I’m not planning a complete remodel: the cabinets are fine and I’m not changing the layout, but I do need new appliances, new counter tops, a new sink and faucet and some under-cabinet lighting. The sink and counters are still functional, but they’re dated, and any thoughts I had of not upgrading them were put to rest by a recent article  which made it plain that granite counters, stainless steel appliances and wood floors are necessities if you want to interest buyers. Apparently the millenials have never seen laminate… I also need to update the hardware and lighting in the master bath, and redo ALL the floors – they’re 24 years old and looking it.

One reason I have been putting off the renovation, and therefore the sale, is that I am very comfortable here, but I know this isn’t my last house, and every year the summers in central NC get harder to live through. I still haven’t made a decision about where I want to live next. Seattle and Asheville are still on the list for the US, and places like Lisbon, Pau, Annecy, Bath and Shrewsbury in Europe, but thanks to my Fuch’s Dystrophy at some point my corneas will need to be replaced, and I don’t want to be too far from a (very) good eye hospital when that happens. Suggestions always welcome…

Clearly, I won’t be planning any more travel until the work on the house is done – maybe that will be an incentive to get on with it! However, I now have enough frequent flyer miles for another round the world award so I’m hoping to set off again on a long trip next year. Meanwhile, I’m thinking of resurrecting some of the trips that aren’t on my old website, or on this blog, so you may see places like Sicily and Armenia showing up here.

I’ve switched from reading travel books to books on kitchen renovation. Most of them are for people doing a full remodel, going into details about adding windows and pushing out walls and making room for islands and peninsulas – none of which tempt me. They also proclaim that the kitchen is the heart of the house. Maybe if you have kids, or entertain a lot, but the heart of my house is my study.

Florida is not anywhere on my “would retire to” list, but I know a lot of people love it there. Among them are friends who moved back to Boca Raton after living for years in North Carolina. They invited me to stay on my way back from South America, promising to show me a different side of the state. They would also be showing me a retirement community, as that’s where they live now. They would pick me up from Miami airport and deliver me to Fort Lauderdale two days later for my final flight to RDU.

I can’t say I was much impressed by the facilities in the gloomy land side area at Miami airport, although I was impressed by the absolute silence maintained by the crowd in the huge hall where I waited to clear passport control. Perhaps it was the early hour? I’m accustomed to eat pre- and post-flight breakfasts at Gatwick and Heathrow, and the sausage and egg sandwich at Miami in no way measured up to a full English “heart attack on a plate”.

My friends had planned a full program for my two days, and after they collected me from the airport we set off for the Fairchild Gardens. I always enjoy botanical gardens and arboretums, and this was an especially big example. After we had walked a fair amount we were able to get on the shuttle and I was amazed by how much more there was to see – including the unexpected sight of a crocodile tossing his prey in the air. But my favorite area was the butterfly exhibit, although I never did manage to get a photo of one of the many spectacular Blue Morphos.

I had asked to see the Art Deco buildings in Miami Beach, and we had discussed eating lunch there, but my friends remembered that we would pass close to the Biltmore Hotel, and we stopped there instead. I associate the name with the massive mansion in Asheville, and was interested to visit a rather different Biltmore. We ate an excellent lunch by the big swimming pool, and then took a look at the lobby, an eclectic mixture of gothic and Moorish elements, already decorated for Christmas. The hotel is in Coral Gables, and the low rise houses lining the streets there certainly contrast with the condominiums and hotels lining so much of Florida’s shoreline. So, too, do the Art Deco buildings which we visited next.

Since I hadn’t slept well on the plane, I was fading fast, and fell asleep in the car on the way to Boca Raton, and then on the sofa after we arrived. By the next day, though, I was doing better, and had plenty of energy for the Morikami Museum and Japanese Gardens. I had been surprised to learn that there had once been a Japanese community in Florida, clear across the country from the bigger and better known settlements on the Pacific Coast. I watched the museum’s introductory film with interest, and enjoyed the tour of the gardens, not to mention lunch in the cafe.

My visit coincided with the retirement community’s Christmas reception and dinner, and I was impressed by the excellent meal. I was also impressed by the community itself, where my friends had a spacious apartment with a Florida room overlooking a large pond. They said they had been surprised by how much they enjoyed the passing parade of wildlife. The complex was in a suburban area with not a high-rise building in sight, across from a large mall. As retirement communities go, in Florida or elsewhere, this has to be one of the best. But I’m not eager to join one, even one this comfortable. I think I’m too much of an introvert.

I enjoyed the stopover, but it didn’t make me any more of a Florida fan.

Santiago: The Old

Unfortunately, the one place I really wanted to visit in Santiago, the Museo Chileno de Arte Precolumbino, was closed for renovation, which is why I had already decided I should start my next trip to South America back in Santiago. Meanwhile, I checked off the Museo Historico Nacional – missable aside from a temporary exhibition of fancy dress – and the Museo de la Memoria y de los Derechos Humanos – definitely NOT missable. I spent much longer in the second museum, absorbing an excellently presented history of the horrors of the military dictatorship, which lasted from 1973 to 1990, before wandering through part of the neighboring park, full of families enjoying themselves.

I also wandered around a fair amount of central Santiago, enjoying a varied collection of buildings that ranged from Spanish baroque to very modern. I made it up the smaller of the two hills, Santa Lucia, noted the parlous state of the river Mapocho, and tried to avoid the lunchtime crowds in the huge Plaza de Armas. I had thought about staying in the Barrio Paris Londres and was disappointed to find how small it was. I approved of the metro, but didn’t try the buses. I even bought the first and only souvenir of the whole trip, although the copper fish I found in the Rio Amazonas’ gift shop was intended as a present.

Cerro Santa Lucia

As a last extravagance I took a taxi out to the airport. US-bound passengers were sent to a separate security area, where we had to take off our shoes. Then, after we had handed in our boarding passes and were headed for the jet-way, we all had to undergo a second check of hand luggage. No liquids, none, nada,  aside from the quart bag, could be carried on to the plane. The water I had bought after clearing  security was firmly, if politely, confiscated. Good thing I hadn’t bought any duty free alcohol or perfume! This security theater has become beyond ridiculous.

At least the plane was only one third full, allowing us the almost forgotten luxury of spreading out, and I did get some sleep on the way to Miami. I had enjoyed visiting South America, although the scenery easily out-shone the cities, and already planned to go back to Santiago to travel through the northwest section – Bolivia, Peru, Ecuador, Colombia…

Plaza de Armas

Alas, Michael the German Pirate was no Boris. He apparently regarded guiding as a hobby rather than a job, although I know hobbyists who are far more engaged and efficient. The tour got off to an exceedingly slow start. We had not gone far before stopping at a house that one of Michael’s friends was renovating. This was mostly an opportunity for him to visit with his friend, while we wandered round a building that was certainly in need of renovation, and was also stuffed with second-hand toys.

Then a drive through a mostly deserted seaside development was followed by a visit to a beautiful and also mostly deserted beach. I would have liked coffee at this point but the one functioning beach shack only offered cold drinks. Then we stopped at another house belonging to another of Michael’s friends. Again, we hung around while Michael visited with his friend, after which we were shown the friend’s “museum”, of interest only to fans of model ships and stuffed animals (the ones in the Vina del Mar museum were better).

By the time we finally arrived in Isla Negra and had eaten lunch I was wondering why I had signed up for this odyssey, but so far I was better off than the other couple. Michael had just discovered that the bus they had planned to take wasn’t running, and they would have to leave from Isla Negra and skip the wineries. Now, back when I was planning this trip, a poster on Fodors had warned me that the road between Valparaiso and Santiago would be closed from mid afternoon Friday December 7th to the evening of Saturday December 8th for a major religious procession. I had scheduled an extra night in Valparaiso to allow for it, and then forgotten the matter. So, a Fodors’ poster knew about the annual closure, but a supposedly professional tour guide did not.

Michael went off to check on bus times, and we visited the house. Perhaps I should have settled for just one of Neruda’s houses, as I found this one disappointing. The location, and the views, were indeed magnificent, but the rooms felt claustrophobic. Too many over-sized figureheads in the living room, for sure, and the ceilings seemed low. Afterwards we left the young couple, and their luggage, at a “bus stop” (a short line of people at the side of the road), and finally took off for the wineries. When we reached the first it was already 4:50, and I noticed on the sign outside that it would close at 5:30. Would we only have time for one winery?

Worse. No wineries at all! All the wineries were closed in honor of the procession. I was furious! How can a tour guide take you on a tour without checking that the places you’re going to visit are actually open? After I pointed this out, and said that I had only taken the tour because I wanted to visit wineries, we drove back to Valparaiso in silence, where Michael charged me 6,000 pesos instead of the full price, claiming that this was what it would have cost me to visit Isla Negra by bus.

So, avoid tours by the German Pirate. You might also avoid the Port View room at the Yellow House. It was very dark, and the view not much. In addition, it was on the same floor as the kitchen and dining room, and when an inconsiderate Polish visitor decided to fix a meal at 11:00 at night I could hear every move. The house’s location had disadvantages too. The views from the top floor were so good because the house was at one end of town, but there was a real shortage of eating and drinking places nearby. To get to the best area for restaurants you needed to take the funicular down the hill, catch a tram into town, and ride another funicular up again. Walking would have been possible, except that part of the area between the funiculars wasn’t safe. The funicular for the Yellow House didn’t feel that safe, either. The carriage may well be the original, from 1893, and not only were there gaps between the boards, the whole thing shook.

Overall, despite this one thoroughly disappointing day, I enjoyed my stay in Valparaiso. I’m glad I’ve seen the town, but I don’t have any great urge to go back.

Things improved when I got to my B&B in Valparaiso. The Yellow House provided not just the usual safe place to stash my bag, and coffee, but breakfast, and even more welcome, a shower in the shared bathroom. When the owner suggested I join a walking tour of the city I was in good enough shape to agree. The tour, led by a lively young Brazilian (Boris, who also teaches cooking classes), took us from the touristy main square to the fishing boats and market (and seriously photogenic sea lions and pelicans), on and off trams and buses and funiculars, up to murals and the best restaurant section, and down again, and provided plenty of information along with the sights. Including areas to avoid when walking alone.

Valparaiso, spread over many hills beside a sparkling bay, is a city that has much to like. (Provided you overlook the port area, which it is rather hard to do.) Architecture always has a lot to do with whether I like a city, and while my favorite Art Nouveau was in limited supply, the many brightly painted houses and a scattering of landmark buildings more than made up for it. The colorful metal buildings that had been crammed into one area of Buenos Aires were here splashed across multiple quarters. The Yellow House, where I was staying, could easily be picked out on its eastern hillside, below the Navy Museum, from down on the waterfront.

I spent one morning visiting the just reopened Palacio Baburizza. Although it houses the city’s Belles Artes museum, I ignored the paintings but admired the architecture. It was even worth the trek uphill, made necessary because the relevant funicular had yet to reopen after the last earthquake. But even better was La Sebastiana, the Nobel prize-winning poet Naruda’s Valparaiso home.

I reached La Sebastiana, perched on a hillside well above the bay, in a shared taxi that charged upwards at full throttle. Once there I was able to dodge the tour groups and absorb the house at my leisure. And between the magnificent views, and the magnificently quirky contents, it was worth every peso of the admission price. Unfortunately, photos weren’t allowed inside.

While Valparaiso is a working city, just up the coast is Vina del Mar, the area’s playground. While I had no intention of joining the crowd courting sunburn on the sands, I had a good time nonetheless. I started at the Archaeological Museum, where I was delighted to get a look at an authentic moai without having to trek out to Easter Island. After rejecting a number of eating places (including a surprising number of US chains) I ate a leisurely (and expensive) lunch at waterfront El Parron with excellent views, and then walked south along the promenade to the 20th century Castillo Wulff. The interior of the castle wasn’t much, but again the views were good. As were the views at the Sheraton, where I indulged in a caipirinha on the rear deck, overlooking yet another beach.

I finished my day at the beach in the botanical gardens, where I was sorry to find the Palacio Vergara closed for renovations. Then I was whisked back to Valparaiso on the excellent metro.

I hadn’t been able to find much information on the bus connections, and was saddened to learn, when I reached San Martin,  that the one and only daily bus left at 6:00am. Still, the WesleyHosteria provided me with a breakfast sandwich, and the rain held off while I trekked the six long blocks to the bus station. But as we climbed towards the pass I saw clouds ahead, and thought it unlikely we would see much of Volcan Lanin, which towers over the border. Turned out we had just a fugitive glimpse, as we shivered in the wind outside the border post.

I had hoped for more comfortable volcano viewing in Pucon. I had chosen to break my northward journey in Pucon in large part because of photos showing Volcan Villarica almost in the town. I had therefore reserved a room with a balcony and a straight-on view of the volcano at the Geronimo. I should have saved my money. I could see part of the volcano the day I arrived, and again the day I left, but not all of it, and in between all I could see were clouds. And rain. At one point the weather site I consulted claimed 60 inches would fall over the weekend.

Most people use Pucon as a base for energetic outdoor activities. Climbing Volcan Villarica. White water rafting. Hiking, cycling, riding, fishing. You name it, there’s probably an adventure outfitter in Pucon eager to help you do it. I certainly wasn’t planning on climbing the volcano, but I thought about some hiking in the National Park, a visit to some waterfalls, maybe the thermal baths. But not in the rain. Even the thermal baths were off limits, as I hadn’t brought a swimsuit, and couldn’t find one in town to fit me.

After I realized that the weather forecasts were right, and before I bought my bus ticket out, I considered cutting my stay short. But, just as when I planned this part of the trip, there was nowhere between Pucon and Valparaiso that seemed a good stopping off place. I was attracted by the wineries, but I expected to tour them from Valparaiso. There were more thermal spas on the way, but none seemed to have good public transport. The reports on the coastal cities had been discouraging.  Chillan, with murals and an outdoor market, was the likeliest candidate, but lacked good accommodation, and would mean two long days on the bus instead of one long night.

So, I stayed on in Pucon. I found good coffee at the Cafe de P, and good company – along with tortilla soup and chicken and avocado sandwiches – at the American-owned Latitud 39. I took a look at yet-another-lake – as in San Martin, the town turned its back on the water front. I marveled at the number of outfitters cheek-by-jowl down the main street. And I spent a lot of time listening to ebooks and playing cards on my iPad.

I could have taken one of several buses on the new, paved road via Rinconada, but I was tempted by the scenic Seven Lakes route. While one bus a day did go that way, I decided instead to sign up for a day tour from Bariloche, getting off in San Martin. While noticeably more expensive, this would get me much better sightseeing, plus photo ops. Oddly, all tours from Bariloche cost the same, regardless of which company you pick. With no good basis of comparison I left it to the Hotel Tirol to book me, and was pleased with their choice. I shared a small min-van with just a dozen others, although once again the guide had little English.

We made a pit stop in Villa la Angostura, which seemed just as touristy as Bariloche, and I was glad I had passed on staying there, even though the ash from the 2011 volcano had been cleared. The lakes were indeed scenic, and efforts were underway to pave the gravel road that connected them. By this time I had seen so many lakes that I was a little disappointed with San Martin’s lake. Unlike Bariloche, which sprawls along the shore of Lago Nahuel Huapi, San Martin is at the very end of Lago Lacar, and most of the town follows the valley away from the lake. There’s a pier, and a couple of cafes, but not much else on the lake shore itself.

My first full day in town I set off to hike to one of the viewpoints. This was a little harder than I expected, as the trail, through the edge of Parque Nacional Lanin, kept splitting, and was largely lacking blazes. Still, since I had started early, I had the eventual viewpoint, Bandurria, almost entirely to myself. I ate my lunch in splendid isolation, but with a less splendid view than those near Bariloche.

I had had a lot of luck with the weather on this trip, but I must have lost the talisman on the hike to Bandurria. My second day in San Martin was too wet for hiking, or for the boat ride I had planned, or even for admiring the many rose bushes that decorated the streets and parks. Fortunately, most of the cafes had wifi, and I carried my iPad from coffee to lunch to more coffee, umbrella in hand.

Checking the weather forecast was not encouraging, though. Next day I was taking a bus to Pucon, in Chile, and I had hoped to  see Volcan Lanin on the border. Not to mention Volcan Villarica from Pucon itself.

Anyone walking down Mitre Street in Bariloche could be forgiven for thinking that you visited the town in order to eat chocolate. Maybe some people do, but a better reason is to admire the views from the neighboring mountains. A lot of sites claim that National Geographic rated the view from Cerro Campanario as one of the ten best in the world. I can’t find any verification for that on the National Geographic web site, but having seen the view I agree it’s possible.

I reached the top of Cerro Campanario, some thousand feet above the town, the old fashioned way. I hiked up. Most people rode the chair lift, but not only was I in need of exercise, I hate those things. The older I get, the worse my fear of heights becomes. Unfortunately, the path turned out to both very steep in places, and also covered in ash from the 2011 eruption of Volcan Puyehue, and without a hiking stick I had doubts about my ability to hike back down.

I spent a lot of quality time at the top, partly outside, and partly eating lunch in the cafeteria, with a marvelous view. But I couldn’t stay there forever. I eventually decided that the chair lift would be the lesser of the two evils, but I spent the entire seven minute ride with my eyes shut, holding on for dear life.

At that point, I should have quit while I was ahead. But there were two more mountains, still higher, Otto and Catedral. Checking with the TI, I found out that Catedral, a major ski center, wasn’t open, but I could take an enclosed ride up Otto. Big mistake. I was thinking funicular, but the only difference between the chair lift and the cable cars was that the cars were enclosed and held four. They were still suspended in mid-air. This time I rode both up and down with my eyes shut, and since Otto was a thousand feet higher than Campanario, the ride was longer. Despite including Bariloche itself, I didn’t think the views measured up, although they might be better in the morning.

Not until I sat down in Otto’s cafeteria did I realize that it rotated. It was here that I discovered licuado de frambuesa, a sort of raspberry smoothie. I had mine made with water rather than milk, and indulged in them several days running (making up for not enough veggies), until the acid started affecting me.

My other excursion from Bariloche, a boat ride to a forest and to Isla Victoria was less successful, being mass tourism of the worst kind. Besides, I’d already seen a lot of the lake. Once again, all the announcements on the boat, aside from the safety briefing, were in Spanish, but one young guide did take the double handful of English speakers on our own guided walks. I was intrigued to learn that while most conifers are hermaphrodites, monkey puzzle trees are either female (large bushy cones), or male (very small cones). The guide thought the trees, Araucaria araucana, were called monkey trees, but I’ve always known them as monkey puzzle trees. They are much more impressive in their native habitat than in English gardens.

There’s not a lot to see in Bariloche itself, aside from the self-consciously Alpine buildings round the main square. These date from the 1930s, when tourism was replacing agriculture as the foundation of the economy. The town was established in the 1890s, with a number of Austrian and German settlers, which may explain why some Nazi war criminals found sanctuary there. (Although I refuse to believe the fantasy that they included Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun.) I was not actually aware of this history when I planned to visit Bariloche, and have now found this article of interest: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/education/3335016/Nazis-Argentine-village-hide-out-pulls-in-tourists.html

I had some trouble getting a reservation in Bariloche, and came to find out that, despite my attempt to avoid a holiday weekend, I had been unsuccessful. Not that anyone seemed to know what the holiday was for. I had finally reserved a superior double at the Tango Inn Downtown, another HI hostel, based on my guidebook, and on tripadvisor reviews, which spoke well of the superior doubles. After I checked in, somewhat out of breath, I carted my bag up four flights of stairs (OK, it was a hostel), to room 15.

Since the curtains were drawn, I turned on the light. Or, rather, I tried to turn on the light. None of the lights worked. Pausing only to check that there was in fact a view of the lake, I went back downstairs. The guy on the front desk claimed surprise, and collected some light bulbs before coming back upstairs with me. I was not surprised when the lights didn’t work for him either, and I had no faith in someone showing up to fix the problem at 8:00 pm on a holiday Friday. The standard double he gave me instead looked miserable, minimally furnished and battered, and that was before I found I couldn’t flush the toilet. I went out to look for another room, but not with optimism.

I passed up the expensive Edelweiss, and two places with “Closed” signs, struck out at one place, noted a twin available at another hostel, and then scored a room with a lake view for the next three nights at the Hotel Tirol. I figured I could survive one night at the Tango Inn, and after the discount for cash, and the discount on the exchange rate for paying in dollars, the rate at the Tirol was not that much higher, and the room and the hotel in a different class altogether. Winding up in such a nice place was pure luck, as even if I been given a functioning superior double at the Tango Inn it didn’t look particularly welcoming.

Then, as with the meal at Casimiro Bigua in El Calafate, a bad day was significantly improved by dinner. It took me a while to find a restaurant, as the touristy main street seemed to offer nothing but chocolate shops, so I entered La Marmite with considerable relief. Their mushroom soup was absolutely delicious, and especially welcome after several unfortunate encounters with canned mushrooms. The Zurich style beef was good too. In fact, I liked the restaurant so well I ate there three of my four nights in town, although I should also mention that the bife de chorizo at El Boliche de Alberto was fine, and that I would have eaten at Family Weiss the fourth night, if anyone had paid attention to me when I entered.

The lake view – from both rooms – was worth paying for. I had a run of clear, sunny days, and there were times when the mountain tops were so sharp-edged against the sky that they looked like cut-outs. I think the view would have been even better further west at Lao Lao, but there would have been fewer services, and probably no cheap places to stay. The famous Hotel Lao Lao certainly wasn’t cheap.

But there were even better views on offer.

Day One, we had left Puerto Varas at 8:30, but the fourteen of us who had both overnighted in Peulla and were moving on to Bariloche, didn’t have to board the next bus until 11:00 – and until we had cleared Chilean immigration and customs. The office was in a small building on the other side of the equally small school next to the Natura – I did mention that Peulla was tiny, didn’t I?

This bus ride took us up, and up, to the actual border and then down to Puerto Frias. The high point of the pass is at 976 meters (3,200 feet), and we watched the trees and shrubs change as we ascended. Even on a bad weather day this was perhaps the best leg of the whole trip for me.

At Puerto Frias we were lined up by name to be stamped into Chile, and selected bags (luggage is handled for you) were given a very cursory inspection. But then we had to wait for the boat carrying the Bariloche to Puerto Varas passengers to arrive. And for all of them to be cleared into Chile. Then we were handed off to the Argentinian guide. Now, the Israeli woman had complained that the Chilean guides short-changed English speakers, giving them less information. I hadn’t noticed that in Chile, nor in Buenos Aires, but I now encountered it in spades in the Argentinian Lake District, starting with this guide, who I found rather rude, as well.

The boat ride to our next stop, Puerto Blest, was short, which was just as well, as starvation was setting in. I was not at all impressed by the hotel at Puerto Blest, and given the bad weather I was stuck inside it for several hours. The last boat ride is across Nahuel Huapi Lake, but there is only one boat a day out of season, and we were waiting for the people who had started the day in Puerto Varas to arrive. Although the boat was very big, it left packed, as apparently it’s also used for people doing day trips out of Bariloche.

Aside from a brief safety video, all the announcements on the boat, including information about the sights, were in Spanish only. Now, I realize that I was in a Spanish speaking country, and that many, if not most, of the tourists were from Spanish speaking countries, but the trip was marketed to international tourists, with English language flyers and an English language website, and I find it unacceptable that no attempt was made to provide English information. (After I complained to the woman distributing comment forms there was one brief announcement in English about which bus to board when leaving the boat. Since there were three buses in the designated location this wasn’t very helpful.) There were occasions in Patagonia when I was reminded of the attitude of Parisians thirty years ago.

So, Day Two started out well, despite the weather, but then went downhill. You could just go up to Peulla and back to Puerto Varas, skipping the Argentinian legs altogether, but I thought the first bus and boat rides on Day Two the best of the trip.