In the rest of the known world it is called a baker ‘s dozen, or something extra, like thirteen donuts in a box of a dozen. In New Orleans and cajun country,  it is called lagniappe, more applied to an extra scoop of crawfish than donuts. To my knowledge, lagniappe has never been applied to underwear. Until now.

   I hadn’t seen this one coming. Figuring I had only three days to spend in Genoa with one of them devoted to Wash Day, I decided to do some standard, camera hanging around the next, garish green shorts the color grass never was, spindly kegs white as golf tees, on a package tour kind of sightseeing. The Corso Italia, a long  promenade along the Mediterranean leading to the beautiful and quaint Boccadasse, described in the brochures as “an old marine’s neighborhoodm” seemed a good fit for me: a lot of walking and little to see but the sea.

  Life aboard was good again after several reversals of fortune regarding my first class upgrade. One time, first class -my class!- had even been sold out. Nevermind that I was able to ride for “free,” my seat reservation in second class already paid in full by my eurail pass. “Let them eat cake, I sniffed, as I waded
through the rabbit warren of second class, on my way to the Desolation Row of
my “free” seat assignment.

  But my reservation to Marseille signalled a
return to the ancien regime. Carriage 1, seat 75 my
reservation heralded from the rooftops. Which is precisely when it nearly all
 came crashing down like the Bastille.

   Jackpot! The car I chose for my two and-a half-hour ride to Nice is packed with Indian families and their squally children. They appeared to all be related and committed to catching up on every minute aspect of their lives since birth. The squally kids were left to fend for themselves.

   This happy coincidence was made possible by the lack of a first class car on the train (my congressman shall hear of this!). No matter though, I had a blog to write. I had also been fortunate enough to choose the sun side of the train, but the layer of dust on the window was sufficiently thick to provide a natural sunshade. I got to work.

   I have never booked a flight that had more than one connection. I think if I were ever forced to board, say, three planes in one day, I would go the room where the TSA stores all the loaded firearms they’ve collected from carry-ons that day, pick one and then blow my brains out. It would have to, of course, be a gun with the safety already off, since I don’t know what a safety even looks like.

  I can’t leave Spain without a few thoughts on the Spanish Inquisition. After all, I read a a laborious biography of Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor, and if I don’t write something about it, that time was wasted. And it was a lot of time.

  My specific interest in the Spanish Inquisition is how it was different from inquisitions that had been going on in Europe for hundreds of years earlier the Spain’s. In Europe, they had been confined to defending heresies arising within Christianity. This every religion worth its weight in incense and guilt will affirm as its right. No argument from me there. Aberrations like inquisitions seem to come with the territory.

Except for that debacle in Paris, I do not have a problem with the concept of the shared bathroom. That one in Paris was not a shared bathroom anyway; it was a shared bedroom.

  The shared bathroom in Zaragoza, was fine, except for the fact that it was shared on a different floor than the one where my room was located.

I hope North Korea fires its first ICBM directly at the GPS satellite. There is no way I could have gotten to the Pamplona bullring based on its directions. And when the helpful people at the tourist office (conveniently located along the way) pointed me in the right direction, it bore little resemblance to the arrows and insouciant tone of a GPS clearly in the advance stages of dementia.

 I had purposed my walkabout through San Sebastian to include finding my way to the station for the Pamplona train ( a different station than the one I’d arrived at from Bilbao).

  I arrived early and in plenty of time for the Vittoria leg of the trip, but the ticket agent insisted the next train to Pamplona left at 16:10. I used my Rail Planner to show him otherwise, and  I was soon off.

Thanks to HUMINT from my new patrons at the
Bilbao tourism office, I was able to travel to San Sebastian for four euros and
in just two and a half hours aboard Basque lightrail. My way, via Eurail’s Rail
Planner, would have cost thirty euros and taken more than four hours on the
state run railway. By the time I left Bilbao, I had taken its busses, trams,
funicular and lightrails, all for about ten or so euros total