the wave digs flaky roads. In its midst, like a widespread boiling sea, a blue lake extends, spinning greatly, covering an enormous area.”

Geologically and geothermically speaking, these deep, underground spa waters originate some 80 km north up in the Lower Dolomites, seeping into the subsoil through the limestone. Reaching a depth of 3,000 m, where temperatures rise and the pressure increases dramatically, the mercurial water begins its slow — 25-30 years — flow until it bubbles up, at 87°C, in the Euganean spa basin. Rich in geothermal energy, dissolved substances and minerals make the spa water of Abano a truly unique thermal resource. Scientifically classified as hyperthermal bromo-iodine-salt water, these spa springs are just what the doctor ordered to treat a plethora of ailments, from skin conditions to osteoarthritis.

With over 75 spa-wellness hotels, 120 swimming pools, 50 tennis courts, a golf training center, an equestrian center and riding school, leafy residential streets, historical villas, loads of parks and gardens, haute cuisine and couture, and access to a network of cycling-walking-trekking paths and hiking and horseback trails, Abano is able to attract more than 250,000 overnight guests a year with an additional 2 million visitors stopping long enough during a calendar year to be statistically counted.

Thermal waters and therapeutic mud aside, what else attracts the curious to the city limits of this 20k+ person town?

For starters, its array of accommodations. Each of Abano Terme’s benessere hotels — from three-star comfort to five-star luxury, with half and full-pension options — taps directly into the rare, underground spa source, providing its guests with medically and professionally-monitored therapies and aesthetic treatments: from balneotherapy to fangotherapy, from hydrokinesitherapy to inhalation treatments, along with an array of beauty and relaxation programs. All fully recognized spa-wellness resorts are classified with the “I Super” qualification issued by the Italian Ministry of Health, guaranteeing your peace of mind.

The care and concern go even further at the Pietro d’Abano Spa Study Center — named in honor of Abano’s revered late 13th, early 14th century physician, philosopher, astrologer and alchemist — as experts continuously analyze and monitor the spa water and carry out systematic research into spa water medicines and the effects of fangotherapy.

After a full day of lounging around in your swimsuit and the hotel-provided white, Turkish towel dressing gown and slippers — pampering yourself with long soaks in tubs and pools of hot, ozone-enriched spa water; listening to calming music overhead while encased in an Euganean mud wrap; and, having your body turned every which way but lose by a masseuse — take that new-found glow out for a stroll along Via delle Terme, Abano’s high street.

Enjoy a bit of window shopping then stop for an aperitivo — bubbly prosecco or an Aperol spritz — at one of the many, lively outdoor cafés and just people watch until the ice in your glass melts away. Now, head back to your hotel, or out to one of Abano’s white tablecloth restaurants (I highly recommend Ristorante Verbena on Via Monteortone) for a gourmet dinner accompanied with a bottle of chilled Ca’ de Frate Lugana. When that first yawn appears, call it a night, turn in and sleep well, dreaming about doing the same regime all over again.

Any visit to Abano Terme should begin at the monumental entrance to Sorgente Montirone, the little park on Montirone Hill where the history of La Città Termale began. Located at the start of the pedonale (pedestrian-only walkway), at the corner of Via Augure and Via d’Abano, the Corinthian colonnaded gate leads you back in time to the very source from which the underground spa waters first bubbled to the surface.

It stands to reason that a town built solely around thermal-fired H2O would have plenty of fountains dotting the urbanscape, and you’d be correct. Along with just about every one of the town’s spa-wellness hotels sporting a water feature of some sort near their entryway, Greater Abano’s water features stand out and are open to the public. Two of the most popular are the circular Fontana di Arlecchino (Harlequin Fountain), the centerpiece along the pedonale, and Columbus Fountain in Piazza Cristoforo Colombo, the largest sculpture in all of Europe dedicated to the Genovese explorer-navigator.

Meander with the aponese through the Parco Termale Urbano (Thermal Urban Park), a master-planned, elegant green space — designed by the late Paolo Portoghesi, the world-famous, post-modern architect — with spacious apartment living in various complexes strategically placed above, and shops, outdoor cafés, tree-lined serpentine walkways, a cycling path, a kiddie playground and countless park benches below, that magically merge together down the middle of town, like tributaries forming up in a flowing green river. Host to many of the town’s festivals and celebrations, step out at the large fountain in Piazza dei Todeschini and end your passeggiata (walk) at its identical twin fountain in Piazza Dondi dall’Orologio.

Founded in 1989, the Parco Regionale dei Colli Euganei (Regional Park of the Euganean Hills) is the very first regional park of the Veneto and the protected home to 81 prehistoric-looking peaks of volcanic origin, that rise above flat, fertile agricultural land inside an elliptical perimeter covering approximately 19k hectares and enclosing 15 towns, including Abano Terme, one of its gateway communities.

Cyclists, runners and trekkers alike take to the E2 anello, a 68 km ring that circumnavigates the regional park and passes by undulating vineyards, olive groves, wheat and corn fields, irrigation waterways, castles, noble villas of the old Venetian Republic, religious sanctuaries and monasteries of historical significance. Add to that, 31 well-marked rustic trails that meander off the ring for bumpy off-road thrills and heart-pounding uphill climbs. It’s the perfect tonic if you’re looking to explore the great outdoors. Ask your hotel concierge for the use of one of their complimentary two wheelers, a map of the E2 circuit and then start pedaling.

Osterias, trattorias and farm-to-fork agri-restaurants (al Peraretto in Faedo comes to mind) await you at the end of a long walk, a strenuous hike or a vigorous bike ride; or, spend some time traveling along the Strada del Vino Colli Euganei (Wine Road) to sample some of the prized DOC-rated varietals harvested and bottled in the hills — bubbly serprino, dry moscato, fior d’arancio, cabernet, carmenere and merlot to name but a few — and cold-pressed extra virgin olive oils, on offer at numerous cantine (wineries) and frantoi (olive mills) that dot the route.

Be Herculean, come to La Città Termale and soothe your body, mind and nasal passages. Aponos will thank you.

Getting here

Abano Terme is conveniently located to four international airports, two major train stations and Italy’s vast autostrada (motorway) network. By air, choose between Venice’s Marco Polo Airport (55 km), Treviso’s Sant’Angelo Airport (70 km), Verona’s Catullo Airport (90 km) or Bologna’s Marconi Airport (110 km).

By train, the Terme Euganee station, in nearby Montegrotto Terme, is less than a ten-minute taxi ride from Abano Terme and serves as your hop-on/hop-off point for connections to/from Padova (10 min), Venice (45 min) or Bologna (70 min).

By car, driving the A13 Padova-Bologna motorway, take the “Terme Euganee” exit. Motoring in on the A4 Milano-Venezia motorway, exit at “Padova Ovest”.

For added convenience, private car or passenger van transfer service to any of the airports or train stations listed, or to plan day-trip excursions with a knowledgeable driver, can be arranged directly with A.R.T.E. Taxi Service, Tel. +39 049 667842. A one-way transfer from/to Marco Polo Airport in Venice, for example, costs €110.

The post ABANO TERME: La Città Termale appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Nobody Special

And now the news.

Another colorful week in politics just passed. The politicians are still slugging it out and hurling insults and innuendos at each other. One politician (whom we shall name Candidate X) has called for backup, so politicians of yesteryear joined the campaign to wave their flag of allegiance. Unfortunately, some of their negative side comments have garnered more interest than their intended message and this started rumors of a failing campaign. As a result, the racial political demographics have shifted. Many are realizing that their party’s trajectory no longer align with theirs. If this all sounds confusing to you, that’s because this is the ambiguous world of modern politics — where handshakes and prepared speeches mask the evil behind those practiced smiles and the puppet handlers above. Poor Candidate X.

Contrast that to Elon Musk who just unveiled his latest gizmos. This high functioning autistic engineering genius paraded his Optimus humanoid robots who danced, conversed and served drinks to a mesmerized crowd. If all goes well, these robots will be available next year for $20k to $30k. In this same event he introduced his fully automated CyberCab and Robovan (a driverless boxy but sleek electric vehicle that seats 20 passengers). Uber’s CEO sees the writing on the wall and is eager to partner with Tesla. And somewhere in the Florida coastline, the biggest, heaviest, meanest Starlink rocket booster was caught safely in the robotic arms he designed — ready for reuse for the next launch.

Let’s face it, Elon is the neurotic, smarter classmate everyone hates but secretly want to be. If only Candidate X had a fraction of his brain cells. Sadly, Candidate X is trying so hard to sound intelligent but how can one generate brilliance when there’s no gas to start the old noggin running?

Sometimes I feel sorry for Candidate X. I can relate. I always knew that I wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. Growing up I struggled with reading and math comprehension while my high-functioning siblings garnered academic honors left and right. I remember my Mom gave us aptitude tests. She was all praises with the others but her forlorn expression (upon seeing my results) told me I was a misfit. But my Mom encouraged me on the little things I did well. I was quite an artist. She would always have me draw her Christmas cards. I was good with my hands — I could fix things. I was the only one who had to climb the 20 foot mango tree and hang up our Christmas lights every year. I was the only one who helped my Dad fix our blue Chevy van almost every weekend while the others played. When I complained why no one else was helping, they said I was “good at it.”

I was swift as a deer and I outran everyone. My coordination was so good, no one could shoot me down in Touchball. I rarely got sick. And I made friends … lots of friends. I guess nobodies like other nobodies. My parents spent on my sisters to have piano lessons, guitar lessons and Hula dancing. They never asked me if I was interested. I had to learn music on my own. I had to borrow my sisters’ guitar. I always felt I was handed the leftovers but that was fine. I didn’t deserve them anyway.

I never thought I was anything special. Lucky at times but never special. And then one day someone explained the Gospel to me. The Bible told me that God loves me … that God wants the best for me … and that I was special in His eyes. And that made all the difference in the world.

If you’re a nobody, welcome to the club. But please remember, you’re also special in His sight.

Of course, this is just me. TGIF people!

p.s. I’m asking a BIG favor.
My little granddaughter, Caela, is a top 5 candidate for Baby of the Year and (if you have a Facebook account) she needs your vote. Log into Facebook first then you can vote once a day so please vote. Some days, your vote is doubled. This is the last week. She’s almost there. Thank you for your support.

CLICK HERE TO VOTE and see my grand kid.

“Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them.” — William Shakespeare

“Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too, can become great.” — Mark Twain

“Nothing is more simple than greatness; indeed, to be simple is to be great.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson

“Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.” — James 1:17

JOKE OF THE WEEK

Thanks to Art of Sierra Madre, CA

Original art by Raoul Pascual.

Parting Shots

Thanks to Tom of Pasadena, CA

Thanks to Brent of Kentucky

Thanks to Brian of Philadelphia

Thanks to Art of Sierra Madre, CA

Thanks to Drew of Anaheim, CA

Thanks to Benny of Detroit

I found these:

My good friend (and jokester) Terry and I came up with these.

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Hurricane Season

WARNING: Slightly religious topic. Move on to the jokes if you’re not interested.

Over 6 million Floridians evacuated their homes to escape the wrath of Hurricane Milton this week. Fortunately, what was expected to be a category 5 storm downgraded to only a category 3. One can imagine how agonizing it must be. A friend of mine was headed for Georgia but the mass exodus birthed traffic congestion and gasoline shortages so he only made it halfway. A million homes are without power. The happiest place on earth, Disney World, may not be too happy today. What a nightmare!

Growing up in Manila, I’ve had my share of natural disasters. My earliest memory of a storm was of Typhoon Dading. In the Philippines they call them typhoons and the female names are alphabetically assigned and the Philippine names are independent of their international names.

We lived in a simple 2 storey, 3 bedroom home. Except for the foundation and the bathroom, the rest of the structure was made of wood. Instead of glass, the sliding wooden windows were made of checkered capiz shells.

We kids were delighted that class had been suspended. In those days, we depended on Mr. Weatherman to declare what grade level (grade school, high school, college or work) should stay home. It’s rather comical for situations where only grade school kids would be exempt from the daily buzz while all the older denizens were expected to tread their way to the school or office: “Goodbye children, stay home and be safe with Mama while Papa goes out to face the storm. Pray that I come back in one piece.”

Often, Mr. Weatherman, an underpaid malnourished government employee, would declare who was exempted too late in the day. So (often) half-drenched souls would arrive at their empty school or workplace only to realize they should have stayed home. I always wondered if Mr. Weatherman should have upgraded his crystal ball. Of course this was before satellites helped predict the weather.

During the night of Typhoon Dading, the electricity went down. Candles and weak flashlights helped us move about. Battery operated radios were our only connection to the outside. All of us kids were tucked in our warm double deck beds. Dad was moving around with the houseboy securing the windows and anything outside that would fly. Mom was scampering with pans and buckets with the housemaid to catch the water dripping down from the holes of the galvanized roof. My grandmother, Lola Nene, was visiting and she was praying her rosary nonstop. Everything was damp. I was reading my DC comic books of Batman, Superman, Doom Patrol and Metal Men (I remember them well) using one of the precious white wax candles until Mom told me to conserve the candle.

It was actually fun. It was like camping. The only time I got scared was during the peak of the storm, when the wind rattled and whistled through the holes of the capiz shells like an invisible demon taunting us of its power. The rickety wooden walls shook but stubbornly held on. Eventually, the constant sound of the deafening wind tunnel accompanied by water splashes lulled us to sleep.

In the morning the storm had passed through. Our outside fish pond overflowed and many of our goldfishes had escaped to the street canals outside. Excited neighborhood kids were catching our colorful fishes and placed their prizes in their jar containers. The streets were immaculately clean of debris. The dark trunks of the surviving trees were drenched. All the banana trees were mangled. Men were walking with their plastic rain coats and rubber slippers checking out the place. Other men were removing galvanized roofing materials that had flown into their properties. It was surreal — someone was playing “The Rite of Spring” in the background — no, just kidding.

Strange as this may sound to Western ears, this is a regular occurrence in South East Asia. It’s a given that several monsoon rains and storms visit every year. The only difference would be the intensity. Every storm steals a hundred souls and abandon cars in the middle of the flooded streets. There would be new stories of people working their way to the top of their roofs and local heroes would emerge to rescue the stranded.

LESSONS
In a rat race lost in pursuit of worldly dreams, hurricanes remind us of our human frailty. Our confidence should never be on our wealth but in our Lord. He controls our ultimate destiny. Shirley McLaine once wrote a book proclaiming that we are all gods. Quite laughable really. Imagine God looking down at the earth and laughing because He spots tiny Shirley McLaine facing a storm declaring in her little high pitched voice: “I am god! I am god! I am god!” What silly arrogance!

No my friends. We are created beings of an amazing, all powerful, yet loving God. You can read all about Him in the Bible. And if you’re too lazy to read, you just have to look at a hurricane to know who’s the boss of us all.

Of course, this is just me. TGIF people!

“’What shall we do to you, that the sea may quiet down for us?’ For the sea grew more and more tempestuous. He said to them, ‘Pick me up and hurl me into the sea; then the sea will quiet down for you, for I know it is because of me that this great tempest has come upon you.’ … Therefore they called out to the Lord, ‘O Lord, let us not perish for this man’s life, and lay not on us innocent blood, for you, O Lord, have done as it pleased you.’ So they picked up Jonah and hurled him into the sea, and the sea ceased from its raging. Then the men feared the Lord exceedingly, and they offered a sacrifice to the Lord and made vows.” — The book of Jonah 1:11-16

“True intimacy with God always brings humility.” — Beth Moore

JOKE OF THE WEEK

Thanks to Art of Sierra Madre, CA

Original art by Raoul Pascual.

Parting Shots

Thanks to Dick of Boston

Thanks to Tom of Pasadena, CA

Thanks to Maling of New Manila, Philippines

Thanks to Brian of Philadelphia

Thanks to Art of Sierra Madre, CA

Thanks to Drew of Anaheim, CA

Thanks to Benny of Detroit

I found these:

My good friend (and jokester) Terry and I came up with this.

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The post Girl Finds Dead Dog appeared first on Traveling Archive.

The Rolling Stones’ Tour of the Americas ’75 was originally intended to reach both North and South America. The plans for concerts in Central and South America never solidified however, and the tour covered only the United States and Canada.

After the departure of Mick Taylor, this was the Stones’ first tour with new guitarist Ronnie Wood. Announced on April 14 as merely “playing with the band on the tour,” it would not be until December 19 that Wood would be officially named a Rolling Stone. Gone was the familiar horn section and the tour now featured Billy Preston on keyboards and Ollie E. Brown on percussion. Bobby Keys made a guest appearance on “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” and “Brown Sugar” at the Los Angeles shows.

The announcement of the tour became famous in itself. On May 1st, reporters were gathered inside the Fifth Avenue Hotel on 9th Street in New York City’s Greenwich Village to attend a press conference where the Stones were scheduled to appear. But the Stones never went into the hotel. The handful of curiosity seekers standing outside the hotel were instead treated to the sight of a flatbed truck rolling down Fifth Avenue carrying the Stones, their instruments and a wall of amps. The truck stopped in front of the hotel entrance and the band played an extended version of “Brown Sugar.”

The post Rolling Stones: 1975 North American Tour appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Lara Slife made her directing debut with “Born To Lead: The Sal Aunese Story: ”The First Samoan quarterback, who enters a down and out football team and takes it to the National Championship.”

CLICK HERE for the website.

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My Forever Friends

At the end of this month I will be heading to North Carolina for a college reunion. It’ll be an epic occasion … something I’ve dreamed of for ages. Allow me to share the people who shaped my young adult life.

My college years formed a friendship bubble filled with young adult adventures in the Washington DC area. It was a time when the Vietnamese refugees from the war started their new life in America. The World Bank and the IMF (International Monetary Fund) were hiring immigrants from all over the world. One of those immigrants was my Tita Dolly who invited me to live with her. I consider her my US mom to whom I will be forever grateful.

It was the bell-bottomed disco era of John Travolta. Home computers were about to explode. Gerald Ford just conceded his throne to Jimmy Carter. International students clumped together with fellow strangers. Affirmative action began to fill the universities with African Americans. I partied with Filipinos, Singaporeans, Vietnamese, Egyptians, Israelites, Iranians, Mexicans, White and Black Americans. Many were children of ambassadors and politicians. Central among the rainbow of ethnicities were my closest friends who formed a troubadour band called Kalesa (which means a Filipino horse and buggy).

My Tita Dolly’s house was ground zero for all our activities. In fact, that was where Kalesa was born. Almost every weekend we’d find an excuse to hold a party at that house in Arlington VA. I had always dreamed that one day I would own that house. My heart was crushed when she sold it recently.

I had just arrived stateside and was terribly homesick and needed friends. My cousins, who also lived with me at that house, invited their friends over so I could meet them.

“You should meet Rodney, he plays the guitar like you. He even composes. And you should meet Bernie. He’s got an amazing voice like David Gates of the Bread. Manny also plays the guitar like Paul Simon.”

Saturday night, people poured in and partied. But in the basement, Rodney, Manny, Bernie and I were jamming with our nylon guitars. Something magical happened. We actually sounded good. The 4 of us would become the magnet of the group and many others latched on for the ride.

Weeks and months went by and we practiced after school and we added more songs to our repertoire. There was no formal plan to turn the group into a band, it just happened. Tito Julio had a birthday party where we had our first formal performance. It was an amazing night of affirmation to know we could really entertain a crowd. Later we sang Christmas carols to raise money for poor Catholic churches. We sang for weddings and birthday parties. We were the main event for a concert fund raiser and even an opening act for a Battle of the Bands at the George Washington University. The band never really made serious money. Money was never the intention. We just enjoyed each other’s company.

We were wholesome kids with devilish testosterones. We talked about girls a lot. I can’t say we were womanizers but we did have some fans. Sure we smoked and drank beer but we never got into drugs. Rodney was studying for law school. Manny was preparing for med school. Bernie, Bob and Santi became engineers. JB became the head of computer technology for the military. I was studying Advertising Art hoping to join an Ad firm on Madison Avenue. My claim to international fame was designing the millennial logo for the GRAMMY awards.

I vividly remember a night at the La Pattiserie (a favorite French restaurant in Georgetown). Half drunk but in serious conversation and conscious of the temporary friendship bubble we were in, we knew that bubble was about to pop because of our different career paths. We were growing up and starting our rainbow of life. Raising our beer cans, we gave a toast to be friends forever. These guys were closer than my blood brothers and I was willing to give up my life to save any of them.

Through the happy and sad pages of the calendar and despite separation by states and by countries, we remained in touch. To the credit of our spouses, they understood our golden bond and have always been supportive of our rare and brief reunions.

Today, standing at the end of that rainbow I remember Rodney, Bob, Annie and Loree who have gone ahead of us. What’s left of Kalesa will be camped at Dr. Manny’s North Carolina mansion this October. We plan to record some songs. Why? Does it matter why? We just know we need to do it while we still can.

I’m sure you have your own eternal friends. What a blessing, huh? I’m sure your stories are even more interesting than mine. I’d love to hear them. When our earthly adventures are over, I truly believe we will have eternity to exchange our experiences. How cool is that? Heaven isn’t a silly place where we flutter our wings and strum our harps. It’s so much more and wonderful beyond imagination. When you get there, be sure to look me up. We’ll have so much fun.

I praise God who has been especially kind to me to provide my eternal friends. Let me end with Rodney’s composition about friendship which he sang when he first met me:

I’M LIKE YOU
Have you ever felt like telling stories
Someone told before?
Have you ever built sandcastles
That washed out on the shore?
Have you ever felt like singing songs
People sing no more?
I’m like you. I’m like you.

Have you ever felt like trying
Someone told you not to try?
Have you ever felt like cussing
But could only blow a sigh?
Have you ever felt the answer
Was too high in the sky?
I’m like you. I’m like you.

CHORUS
I need a place to plant my feet,
A place to stand, a place to be!
I have to go, to see, to know!
I have to be set free!

Have you ever seen the mountain
And wished that you were there?
Have you ever tried to reach someone
Who simply wasn’t there?
Have you ever feared
That if you loved,
The one you loved won’t care?
I’m like you. I’m like you.

Have you ever felt that sorrow
Was a way to make you strong
To come back here tomorrow
Just to sing a sadder song?
Have you ever felt you were all alone?
Well, now you know you’re wrong,
For I’m like you. I’m like you.

TGIF people!

“In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.” — Kahil Gibran

“There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven’t yet met.” — William Butler Yeats

“And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near.” — Hebrews 10: 24-25

“Then Jonathan said to David, “Go in peace, because we have sworn both of us in the name of the Lord, saying, ‘The Lord shall be between me and you, and between my offspring and your offspring, forever.’” — 1 Samuel 20:42

JOKE OF THE WEEK

Thanks to Ed of Studio City, CA

Parting Shots

Thanks to Tom of Pasadena, CA

Thanks to Berong of Mandaluyong, Philippines

Thanks to Brian of Philadelphia

Thanks to Art of Sierra Madre, CA

Thanks to Drew of Anaheim, CA

Thanks to Benny of Detroit

I found these:

My good friend (and jokester) Terry and I came up with this.

SUBSCRIBE

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The property (which is part of a group of eight delightful, luxury hotels in Rome, Venice, and Florence) is owned and operated by the WTB Hotels Collection. (Why The Best, in case you are wondering.) And the head corporate honcho (chief timekeeper?) is a watch aficionado, who has infused each of his three L’Orologio properties with a unique décor that showcases a plethora of impressive watch-related accessories, sprinkled throughout the inspiring and comfortable design. You’ll never be too far from a dazzling timepiece.

The intimate (43 rooms and suites) Rome property sits comfortably in the Sant’ Eustachio neighborhood, not too far from Largo di Torre Argentina, the Pantheon, the Piazza Navona; it is across the Tiber River from Rome’s well-known Trastevere neighborhood (the former Jewish ghetto) and the Villa Farnesina, an impressive mansion built in the very early 16th century and one of the most majestic (remaining) Renaissance buildings in the city.

Upon entering this conveniently-located hotel, you’ll spot the watch theme immediately-large, elegant art works feature classy and classic watches. A lobby coffee table is actually a model of an outsize, imposing Audemars Piguet watch, a yard or more in diameter. So amazing, you may not want to rest your lowly water bottle on the surface.

Several other design elements will not escape you: The illuminated numbers above the elevator glow with back lighting. The black background showcases a white-outlined number, and inside that outline there is a panoply of watch gears and rotary parts. It’s a charming reminder that time marches not only on, but, also, up and down.

When you arrive at your floor, you’ll find the halls lined with stunning, oversize photos of “important” watches. And when you get to your room, you’ll note that the door sports not merely the room number, but a “proper moniker,” referencing a watch movement. In my case, it was room 203, dubbed 2499 Perpetual, honoring a striking Patek Philippe model; between 1950 and 1985, Patek manufactured fewer than ten, and John Lennon owned one of them.

Embedded in the bathroom mirror, there is also a handsome clock, supplying a bit of mechanical counterpoint to the stylishly decorated chamber. As is apparent, the owner and design team put a great deal of thought and heart into this hotel, all aimed to deliver maximum comfort of their guests.

You’ll find the chronometer theme expanded in the fifth-floor dining room, with its outdoor terrace, replete with panoramic views of the city, including the Pantheon.

The cocktail lounge, Santa Cocktail Club Rome, is located here, as well, and you’ll find that the drinks are artfully prepared with house-made reductions and fruity botanicals.

Enjoy a buzzy cocktail at sunset and when you come back in the morning for the plentiful breakfast buffet, you’ll discover the custom-crafted china, again, embellished with the watch theme. Against the snow-white, ceramic background, steel-gray numbers form staccato accents, with an occasional ebony cipher. The dinner plates sport a soft-gray clock face along the rim, inside the large “O” for L’Orologio. The design level is of the highest quality and the attention to detail is unsurpassed, whether in the dinner service or the ministrations of the staff-to organize custom tours for you or to even walk you across the street to the cash machine. Ask about the runners’ walking/jogging workout, an archeology and antiquities guided tour, a fashionista’s shopping extravaganza, or a film-location tour; or create your own guided day out, which the hotel will plan for you.

You will be pampered here, and suffice it to say, you’ll want time to stand still so you can stay forever-eternally cossetted in the Eternal City.

Additional info: hotelorologioroma.com

© 2024 Ruth J. Katz All Rights Reserved

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There are many sights to see on the road to Santiago, Spain, better known to pilgrims as St. James Way, or simply the Camino. Perhaps one of the most unusual I’ve experienced is Herreria de Compludo – the Forge of Compludo. Older than the pilgrimage itself, which became popular during the Middle Ages, the forge dates back to the seventh century.

Not only is Herreria de Compludo the oldest blacksmith shop in Spain, but it has been continuously running with a fire in the forge since then. It uses coal mined in the mountains to the north for fuel, and an ingenious system of waterpower to run everything else. It is a self-sustaining industrial marvel crafted before the dawn of the industrial age, back in the shadowy prehistory of an automation that was just a gleam in the first smithy’s eye. And it is the last vestige of a farming community nestled in a remote valley of Northwestern Castilla y Leon, Spain.

We hiked in on what was probably once a wagon road, a half-mile path winding in from the highway along a crystal mountain stream. The water swiftly descends into the valley while the path gently climbs the steep slope above it. The elevation can be misleading. As the path and stream separate a stone-lined causeway becomes visible between them, seemingly flowing up hill. The illusion ends as the path levels and it becomes evident that gravity channels the water into a small, natural-looking reservoir between the path and the stream below. Beneath the reservoir is the stone building that houses the forge. It is so shielded by the lush greenery of the forest that a casual hiker could pass it by. A small sign announces Herreria de Compludo.

We walked down a woods path to the clearing in front of the forge to meet the smithy, Manuel Sanchez. He, with his faithful German Shepard named Rex after the popular Spanish TV series of his youth, “Rex, un Policia Diferente”, that starred a German Sheperd police dog, broke the loneliness of this nearly abandoned setting. He is the fourth-generation smithy to operate this self-sustaining forge since his great-grandfather took it over in 1908. Manuel has traced the ownership back to the 1700s, but local histories place a forge at this site one thousand years earlier! With sections of the original stone building – probably the residence – collapsed, the moss and lichen covered forge looks its age. It is thanks to Manuel’s commitment and perseverance that people can still visit to see the ancient process of forging metal into plowshares and other tools.

Behind an outbuilding there was a pile of stones with a tree growing out of it that Manuel described as what was the shared oven for the once-thriving farm community. As a baker, after seeing how the forge worked, I wondered what marvelous system they used to have in place to heat the communal oven. But that is another story lost to the ages.

Behind us, the runoff from the reservoir spilled down next to a water wheel before being channeled back into the stream. Everything looked rundown and cobbed together, the last repairs done before even baling wire was invented. It was a doorway into antiquity.

That doorway opened to a dark cavernous space with the crashing sound of water surrounding a lighted hearth. We entered the cave-like structure, our eyes adjusting to the glowing coal fire. That, and what light entered through tiny windows made my eyes widen at the primitive surroundings. There was nothing simple about what I perceived. Genius was evident at every turn.

The stationary waterwheel was as much inside the shop as outside, visible in the dim light as connecting to a massive tree trunk that we learned was basically a huge hammer. Through an ingenious rigging a cable snaked up through the roof and connected to a spillway door. One need only pull the cable to open the spillway causing the water to turn the wheel. How much it was opened determined the speed of the waterwheel which, in turn, regulated the speed of the hammer. Because this was all made out of wood except for the hammer’s head, the connections would overheat relative to the speed of the work being done. To counter that, a wooden trough was placed to catch more of the water the faster the wheel turned, channeling it to cool the friction sites. It was brilliant, if ancient, engineering!

The sound of cascading water came from the rear of the forge as well. Behind the hearth there were carved stone steps up through a curved doorway into a well-like structure. Hidden beneath ferns and moss was the wooden system that replaced the conventional bellows. It is a Catalan horn, in which air is injected according to the Venturi principle. As water from the reservoir came down in and outside wooden tubes that narrowed in size as they descended, air was forced into the forge. That air was in turn regulated by a stopper that, when removed, allowed the air to flow into the room, but when in place it directed the flow right into the glowing coals of the forge. No bellows were needed! So much of the labor was automated that the smithy’s main task was to move the hot metal from the fire to the hammer to be shaped. It enabled the farming community built up around the forge to have all the repairs and tools they needed to survive.

Speaking of surviving, Manuel is part of a family tradition. I asked him about a fifth generation, a son to take over and he said “I have no son to succeed me. It would be impossible! Don’t get me wrong. I can have sons, but not one to continue this tradition. No one would want to.” And with that final statement, he picked up a hammer and shaped a metal spike for me, pounding it flat on four sides and curving the head. While it was still hot he hammer-stamped my name on the shaft, cooled the spike in water, and handed me a historic souvenir 1700 years in the making.

To visit Herreria de Compludo contact Castilla y Leon Tourism or see:

The Herreria de Compludo website.

There is a fee and specific times it is open. It is advised to make arrangements in advance. It is well worth the visit.

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Dog Fight

Warning: Serious topic. Move on to the jokes if you’re not into this.

We brought our two corgis (Tonka and Tinker) to a dog swimming pool birthday party last Saturday. The usual gang of fellow corgis was there. The dogs, for the most part, got along with each other … smelling each other’s butt and sharing the latest dog jokes.

But there was one larger half-breed, a corgi-border-colllie mix who had a disproportionately large jaw. He was notorious for pushing his weight around. He already initiated fights between 3 smaller corgis so the others didn’t mingle with him too much. On the other hand, Tonka (a full grown gentle giant who essentially looks like a German Shepherd but with little corgi legs) was making lots of friends. Tonka is sociable and fears no one … not even the bigger dogs.

I was thumbing through my cell phone messages; when suddenly, an ear-piercing growl shattered the sound barrier. I heard my wife scream “Oh nooo!!!” In the middle of a pile of corgis were 2 dogs engaged in a battle to the death. It was our Tonka and the bully dog. The monster had locked its jaws on Tonka’s furry neck and pinned Tonka down. All the other dogs and their masters were staring shocked, helpless and useless. As I rushed closer, my wife grabbed the bully out by his shoulders and as she lifted it up, Tonka’s 45 pound body dangled helplessly underneath. The bully finally let go and was tossed aside. I saw Tonka visibly shaken and looking at me as if to say “What happened Dada? Did I do something wrong?” I cuddled Tonka in my protective arms. Then my wife embraced our precious Tonka while Tinker barked nonstop as if to say “are you alright big brother? Did that big dog hurt you?” We checked for any wounds. Tonka was shaken but he was fine. (Later my wife realized she got a long scratch on her shin.)

My wife was so upset she marched to the owner of the bully and said “that dog should be kept on a leash because this was the 4th incident of the day.” The owner was apologetic. The bully was quiet. The rest of the party was in shock. Needless to say, that was the end of the party. Everyone left in a bad mood feeling sorry for Tonka.

HARD LESSON
The owner of the bully dog must have known about the aggressive behavior yet didn’t do anything to correct it. We and the other dog owners knew there was a problem and we shrugged it aside as long as it didn’t get out of hand … as long as it didn’t affect us. It took a brutal attack to realize the simmering catastrophe of complacency.

Unless you’re totally oblivious of current events or you only watch one-sided news, you know that the world has been on a self-destructive path. Apparently, the craziness has trickled down to our pets.

In Tonka’s little world he will eventually learn to trust again and he will be back to his carefree self. In our human world, we may not be so lucky. This coming election is critical. It may make or break this nation. Let us shun complacency and sift through the false narratives, discuss the issues maturely (especially with those we don’t agree with), and vote the lesser of the two evils. And whatever the results (whether we progress or dive deeper into debt and crime), let’s be honest enough to admit we were right or wrong. Let’s not pretend that we were not aware of the consequences.

ELECTION TRANSPORTATION
Here’s something to consider. If you prefer to vote in person, but have difficulties making it to the poll booths in the Greater Los Angeles Area, contact Ed, Travelingboy.com’s editor at **@**********oy.com and you’ll be transported to and from at the time of your convenience at no cost.

But this is just me. TGIF people!

“Complacency is the last hurdle standing between any team and its potential greatness.” — Pat Riley

“Of all the things a leader should fear, complacency heads the list.” — John C. Maxwell

“Because you have raged against me and your complacency has come into my ears, I will put my hook in your nose and my bit in your mouth, and I will turn you back on the way by which you came.” — 2 Kings 19:28

JOKE OF THE WEEK

Thanks to Tom of Pasadena, CA

Parting Shots

Thanks to Tom of Pasadena, CA

Thanks to Norm of Encino, CA

Thanks to Laer of Northern California

Thanks to Brian of Philadelphia

Thanks to Art of Sierra Madre, CA

Thanks to Drew of Anaheim, CA

Thanks to Benny of Detroit

I found these:

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I raise my baton to alert the orchestra that I am ready to conduct. In my best imposture of Gustavo Dudamel, I cue the woodwinds, then coax in the stringed instruments, and finally, I direct the brass-perching on the precipice and at the ready-to chime in. I punctuate my air-piercing baton-swirling, with a jab toward the timpani to elicit an emphatic beat. Smug and sly, I think that Felix Mendelssohn’s Italian Symphony never sounded so expressive. As if following my intensity, the surrounding chamber becomes enveloped in a saturated vermillion glow that melts into an intense violet, as I command the orchestra…and we sprint together to the end of the first movement.

Alas, I am conducting nary a human, but rather a dozen or so electronic totems, synced to the digital leger-de-main that is the underpinning of Leipzig’s Mendelssohn House Effektorium, a room for making virtual music. This is 21st-century, sophisticated child’s play: A dozen or so monolithic speakers (labeled appropriately, first violins, double basses, French horns, and so on), populate this symphony hall. You take your position at the lectern and then follow the snaking, red-line guide along the score; press the touchscreen, wield the baton to change tempo and tone, and suddenly you and your crop are Bernstein, Mehta, or, well, Maestro Mendelsson.

The meticulously restored Mendelssohn House in Leipzig is where the musical genius lived from 1845 until his death two years later; he was the Kapellmeister of the city’s renowned Gewandhaus Orchestra from 1835 to 1847. The museum opened in 1997 and is a major draw here, in a city legendary for its musical history. This charming municipality represents, though, merely one reason to visit the northeastern federal state of Saxony, in Germany.

Spread out over 7,000 square miles and bordered snugly to the east by the Czech Republic and Poland, and to the south, Bavaria, it is one of the smallest of the 16 federal states comprising Germany. But it is enviably bursting with compelling sites and sights to make it your next travel destination. Here is but a smattering of things to do and see in this inviting, remarkable region of Germany.

Among other draws, it is home to a veritable cornucopia — more than 150! — of palaces (schlösser), fortresses (festungen), stately mansions (herrenhäuser), and regal parks, such as Muskau Park, a stunningly bucolic UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Some of these edifices are virtual ruins, like the Dahlen Castle; some, a fascinating pile of rocks, as the spellbinding remains of Neurathen Castle (with rooms that had been cut into the stones); some are absolute fortresses, like Mylau Castle; and still others are overwhelmingly regal manses, such as the stately Dresden Castle and Leipzig’s elegant Gohlis Palace. Some are just for visiting, presenting interesting photo ops, while others are luxury hotels, and still others are homes to museums, such as the stately Augustusburg Palace, where I spent several hours in its amazing Motorcycle Museum: Spanning over 120 years of motorcycling history, the exhibits range from funky bicycles to exquisite, burnished-to-perfection Harley Davidsons.

Music is a hallmark of Saxony’s heritage, and the Leipzig Music Trail is a must for anyone who loves music. It is just over three miles long and heralds Telemann, Bach, Schumann, Wagner, Grieg, Janáček, and Mahler, among the many notable composers who worked or lived there. Stainless steel swirls-think the Nike swoosh on steroids-mark the spots (11 of them) in the cobbled pavement where you can stop, listen to recordings, and read about musical history.

Do not pass up a performance at the legendary, glass-facaded Gewandhaus. And, while in Leipzig, be sure to visit the Holocaust Memorial, consisting of 140 vacant bronze chairs — representing the 14,000 Jews who perished — built on the site where the city’s Grand Synagogue once stood.

Despite its devastation in WW II, Dresden, another touchstone in Saxony, has been rebuilt and you’d never know the extent of the destruction 75-plus years ago. No mention of Saxony is complete without an in-depth stay in charming, history-filled Dresden, including a lengthy visit to the world-renowned Green Vault, or the Grünes Gewölbe, comprising the Historic Green Vault (dripping in sumptuous Baroque ormolu and splendor) and the New Green Vault (with more traditional collections). Combined, here is one of the grandest collections of decorative arts, simply put, in all of Europe. Founded by Augustus the Strong in 1723, its exhibits include everything, ranging from Baroque to Classicism. You could drool over the art here for days.

Leave music and art (but not architecture) behind for the moment and enter the razzle-dazzle of Hollywood, when you visit the cinematic epicenter of Eastern Europe-Görliwood, the easternmost city in Germany, properly known as Görlitz. Countless films, including Inglourious Basterds, The Reader, The Book Thief, and The Grand Budapest Hotel, among the many, were all filmed right here.

For architecture buffs, this town is also home to more than 4,000 listed buildings and is considered Germany’s largest heritage area. Some religious sites: The Holy Sepulchre is the most faithful copy of the Jerusalem site. Amazingly, the Art Nouveau-styled Görlitz Synagogue, built at the beginning of the 20th century, survived Kristallnacht. Thereafter, however, with no congregation to tend to it, it fell into tragic disrepair. After a 10-million-Euro restoration, the synagogue reopened; on August 20, 2021, the first service in 80 years was held. Today, it houses modest but highly evocative and meaningful exhibits, showcasing personal artifacts and memorabilia that had once belonged to Jewish residents of Görlitz.

And, parenthetically, while you are in Görlitz, you can actually savor a tiny taste of Poland: Cross the Old Town Bridge, et voila! You are in Polska!

Another city worth at least a day of your time is the town of Seiffen. While it’s true that the internationally renowned German Christmas markets, in general, are among the most celebrated in the world, it is here in Seiffen that you’ll feel you as if you’ve entered the North Pole and Santa Land.

Seiffen boasts a blindingly festive, year-round Noel. This holiday-themed town, nestled in the Ore Mountains, was once the go-to site for silver- and tin-mining, but as supplies of those metals declined, residents turned to wood-carving and -turning. Dozens of shops vend all manner of traditional ornaments, including the ever-popular pyramids and arches, and, of course, the nutcracker, first created in the 17th century in Germany.

(There is even a nutcracker museum-ErstesNussknacker Museum-in Ergzebirge.) There are workshops where you can watch master woodworkers spin their magic or create your own ornaments.

A must in Seiffen: The traditional Neinerlaa Xmas Eve dinner, with its elaborate, sculpted platter, featuring little niches for, among the nine obligatory foods, bratwurst, dumplings, and sauerkraut.

Seiffen is also home to the Ore Mountain Open-Air Museum, an ethnographic exploration of rural life pre-1900, documenting and showcasing over a dozen types of rural homes from the region. It is adjacent to the Ore Mountain Toy Museum, a must-see. Unique to this area: Artisans turn circular wooden forms against a lathe and create miniature animals, smaller than a dime. This craft is known as Runddreherei, a form of very sophisticated and intricate woodturning and must be seen to be understood.

Not to be outshone by the splendor of Dresden, the musical heritage of Leipzig, the Christmas magic of Seiffen, and the glam of Görlitz, the town of Chemnitz is the third-largest city in Saxony and it, too, offers many sights. The Villa Esche, built by Belgian architect Henry van de Velde, was the home of the Herbert Esche family, and features a stunning meld of Belle Epoque and Art Nouveau styles, well worth swooning over. I could have spent all day in the Saxon Museum of Industry, located in a former foundry in Chemnitz. It brings machines and man together in unexpected ways, whether exploring vehicles or textiles.

I could go on about Saxony and its plethora of UNESCO World Heritage sites and parks, the Museum Gunzenhauser (with a collection of nearly 2,500 works of modern art), the fascinating Bach Museum, the Grassi Museum of Ethnology (among the extensive collections, hundreds of teacups!), and-for wristwatch aficionados-the manufactures of A. Lange & Söhne and Glashütte Original, in the south. But, in truth, you just need to pack your bag and go! Willkommen!

For more info go to visitsaxony.com.

All photos courtesy of the author.
© 2024 Ruth J. Katz All Rights Reserved

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