I Met Cruella Deville

I met Cruella Deville

I got to the airport at the correct time to check in, I thought. One time I was too early and they made me wait, so, learning from that, I took that into consideration, and because I misread something in the paperwork, I got a shock when at the check-in window.

    “Am I too early to check in?” I asked the friendliest- looking counter woman, who was smiling and laughing with her co-workers.

    “You are too late. You are going to miss the plane. Put your luggage up here,” she directed, suddenly turning into Cruella Deville.

    Before I got to the check-in, from something I learned flying EasyJet, I knew that I had to put my computer into my carry-on bag with the computer bag rolled up inside. This makes that bag very heavy for my shoulder, and I didn’t do that this time because, previously, I had to take the computer out for customs inspection, and I just walked on board with it in my hand and put it under the seat. No one said anything. I tried that this time.

    “If you don’t want to miss the plane . . .,” Cruella told me, and she took my booked-on suitcase over to the machine. The man overseeing that detected a battery inside.

    “You have a battery inside the bag. You must remove it,” 

Cruella frowned.

    “Oh, that must be my clock.”

    “You must remove it.” Cruella looked at me with disgust. 

    So, I tore into the bag, underwear going this way, tops that way, pants over there, and my Kindle fell out, but no clock. I was frantic. Out came winter gloves, the Icelandic sweater, wool socks, rocks, seashells, pajamas, and a hot pink towel.

    “Oh, come on,” I said. I left the Kindle out, thinking that may have been the problem. “Let them look at it again.” 

    She pointed to the men who would give it a second look.

    “No, there’s no time, just close it up, and let’s go.”

    I tried shoving my life back into the bag, and now the bag seemed too small to accommodate all the stuff I had just thrown out.

    “Can you help me close this up, please?” I pleaded with the agent.

    He did help me zip it up, and then I was on my way with Cruella’s stiletto heels clipping on the tile, with me in tow.

    “Do you have your boarding pass and passport?” She turned with that look again.

    “Yes,” I replied, trying not to let her bullishness win.

    I handed the customs agent my passport, and she and Cruella exchanged words, leaving me out.

    “Oh, no, my camera.” Suddenly it was not hanging over my neck.

Where Do I Go From Here?

Liechtenstein

    Three train changes, two bus changes, and now I’m in Liechtenstein, one of the smallest countries in the world. The train cruised quietly past rolling hills and mini-forests that were in fall splendor, and the hills got greener and greener as we got closer to Liechtenstein. Then, all of a sudden, there they were--the snow-capped Alps.

    The last bus was in Liechtenstein, and to make certain I’d get off at the right stop for the hotel I had prearranged, the driver agreed to tell me when to get off.

    After climbing higher away from the capital city, Vaduz, and closer to the mountains, the bus stopped, and the driver walked back to tell me it was time to exit the bus. He took my two suitcases and put them on the sidewalk. He then got back in the bus and left me standing, wondering where I’d find the hotel.

    Then, I saw a large yellow van that was a delivery service of some kind. The van stopped at a stop sign, and I waved a note at him, and he rolled down his window.

    “Do you know where this is?”

    He didn’t speak English, but he knew what I wanted and told me to get in; he’d take me there. It was about 500 meters away. 

I wouldn’t have found it by myself.

    I trudged into the hotel with my suitcases. It was silent. 

And, the restaurant inside the lobby was also silent.

    “Hello?” No one answered. Hmmm, wonder what I should do now.

Traveling Alone Raises Questions

It was interesting to me how many Morocco folks were curious about a women traveling alone. Here is just one insert on that subject from a hotel manager in Tanjier.

When I arrived, a young man, who obviously wanted to be my 

guide, approached me, and I told him politely that I wanted to be on my own. Meanwhile, some folks from the ship came in, and I spoke to some of them regarding their RV caravan trip.

    Then, I walked back out to get a taxi and was confronted again by the same young man. Finally, I told him, a la Greta Garbo, “I want to be alone.” He said something that sounded as if it could be a swear word, but whatever it was, he got the message and left me alone.

    Most Moroccans guess I’m German, which is one-half correct, but I’m an American, and that gets some surprised looks.

    I got into a conversation earlier with the manager about my traveling alone. It is unusual, as most people my age sit at home and are looked after by their children.

    “I see my mother every day, and if I’m out of town, I call her six or seven times a day to see if there’s anything she needs or if everything is okay. My three other brothers do the same.”

    “What do you think about me with my travels?”

    “I think you’re running away from something, or you are just a very strange person.”

    “I just like to travel, and I am an adventurous person,” was my reply. I added, “I like to see how other people live in other countries.”

    The manager gave me a blank look.

What Happened to Martin?

Traveling with two 40-year-olds

    Hanging out with two 40-plus-year-old guys wasn’t a bad gig for a 74-year-old. Being a mother of three sons, three grandsons, a brother, and no sisters, being around guys is never difficult for me, especially when Arngrim and his brother-in-law, Martin, both of Soldarfjord on the Island of Eysturoy in the Faroe Islands, were so kind.

    We boarded the Smyril ferry with the car in the capital city of Torshavn after leaving Soldarfjord early in the morning and driving to Torshavn.

    The ferry was complete with a cafeteria, television, Wi-Fi, and comfortable chairs. It was a two-hour, smooth ride where we passed the Sandoy Island, the island where Martin’s mother came from, and two green rock islands called dimun--large dimun, which is inhabited, and small dimun, which is uninhabited. The one I saw very well through the window reminded me of an emerald stone.

    “There are so many rocks and islands, and they all seem to have names,” I said.

    Martin answered, “All rocks in the Faroe Islands have names.”

    When we docked on the Suduroy Island, we drove to where Martin had an appointment, while listening to Paul McCartney’s music in the car. We ate lunch in the Tvoroyri Hotel, dropped off Martin for his stress test, and then Arngrim and I drove up to the north side of the island.

    We drove through the lovely green island and saw a different terrain on the Eysturoy Island from anything I had observed in Iceland. One area had strange-looking rock formations that resembled tall columns. They almost looked human-built. 

    On the way to the village furthest north on the Suduroy Island, we drove through Hvalba and through many other smaller villages and their harbors. About three hours later, we picked up Martin and got the good news that he passed his stress test. Why not? He’s a gold medalist in the free stroke swim meet in Island Games.    

    Then, there was so much more to see. After all, there was the south side of the island waiting to be discovered by the three of us. Along the way, Arngrim wanted to find a cliff he had discovered on a drive by himself one time, and while we were heading up the mountain, the fog nearly made it impossible to see in front of us, much less find the cliff he wanted to show us. Arngrim stopped the car at a spot that looked like it might be the place. Martin took off walking up the hill to see if it was the cliff as described by Arngrim.  

    “It has an extreme drop down to the bottom, and there are many birds you can see,” Arngrim had told us earlier. Martin kept walking, and we could barely see that he reached the top. 

Arngrim and I decided to follow. Then Martin disappeared. 

    “Oh, shit,” Arngrim stopped still. Martin wasn’t to be seen anywhere, and both of us had the worst feeling ever. 

    “Oh, my God,” I said under my breath.

Monkeying Around

Monkeying around with monkeys and friends on the Rock of Gibraltar

I met Tom at the bus stop after the bus ride from the freeway, and together we traveled by bus to the border between Spain and Gibraltar. After searching and asking a question of a taxi driver who pointed out the walkway to the entrance of the border, we arrived, got our passports stamped into Gibraltar, the Colony of Great Britain, and continued on.

We heard a man speaking to a couple, also from Australia, about touring the rock in a van with him as a guide, going to the top where taxis cannot go, and also where it would take several hours to walk.

    “That’s what I want to do,” I said to Tom.

    “You could save some money if all four of you go together,” the guide who heard me, said.

    We turned and looked at the couple, and we all agreed without further delay. It turned out to be one of the best decisions in my journey.

    “Will we see monkeys at the top of the rock?” I asked the driver.

    He replied with humor, “If you don’t see any monkeys, I’ll give you your money back. Yes, you will see monkeys.”

    We found our way to the top of the Rock of Gibraltar, but how did the 200-plus monkeys get there? According to everything I have read and accounts from the guide, the tailless Macaca Sylvanus monkeys’ arrival to Gibraltar still has experts guessing, and, so far, no one knows for certain. One theory is that they came at a time when Europa and Africa were joined. Another is that they were brought over to the rock by the Moors during their centuries-long occupation of the Iberian Peninsula. There are those who believe they were introduced to the British as pets and then allowed to go wild on the upper slopes of the rock.

    Sir Winston Churchill, upon learning the numbers were diminishing, intervened, ordering their numbers to be replenished. Thus, continues the saying, “Gibraltar will cease to be British on the day there are no apes left on the rock.”

    There are centuries of history of the rock, the caves, the monkeys, the city, and the wars, so that to spend one day there wouldn’t be enough time. Tom said he’s going back there after his upcoming trip to Morocco.

    The guide took us to several viewing places where our new friends, Kim and Keith, and Tom and I took photos of the city and the bay and one of the tunnels, before we got to the monkeys.

    Then, all of a sudden, there they were--monkeys walking among the people, sitting on fences and rocks, watching us make fools of ourselves. The monkeys played and rolled around on top of vehicles. We were instructed not to touch them, as they will bite. Also, be careful about rummaging around in bags, because they may think you’re about to feed them. That was also a no-no. 

But, dear monkeys: “Is it fair that you can jump on us and bite us, but we cannot touch you? C’mon.”

    Kim screamed and jumped when a monkey used her head as a bridge from on top of a van to a rock.

    It was difficult sometimes to be somewhere close to a monkey without causing it to get nervous and lean over to hit you or bite you. They were everywhere, and I have many photos of monkeys on vehicles, on fences, watching us, and with their babies. Then, on the way out, I saw a cat.

    I walked close to get a photo of the cat, and another guide scared me on purpose with a loud, “Meow.” Then, after my surprise, he told me there was once a cat who gave birth to kittens, and one of the monkeys nursed it and took care of it.