The annual Jose Feliciano post

Longtime readers, you've seen this one before.

This time of year, some folks retell Dickens's A Christmas Carol or Moore's "T'was The Night Before Christmas." I retell the Jose Feliciano airport story.

And so, apparently, do my kids. Adam was in the dentist's chair yesterday when Jose's signature holiday tune came on. While the doc arranged instruments and measured out novocaine, Adam told her our Jose story. I love that he shared the story, but I also secretly imagined her being extra careful on his teeth because she was handling someone who'd met a famous person.

Jose, if Adam's filling holds for the rest of his life, we have dental medicine and you to thank.

Enjoy, and feliz Navidad:

We were at the airport in Lisbon waiting to board our plane home from a Christmas-week family trip to Albufeira, a seafront town in the Algarve. The gate area was packed with travelers, and all seats were taken. Dana was two, Adam five, both seasoned travel vets. They sat in the plastic chairs we'd managed to snag, swinging their legs and sipping juice.

A group of tall men milled around, looking for a seat for a smaller, blind companion. Mike offered his chair, and the blind man sat down next to me.

We'd overheard the men, musicians, talking about the bad flights and lousy hotels they'd endured on their current tour. I leaned over and asked the quiet, blind man, "What kind of music do you play?" All the men looked worn and tired, a littled rumpled and disheveled. I figured they played low to middle-tier clubs and bars. The Zildjian cymbals they kept at closer than arm's length were the only hint of the possibility of something bigger.

"All kinds," he said. "Maybe you've heard me on the radio at this time of year singing a song I wrote..."

"!You're Jose Feliciano!?!" I launched into "Feliz Navidad" and called Adam over between notes. "Adam! This man wrote the Christmas song that mommy sings all the time!" I sang some more. Adam joined me on the "prospero ano y felicidad" and let loose on the "I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas." Jose was pleased.

We talked with Jose for a half hour. His big, serious, but very gracious manager hovered protectively. The band was on its way home from a sold-out New Year's Eve concert in Estoril, and Jose was eager to get home to Connecticut to his pregnant wife and two young children. A loving, involved dad, he talked about his kids. "I try not to spoil them," he said.

Although he couldn't see them, Jose was keenly aware of Adam and Dana. He sensed their movements. He used their names when he spoke to them. He told Adam to "enjoy being a kid, because it goes by so fast." He told Adam jokes: "Adam, why did the turtle cross the road? He wanted to get to a Shell station." And, "Why did the chicken cross the road, Adam? To get away from Colonel Sanders." Dana was cranky, and Jose gve me parenting tips: "Change her diaper before you get on the plane, and give her a lot to drink so her ears won't hurt from the change in cabin pressure."

We boarded. Jose crossed the Atlantic in first class, and we sat in steerage, narrowly escaping the flood of red wine that burst from the overhead bin when a Portuguese woman's straw-bound jug of homemade vinho de mesa popped its cork. A nearly eight-hour flight. Adam and Dana handled the marathon transit like pros. They played with Legos, colored, ate stuff, and scanned the headset stations. Henry the Navigator would have been proud of their endurance.

When we landed in Newark, I noticed Jose sitting alone on a windowsill in a corner, waiting for his men to pull the luggage from the carousel. I told Adam he could go over and say good-bye.

Thousands of miles, eight hours, two movies, two meals and one ocean had passed since we'd shared polite conversation with Jose Feliciano back in Lisbon, which seemed a lifetime away. As Adam walked toward the tired man, I realized Jose might not remember Adam. And Adam didn't know Jose was blind. We hadn't mentioned it, and Jose wasn't wearing dark glasses. Jose wouldn't see Adam coming. He wouldn't see Adam at all. He might not be able to put a name to this little person he'd never seen, only heard. Adam was a voice from another time zone, another continent, another reality. Would Adam's five-year-old feelings be hurt? Should I have left well enough alone?

I stood nearby and listened. "Bye, Jose," whispered Adam.

Jose looked up and smiled. "Take care, Adam."

www.LoriHein.com

Vagabond sunbirds

We in New England, like folks in many parts of the US, are having a rough winter. Snow that won't quit and brutal, sub-zero temps. ("These are good days to teach kids about negative numbers," said Joan, a yoga-mate and retired math teacher.) Meteorologists tell us we're looking down the barrel of our fourth major snowstorm in as many weeks.

Ever since we began traveling Mike and I have made mental notes of cities, towns or villages that would make nice havens in winter, knowing that at some point we'll want to flee Boston's cold for somewhere else's relative warmth. Every once in a while -- including recently, with cheap foreclosures flooding the market -- we've been tempted to buy a place in Florida. But we'd be tied to it, and that's not what we want.

Our plan is to spend the coldest months of our retirement years in various places, renting our way around the world. No mortgage, no furniture to buy, no taxes, no maintenance, no feelings of obligation to go or guilt if you don't. We'd rather find a beachfront cottage or apartment in some pretty place, pay a few months rent, and settle in for an extended stay, immersing ourselves in our temporary neighborhoods and living like the locals. Then, the next year, put down seasonal stakes in a new place.

The Mediterranean and Aegean will no doubt figure in our future sunbird plans. We've scouted beautiful, quiet places like Albufeira, Portugal; Menton, France; Italy's Ligurian coastline; Chania on the island of Crete; Nafplion in Greece's Peloponnese; history-rich Antalya, Turkey; and fishing villages like Spain's Calella de Palafrugell, pictured above.

It's February in Calella in these photos, yet warm and sunny enough for a stroll on the beach or a relaxing rest on a bench overlooking the harbor. It may not be sunbathing weather, but it sure beats shoveling.

www.LoriHein.com

Prospero ano y felicidad

I'm a few days late, but 'tis still the season, and time once again for the annual Jose Feliciano Christmas post:

We were at the airport in Lisbon waiting to board our plane home from a Christmas-week family trip to Albufeira, a seafront town in the Algarve. The gate area was packed with travelers, and all seats were taken. Dana was two, Adam five, both seasoned travel vets. They sat in the plastic chairs we'd managed to snag, swinging their legs and sipping juice.

A group of tall men milled around, looking for a seat for a smaller, blind companion. Mike offered his chair, and the blind man sat down next to me.

We'd overheard the men, musicians, talking about the bad flights and lousy hotels they'd endured on their current tour. I leaned over and asked the quiet, blind man, "What kind of music do you play?" All the men looked worn and tired, a littled rumpled and disheveled. I figured they played low to middle-tier clubs and bars. The Zildjian cymbals they kept at closer than arm's length were the only hint of the possibility of something bigger.

"All kinds," he said. "Maybe you've heard me on the radio at this time of year singing a song I wrote..."

"!You're Jose Feliciano!?!" I launched into "Feliz Navidad" and called Adam over between notes. "Adam! This man wrote the Christmas song that mommy sings all the time!" I sang some more. Adam joined me on the "prospero ano y felicidad" and let loose on the "I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas." Jose was pleased.

We talked with Jose for a half hour. His big, serious, but very gracious manager hovered protectively. The band was on its way home from a sold-out New Year's Eve concert in Estoril, and Jose was eager to get home to Connecticut to his pregnant wife and two young children. A loving, involved dad, he talked about his kids. "I try not to spoil them," he said.

Although he couldn't see them, Jose was keenly aware of Adam and Dana. He sensed their movements. He used their names when he spoke to them. He told Adam to "enjoy being a kid, because it goes by so fast." He told Adam jokes: "Adam, why did the turtle cross the road? He wanted to get to a Shell station." And, "Why did the chicken cross the road, Adam? To get away from Colonel Sanders." Dana was cranky, and Jose gve me parenting tips: "Change her diaper before you get on the plane, and give her a lot to drink so her ears won't hurt from the change in cabin pressure."

We boarded. Jose crossed the Atlantic in first class, and we sat in steerage, narrowly escaping the flood of red wine that burst from the overhead bin when a Portuguese woman's straw-bound jug of homemade vinho de mesa popped its cork. A nearly eight-hour flight. Adam and Dana handled the marathon transit like pros. They played with Legos, colored, ate stuff, and scanned the headset stations. Henry the Navigator would have been proud of their endurance.

When we landed in Newark, I noticed Jose sitting alone on a windowsill in a corner, waiting for his men to pull the luggage from the carousel. I told Adam he could go over and say good-bye.

Thousands of miles, eight hours, two movies, two meals and one ocean had passed since we'd shared polite conversation with Jose Feliciano back in Lisbon, which seemed a lifetime away. As Adam walked toward the tired man, I realized Jose might not remember Adam. And Adam didn't know Jose was blind. We hadn't mentioned it, and Jose wasn't wearing dark glasses. Jose wouldn't see Adam coming. He wouldn't see Adam at all. He might not be able to put a name to this little person he'd never seen, only heard. Adam was a voice from another time zone, another continent, another reality. Would Adam's five-year-old feelings be hurt? Should I have left well enough alone?

I stood nearby and listened. "Bye, Jose," whispered Adam.

Jose looked up and smiled. "Take care, Adam."

LoriHein.com

Flotsam, jetsam, seaglass and shards

There's a mosaic in my future.

All around my house, in glass vases, copper boxes and bowls that once belonged to Bedouins and Buddhist monks, are bits and pieces of flotsam and jetsam from bodies of water, sidewalks and trash piles around the world, and I value these as highly as any travel souvenirs I've collected.

Someday, when I have nothing to do, I'll gather in one place these intriguing chunks of detritus, along with my scores of stones and seashells spirited from dozens of beaches, and I'll design a mosaic that gives each nugget a special spot in some big, bold picture.

Each piece brings me back to the place where I acquired it: water-worn teacup handles and porcelain dinnerware shards washed up on Lake Como's rocky shore; a hunk of marble paving stone from an old Lisbon sidewalk; pieces of painted wall tile from a junk heap beside an 18th-century Porto home undergoing renovation; black rocks with white circles in their middles -- eyeball rocks, I call them -- found on the French shore of Lake Geneva; charms that once hung from strands of Mardi Gras beads thrown from floats navigating the streets of New Orleans; shells and coral from the Red Sea; shells and salty stones from the Dead Sea; fragments of pottery and pavement from Petra and ancient Argos; cooled lava from an ancient eruption of Chile's Mount Osorno; and green, white, blue, amber and yellow seaglass from oceans and lakes around the globe.

I'm thinking my mosaic will be a map of the world.

www.LoriHein.com

Time once again for the annual Jose Feliciano post

I usually repost this post when I hear the song on the radio for the first time of the season. This year that happened before Thanksgiving, which was crazy -- being bid "feliz navidad" when I still had uneaten Halloween candy in the house.

We had a major snowstorm this weekend. Everything's white and navidadish, so today's a good day for the annual tribute to Jose:

We were at the airport in Lisbon waiting to board our plane home from a Christmas-week family trip to Albufeira, a seafront resort-cum-fishing town in the Algarve. The gate area was packed with travelers, and all seats were taken. Dana was two, Adam five, both seasoned travel vets. They sat in the plastic chairs we'd managed to snag, swinging their legs and sipping juice. A group of tall men milled around, looking for a seat for a smaller, blind companion. Mike offered his chair, and the blind man sat down next to me.

We'd overheard the men, musicians, talking about the bad flights and lousy hotels they'd endured on their current tour. I leaned over and asked the quiet, blind man, "What kind of music do you play?" All the men looked worn and tired, a littled rumpled and disheveled. I figured they played low to middle-tier clubs and bars. The Zildjian cymbals they kept at closer than arm's length were the only hint of the possibility of something bigger.

"All kinds," he said. "Maybe you've heard me on the radio at this time of year singing a song I wrote..."

"!You're Jose Feliciano!?!" I launched into "Feliz Navidad" and called Adam over between notes. "Adam! This man wrote the Christmas song that mommy sings all the time!" I sang some more. Adam joined me on the "prospero ano y felicidad" and let loose on the "I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas." Jose was pleased.

We talked with Jose for a half hour. His big, serious, but very gracious manager hovered protectively. The band was on its way home from a sold-out New Year's Eve concert in Estoril, and Jose was eager to get home to Connecticut to his pregnant wife and two young children. A loving, involved dad, he talked about his kids. "I try not to spoil them," he said.

Although he couldn't see them, Jose was keenly aware of Adam and Dana. He sensed their movements. He used their names when he spoke to them. He told Adam to "enjoy being a kid, because it goes by so fast." He told Adam jokes: "Adam, why did the turtle cross the road? He wanted to get to a Shell station." And, "Why did the chicken cross the road, Adam? To get away from Colonel Sanders." Dana was cranky, and Jose gve me parenting tips: "Change her diaper before you get on the plane, and give her a lot to drink so her ears won't hurt from the change in cabin pressure."

We boarded. Jose crossed the Atlantic in first class, and we sat in steerage, narrowly escaping the flood of red wine that burst from the overhead bin when a Portuguese woman's straw-bound jug of homemade vinho de mesa popped its cork. A nearly eight-hour flight. Adam and Dana handled the marathon transit like pros. They played with Legos, colored, ate stuff, and scanned the headset stations. Henry the Navigator would have been proud of their endurance.

When we landed in Newark, I noticed Jose sitting alone on a windowsill in a corner, waiting for his men to pull the luggage from the carousel. I told Adam he could go over and say good-bye.

Thousands of miles, eight hours, two movies, two meals and one ocean had passed since we'd shared polite conversation with Jose Feliciano back in Lisbon, which seemed a lifetime away. As Adam walked toward the tired man, I realized Jose might not remember Adam. And Adam didn't know Jose was blind. We hadn't mentioned it, and Jose wasn't wearing dark glasses. Jose wouldn't see Adam coming. He wouldn't see Adam at all. He might not be able to put a name to this little person he'd never seen, only heard. Adam was a voice from another time zone, another continent, another reality. Would Adam's five-year-old feelings be hurt? Should I have left well enough alone?

I stood nearby and listened. "Bye, Jose," whispered Adam.

Jose looked up and smiled. "Take care, Adam."

www.LoriHein.com

Prague in color

Dana's home. She bought gifts in Prague.

Mike got a gorgeous ceramic beer stein, Adam got a black t-shirt with giant white letters reading, "MY SISTER WAS IN PRAGUE AND ONLY THING SHE BROUGHT ME IS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT," and I got this brilliant pen and ink drawing of the city's domes, roofs and signature powder towers.

Dana picked it because of the colors, and she knew exactly where I'd hang it: on the mustard-colored wall in the family room in a grouping of travel mementos with the same color scheme.

The Prague skyline has joined two beaded Masai wedding necklaces, a cobalt and yellow watercolor of the Brooklyn Bridge and Twin Towers lit by a full moon, and a flyer advertising a bullfight that I picked off a sidewalk in Guarda, Portgual and had framed.

A look at that wall takes me around the world in one quick, colorful eyeful.


www.LoriHein.com

The sand sweepers of Nazare

Nazare, on Portugal's Costa de Prata, was once a quaint fishing village. Some guidebooks and Portuguese tourism websites would have you believe it still is. True, you can catch the occasional glimpse of a weathered old man sitting near a beached wooden boat mending a net. And you can feast on dazzlingly fresh seafood at every meal. But Nazare, more than a fishing town, has become the Kingdom of Canvas Cabanas.

Endless rows of multi-colored mini-pleasure domes stand tethered to Nazare's main beach, and the sprawling temporary city is the epicenter of summer life here. Our budget hotel sat on Nazare's main drag across from the beach, and our third floor room was a great aerie from which to watch the rhythm of life in the canvas kingdom.

Daily, by about 11, families that had rented cabanas for the week, month or season had hauled chairs and towels, food and drink, babies and grandmothers to the beach and had settled in for another day of watching sea, sky and each other. The beach, and the boardwalks that ran like streets through the encampment, became a giant living room, community center, social club. A civic hub that buzzed with life until the sun began its nightly drop below the horizon line far out in the Atlantic.
At dusk people brushed off, packed up and headed out, leaving the little tents empty for the night. From our hotel window I'd look down on them, standing in tight, neat rows like little hatted soldiers waiting for the next day's duty to begin.
Just after dawn each day a group of old ladies would arrive at the beach and gather on the principle boardwalk in the still-dark. Wearing dark dresses and aprons and headscarves and well-worn sandals, and armed with pails and hand brooms, they'd exchange a little gossip then get to work tidying up the kingdom.

Stooping, they'd clean the boardwalks and swish their brooms through the sand in front of the cabanas, creating swirling patterns along the beach. They worked quietly, then left the beach before the cabana-dwellers arrived for the day.

Rising at dawn to sit by the window and watch for the grandmothers' arrival became part of my routine. My body clock would wake me in time for the celestial shift change, when the moon, done for the night, would hand sentry duty over to the sun. Just as the sun took over, the sand sweepers of Nazare would appear on the boardwalk, brooms and pails in hand.

www.LoriHein.com

Get smart: Travel to college towns

Our first-born went off to college yesterday. We moved Adam into his dorm at one of Boston's biggest urban universities, and, while it was emotional, it was also exciting. The campus is in the heart of Boston, and Adam's world ballooned overnight from quiet, middle class suburb to a vibrant, diverse city that offers endless opportunities. When we drove away we knew he was in a good place.

Some of my favorite travel destinations have been cities with large universities. A big, busy, engaged student population makes a place pop, and everything -- shops, restaurants, streets, parks, architecture, cultural offerings, people watching -- is interesting, eclectic, electric. The atmosphere buzzes. I always pick a hotel near the university epicenter so I'm near the action.

I especially love European college towns because they often boast centuries-old universities with rich histories. The schools often sit in the city's ancient quarter or occupy dramatic settings atop hills or beside wide, tree-lined rivers.

The photos above show a few of my favorite university cities: from top to bottom, Oxford, England; Heidelberg, Germany; Coimbra, Portugal.

Next time you travel, add a university town to your itinerary. Smart move.


LoriHein.com

Cool pools

I love finding reasonably priced hotels with pools. Now I appreciate them for their workout value, but when the kids were younger, I searched them out because kids love pool breaks -- give them an hour or two of splash-happy fun and get three or four sightseeing hours in return. I've been traveling most of my life, the last two decades of it with kids. If asked to distill my traveling-with-kids advice to a single word, it'd be "pool."

We've played in some interesting pools. Like the near-to-boiling, sulphur-infused, subterranean venues in Turkey and Iceland fed by geothermal vents and touted as therapeutic for everything from acne to arthritis. And the indoor, clothing-optional oases in Bolivia and Germany that were tricked out like sultry grottoes of hedonism. Who'd've thunk you could go to a hotel on the Bolivian Altiplano and find a mist-bound, basement lagoon that fell just short of absolutely demanding you enter naked? Or to a hotel in straight-up, Protestant Wurzburg, Germany and find a spa with a self-appointed totally nude pool policeman who followed the clothed (us) around, tallying their (our) transgressions and reporting them to the reception desk? Great, weird stuff!

But the pools I've loved most are outdoor basins with signature settings or stellar views where, while enjoying the water and recreation, you're visually, physically and spiritually connected to the place you came to see. You're not taking a pool break, you're communing with a city, culture, island, environment. You just happen to be all wet while doing it.

Some of our favorite spots include the compact, rooftop oasis at the Best Western Coral Hotel in Paleo Faliron, a seaside suburb of Athens, where Adam and Mike would position themselves under the lion-head waterspouts and see who could stay put longest. The hotel is on the direct approach to Athens airport, and jumbo jets from all corners of the world flew directly over us. We could see human shapes in the planes' windows and knew the travelers could look down and see us in the pool. We spent a lot of time on that rooftop, soaking in the cool water, watching the great jets come and go, and sharing beers with other travelers, like the steel company sales reps from Holland who told Heinekein-induced insider tales about the Greek shipbuilding business.

Another great oasis was the infinity pool on the roof of the Eden Aparthotel in Lisbon. This place was a find, and it's a favorite of flight attendants on Lisbon layovers. The pool afforded marvelous views of the Tagus River and the ochre-colored castle of St. George sitting on its hilltop above the Alfama, the oldest part of Lisbon. The management had installed clear glass panels as fencing so you could take in the view while swimming. Panels of mirrors along the hotel's back wall captured the castle in the glass, and in brilliant sun, bounced it back off and into the water with you.

And the pool at the Grotto Villas on Santorini, a paradise. The pool sat on a cliff edge overlooking the sea-filled, ancient crater of the exploded volcano that some believe is legendary Atlantis. From the pool, you looked down to the sea, dotted with ferries and cruise ships, and up and sideways to volcanic cliff faces peppered with Santorini's stark-white signature cube houses whose terraces were planted with flowers and striped umbrellas.

I love immersion travel.


www.LoriHein.com

Feliz navidad, Jose Feliciano

'Tis the season, he's on the airwaves, and it's time again for my annual tribute post to the crooner of the catchiest Spanish-language holiday tune yet written:


We were at the airport in Lisbon (photo) waiting to board our plane home from a Christmas-week family trip to Albufeira, a seafront resort-cum-fishing town in the Algarve. The gate area was packed with travelers, and all seats were taken. Dana was two, Adam five, both seasoned travel vets. They sat in the plastic chairs we'd managed to snag, swinging their legs and sipping juice.

A group of tall men milled around, looking for a seat for a smaller, blind companion. Mike offered his chair, and the blind man sat down next to me.

We'd overheard the men, musicians, talking about the bad flights and lousy hotels they'd endured on their current tour. I leaned over and asked the quiet, blind man, "What kind of music do you play?" All the men looked worn and tired, a littled rumpled and disheveled. I figured they played low to middle-tier clubs and bars. The Zildjian cymbals they kept at closer than arm's length were the only hint of the possibility of something bigger.

"All kinds," he said. "Maybe you've heard me on the radio at this time of year singing a song I wrote..."

"!You're Jose Feliciano?!"

I launched into Feliz Navidad and called Adam over between notes. "Adam! This man wrote the Christmas song that mommy sings all the time!" I sang some more. Adam joined in on the "prospero ano y felizidad" and let loose on the "I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas." Jose was pleased.

We talked with Jose for a half hour. His big, serious, but very gracious manager hovered protectively. The band was on its way home from a sold out New Year's Eve concert in Estoril, and Jose was eager to get home to Connecticut to his pregnant wife and two young children. A loving, involved dad, he talked about his kids. "I try not to spoil them," he said.

Although he couldn't see them, Jose was keenly aware of Adam and Dana. He sensed their movements. He used their names when he spoke to them. He told Adam to "enjoy being a kid, because it goes by so fast." He told Adam jokes: "Adam, why did the turtle cross the road? He wanted to get to a Shell station." And, "Why did the chicken cross the road, Adam? To get away from Colonel Sanders." Dana was cranky, and Jose gave me parenting tips: "Change her diaper before you get on the plane, and give her a lot to drink so her ears won't hurt from the change in cabin pressure."

We boarded. Jose crossed the Atlantic in first class, and we sat in steerage, narrowly escaping the flood of red wine that burst from the overhead bin when a Portuguese woman's jug of homemade vinho de mesa popped its cork. A nearly eight-hour flight. Adam and Dana handled the marathon transit like pros. They played with Legos, colored, ate stuff, and scanned the headset stations. Henry the Navigator would have been proud of their endurance.

When we landed in Newark, I noticed Jose sitting alone on a windowsill in a corner, waiting for his men to pull the luggage from the carousel. I told Adam he could go over and say good-bye.

Thousands of miles, eight hours, two movies , two meals and one ocean had passed since we'd shared polite conversation with Jose Feliciano back in Lisbon, which seemed a lifetime away.

As Adam walked toward the tired man, I realized Jose might not remember Adam. And Adam didn't know Jose was blind. We hadn't mentioned it, and Jose wasn't wearing dark glasses. Jose wouldn't see Adam coming. He wouldn't see Adam at all. He might not be able to put a name to this little person he'd never seen, only heard. Adam was a voice from another time zone, another continent, another reality. Would Adam's five-year-old feelings be hurt? Should I have left well enough alone?

I stood nearby and listened. "Bye, Jose," whispered Adam.

Jose looked up and smiled. "Take care, Adam."



Last year I e-mailed this story to the contact address on Jose's official Web site. I got a lovely note back from Jose's wife, Susan, who told me their family is doing well and that the baby she was carrying when we met Jose in Lisbon was now 14 years old. We mothers exchanged a few e-mails about how time flies.


www.LoriHein.com

Parenting tips from Jose Feliciano

A version of this story appeared in November 2004.
We were at the airport in Lisbon (above) waiting to board our plane home from a Christmas-week family trip to Albufeira, a seafront resort-cum-fishing town in the Algarve. The gate area was packed with travelers, and all seats were taken. Dana was two, Adam five, both seasoned travel vets. They sat in the plastic chairs we'd managed to snag, swinging their legs and sipping juice.

A group of tall men milled around, looking for a seat for a smaller, blind companion. Mike offered his chair, and the blind man sat down next to me.

We'd overheard the men, musicians, talking about the bad flights and lousy hotels they'd endured on their current tour. I leaned over and asked the quiet blind man, "What kind of music do you play?" All the men looked worn and tired, a littled rumpled and disheveled. I figured they played low to middle-tier clubs and bars. The Zildjian cymbals they kept at closer than arm's length were the only hint of the possibility of something bigger.

"All kinds," he said. "Maybe you've heard me on the radio at this time of year singing a song I wrote..."

"You're Jose Feliciano?!!" I launched into Feliz Navidad and called Adam over between notes. "Adam! This man wrote the Christmas song that mommy sings all the time!" I sang some more. Adam joined in on the "prospero ano y felizidad" and let loose on the "I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas." Jose was pleased.

We talked with Jose for a half hour. His big, serious, but very gracious manager hovered protectively. The band was on its way home from a sold out New Year's Eve concert in Estoril, and Jose was eager to get home to Connecticut to his pregnant wife and two young children. A loving, involved dad, he talked about his kids. "I try not to spoil them," he said.

Although he couldn't see them, Jose was keenly aware of Adam and Dana. He sensed their movements. He used their names when he spoke to them. He told Adam to "enjoy being a kid, because it goes by so fast." He told Adam jokes: "Adam, why did the turtle cross the road? He wanted to get to a Shell station." And "Why did the chicken cross the road, Adam? To get away from Colonel Sanders." Dana was cranky, and Jose gave me parenting tips: "Change her diaper before you get on the plane, and give her a lot to drink so her ears won't hurt from the change in cabin pressure."

We boarded. Jose crossed the Atlantic in first class, and we sat in steerage, narrowly escaping the flood of red wine that burst from the overhead bin when a Portuguese woman's jug of homemade vinho de mesa popped its cork. A nearly eight-hour flight. Adam and Dana handled the marathon transit like pros. They played with Legos, colored, ate stuff, and scanned the headset stations. Henry the Navigator would have been proud of their endurance.

When we landed in Newark, I noticed Jose sitting alone on a windowsill in a corner, waiting for his men to pull the luggage from the carousel. I told Adam he could go over and say good-bye. Thousands of miles, one ocean, eight hours, two movies, and two meals had passed since we'd shared polite conversation with Jose Feliciano back in Lisbon, which seemed a lifetime away.

As Adam walked toward the tired man, I realized Jose might not remember Adam. And Adam didn't know Jose was blind. We hadn't mentioned it, and Jose wasn't wearing dark glasses. Jose wouldn't see Adam coming. He wouldn't see Adam at all. He might not be able to put a name to this little person he'd never seen, only heard. Adam was a voice from another time zone, another continent, another reality. Would Adam's five-year-old feelings be hurt? Should I have left well enough alone?

I stood nearby and listened. "Bye, Jose," whispered Adam.

Jose looked up and smiled. "Take care, Adam."

Lori Hein.com

Christmas in old, quiet places

There’s something deeply calming about spending Christmas week in an old European town whose cobbles and cathedrals have seen Christmases since the Middle Ages.

The swirl of white lights in the leaded window of an ornament shop in a walled city on Germany's Romantic Road; quiet candles casting a yellow glow inside a crumbling Portuguese church that sits on the sea; the slow, deliberate movement of two dozen Catalans celebrating the holiday by dancing their solemn sardana, arms linked, in front of La Seu, Barcelona's soaring Gothic cathedral.

In an ancient place, on a hushed winter afternoon or evening, such sights both stir and settle the soul. The simplest things often touch us most deeply.

In Tarragona, Spain (above), the unadorned, potted evergreens that sat along the narrow pedestrian passage leading to the cathedral were, there and then in that quiet alley half-hidden from the sun, the most beautiful Christmas trees I’d ever seen.


LoriHein.com

Aveiro's salt mountains

We reached Aveiro on Portugal’s Silver Coast in a mild state of family disharmony. Mike, who has an obsession for clean (that he stays married to me and living in this house – there are too many things to do with life to spend it on housework – is a testament to him), had emptied the car of garbage at a rest area outside Aveiro and had pitched our autoroute toll ticket in the process. A lost ticket means you pay about $30 at the toll booth, and the collector cut us no slack. Nao, nao, nao. He seemed pleased to punish us.

The world was righted when a charming gentleman in a suit showed us to Room 205 in the Hotel Arcada, an old grande dame with comfortable, worn charm. That we’d scored a two-room suite with 12-foot ceilings and a view over Aveiro’s central canal for under a hundred bucks for four took the sting out of the $30 toll ticket blunder. We stood at our tall windows and looked across a courtyard into the second floor of the Clube Galito, the Club of the Little Rooster, where old men in gray t-shirts play cards. They played all day. And all night.

Our room also overlooked the little dock where, for about ten dollars, you can take a 2 ½-hour boat trip up the central canal, through the Aveiro locks and into Aveiro’s lagoon. There are two remarkable things about this trip: the boat and what you see when you enter the lagoon.

We rode in a traditional moliceiro, a long, narrow, brightly painted craft reminiscent of a Venetian gondola that was used by Aveiro’s fishermen to collect seaweed and eels. The skipper took a little break and invited Adam and Dana to steer the moliceiro past the huge, rusting hulks of ships at rest in the industrial docks near the village of Sao Jacinto.

In the lagoon, we looked on a rare sight. Small white mountains towered and glistened up out of the lagoon floor. They looked like snowcaps sitting on the sea. Huge, bright pyramidal cones popping from the water. These were Aveiro’s salt pans. Beds, or fields, are built in the lagoon and the sea water held within the fields is evaporated, leaving the precious white grains. Salt workers rake the granules into monumental piles that sit near rickety wooden lagoon-side docks. Salt boats come and haul the commodity away to market.

Back in Aveiro, a morning trip to the Mercado do Peixe, the fish auction where last night’s catch is quickly snapped up by city residents and restaurant owners, we examined some of the delicacies we’d try later that evening at dinner.

Fishwives stood behind marble slabs that hosted sparkling, eyeballs-still-popping seafood from the lagoon and sea around Aveiro. Inches-thick masses of live eels writhed in tubs, and occasionally one or two would slither up the tub’s side and try to escape. The marble slabs held octopus, squid, gleaming, flashing fish of all sizes and types. Red just-cut salmon steaks. Fishmongers wielding mallets and knives, pounding then slicing fresh fish flesh into various cuts, chunks and filets. The sound of pounding and slicing permeated the wrought iron structure that housed the market.

That night, we feasted on Aveiro fare at the Mercantel Restaurant, located on the second floor of an old building on one of the town’s most picturesque small canals. Locals packed the place, and we ate and ate, appreciating the magnificent freshness of our turbot and the special bite of the salt we sprinkled on our boiled potatoes. All around us, Portuguese families laughed and drank and dined, surrounded by beautiful blue tile scenes of Aveiro life – moliceiros bobbing at the dock, fishermen catching baskets of lamprey eels, and magical mountains of sea salt.

Everbody out of the pool!

Yikes! I went for my pool run this morning (where, why, blue Styrofoam booties, and how it all relates to Peru and the summer solstice described in a previous post), and I tell you, we need a bigger pool! It was ugly in there!

Things started to devolve a few weeks ago when the seniors' water aerobics classes evaporated because the fitness center lost its instructor. Now, all the seniors still come each morning, but instead of being in a gay, tidy group in the shallow end, bouncing and bobbing to the Beach Boys, they float around in little widely-scattered bunches because they don't know what else to do. And, there's a new lap swimmer who thinks the pool was built just for him and thrashes through the water, invading the seniors' space and splashing them in the face. Today, one spry gal hit back, literally. Then, there are the folks who don't play by the commonly-accepted pool rule that says you share lanes if it's crowded. Ohhhh. I could go on. Ugly, really ugly. I shudder to think what tomorrow will bring. Hand-to-hand combat? Mass chaos? Violence that will require a police visit to this otherwise quiet neighborhood YMCA? We need a bigger pool.

Like the one in the photo above. The Hotel Arribas in Colares, Portugal has the biggest swimming pool I've ever seen. We based ourselves in Colares, known for its Atlantic beaches and wine-making tradition, while we explored the area around Sintra, a fairytale town and UNESCO World Heritage Site filled with pastel castles , exploding with flowers, shrubs and fruit trees, and ringed by a lush, deep green forest. We'd drive from Colares up the mountainside to Sintra, get our fill of sights, then drive back down to enjoy the beach and the hotel's gargantuan saltwater pool.

A piscina of epic proportions. A pool so big you got lost in it. Like being in the middle of a football field filled with water. I'll dream about it tomorrow morning as I fight my way through the YMCA pool.

Albufeira, Portugal: Next stop, Jose Feliciano

Albufeira, Portugal, a resort-cum-fishing village on the Algarve

You're Jose Feliciano?!

We were in the Lisbon airport waiting to board our plane home from a Christmas-week family trip to Albufeira, a seafront resort-cum-fishing town in the Algarve. The gate area was packed, and all seats were taken. Dana was two, Adam five, both seasoned travel vets.

A group of tall men milled around, looking for a seat for a smaller, blind companion. Mike offered his chair, and the blind man sat down next to me. We'd overheard the men, musicians, talking about the bad flights and bad hotels they'd endured on their current tour. I leaned over and asked, "What kind of music do you play?" All the men looked a littled rumpled and disheveled, a bit worn and scruffy. I figured they played low to middle-tier clubs and bars. The Zildjian cymbals they kept at closer than arm's length were the only outward signs of possible success. "All kinds," said the small, gentle man. "Maybe you've heard me on the radio at this time of year singing a song I wrote..."

"You're Jose Feliciano?!!"

I launched into "Feliz Navidad" and called Adam over between notes. "Adam! This man wrote the song that mommy sings all the time!" I sang some more. Adam joined in on the "prospero ano y felizidad" and let loose on the "I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas." Jose was pleased.

We talked with Jose for a half hour. His big, serious, very nice manager hovered protectively. The band was on its way home from a sold out New Year's Eve concert in Estoril, and Jose was eager to get home to Connecticut to his pregnant wife and two young children. A loving, involved dad, he talked about his kids. "I try not to spoil them," he said.

Although he couldn't see them, Jose was keenly aware of Adam and Dana. He sensed their movements. He used their names when he spoke to them. He told Adam to "enjoy being a kid, because it goes by so fast." He told Adam jokes: "Adam, why did the turtle cross the road? He wanted to get to a Shell station." And "Why did the chicken cross the road, Adam? To get away from Colonel Sanders."

Dana was cranky, and Jose gave me parenting tips. "Change her diaper before you get on the plane, and give her a lot to drink so her ears won't hurt from the change in cabin pressure."

We boarded. Jose crossed the Atlantic in first class, and we sat in steerage, narrowly escaping the flood of red wine that burst from the overhead bin when a Portuguese woman's jug of homemade vinho de mesa popped its cork.

A seven and a half-hour flight. Adam and Dana were awesome. They played with Legos, colored, ate stuff, and scanned the headset stations. Henry the Navigator would have been proud of their in-transit endurance.

When we landed in Newark, I noticed Jose sitting alone on a windowsill in a corner, waiting for his men to pull the luggage from the carousel. I told Adam he could go over and say good-bye.

Thousands of miles, one ocean, eight hours, two movies and two meals had passed since we'd shared polite conversation with Jose Feliciano back in Lisbon, which seemed a lifetime away. As Adam walked toward the tired man, I realized Jose might not remember Adam. And Adam didn't know Jose was blind. We hadn't mentioned it, and Jose wasn't wearing dark glasses. Jose wouldn't see Adam coming, wouldn't see Adam at all, might not be able to put a name to this little person he'd never seen, only heard. Adam was a voice from another time zone, another continent, another reality. Would Adam's five-year-old feelings be hurt? Should I have left well enough alone? I stood nearby and listened.

"Bye, Jose," whispered Adam.

Jose looked up and smiled. "Take care, Adam."

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