On the Italian Riviera, on a ferryboat, on our way to Montorosso, the last of five charming fishing villages collectively known as Cinque Terre, my wife and I, on our recent 40th wedding anniversary, passed through the Gulf of La Spezia which is famously, and for good reason, nicknamed “The Bay of Poets.”

In addition to Lord Byron, Mary Shelley, Charles Dickens, Henry James and Virginia Woolf, to name but a handful from a long shelf of celebrated authors who frequented these beautiful coastal lands, Ernest Hemingway wrote about the region in his novel “Across the River and Into the Trees.”

Across the waters circumventing Italy and into Barcelona, this was not our first encounter with Papa Hemingway’s past. In Venice, his fingerprints remain at the Gritti Palace and Harry’s Bar; at sea, heading to Naples, we passed the hamlet of Acciaroli where Papa was believed to have found inspiration for “The Old Man and the Sea”; in Naples, in Rome, in Nice, I was proudly told: “Hemingway spent time here!”

In Barcelona, I decided to search for Hemingway’s footprints – or, rather, his elbow marks on an antique oak bar. “Hemingway Gin & Cocktail Bar” was within walking distance, albeit a rather lengthy stroll, that afforded Lisa and me an opportunity to explore the city en route.

HG&CB would have been easy to miss, and indeed we walked past it once, for its storefront is no more than 10 feet wide with an entrance doorway six steps below street level. Half-hidden as it is, the establishment looks fully posh with gilt signage and a glass door featuring a brass handle polished to a mirror-like shine.

Inside, the dark-wood bar is polished as perfectly as the front door’s handle and runs down the right side of the shotgun layout with forest-green leather-upholstered stools on the drinking side and black lacquer shelves filled with bottles on the serving side. The opposing wall is decorated with black-and-white photographs of Hemingway and also a framed quote by Papa: “Write Drunk, Edit Sober.”

Signature cocktails carry the theme further with names like “The Old Man And The Sea” (gin, vermouth and soda, served in a silver conch shell) and “Hemmy” (vodka, vanilla, liquore al pino and soda, served in a bearded pewter mug of the writer’s likeness).

Alas, Papa never enjoyed a “Hemmy” here for the bar is less than a decade old. Added woe, the elegance was locked behind a copper-colored security gate because it was only noon and patronage hours did not start until 4 p.m.

Less than two miles away, Bar Marsella, established in 1820 as Barcelona’s first bar, promised an authentic echo of Hemingway. Once again, however, it did not open until siesta ended. Adding to our disappointment, we were denied a glimpse inside because the entrance was shrouded by a single-car-wide steel roll-up garage door cloaked in graffiti art. Instead of poshness, it was grittiness; a place to Write Drunk, not Edit Sober.

Next came a silver lining on a cloudy day. Learning that Pablo Picasso as well hung out at Bar Marsalla, we Googled the legendary artist and discovered The Picasso Museum. A 20-minute walk in a pleasantly warm drizzle rewarded us, at last, with an open door – and more than 4,000 of his original paintings, drawings, and ceramics.

As Hemingway’s Santiago says in “The Old Man and the Sea”: “Never have I seen a greater, or more beautiful, or a calmer or more noble thing…” Indeed, the collection was intoxicating.

Next week, as these travel chronicles near an end, some meals to remember.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Personalized Signed copies of WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and  “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” are available at WoodyWoodburn.

A priest in a brown robe belted with a white rope, a nun in running shoes matching her black habit, and a wolfish dog white as an angel jaywalk into city traffic…

What sounds like the beginning of a barroom joke was actually a sight I encountered a stone’s throw away from the Vatican during my recent 40th wedding anniversary dream trip. The trinity caused a car to hit the brakes and blare its horn while making me wonder what in the world Pope Francis would think about the two two-legged scofflaws.

Just as Saint Peter’s Square will always fondly remind me of the jaywalking Catholic dog, the French Riviera visited a day later provided another souvenir dog tale.

My wife and I, despite knowing only a fistful of French words between us, had successfully navigated the train system from Villefranche-Sur-Mer to Nice; where we successfully navigated both a long foreign menu and a surly waiter short on affability; then successfully navigated our return to the charming Old Town port whence we started.

To celebrate not getting lost en route either direction, and not mistakenly ordering Pieds De Porc (pigs’ feet) or Couilles de Mouton (mutton testicles) for lunch, we found a seaside bar just in time for Happy Hour. “The Good Mood” brasserie could well have been named “The Good View” for our outdoor two-top table overlooked, across a narrow cobblestone walkway, a postcard bay filled with sailboats and picturesque beach populated with sunbathers.

Certainly we were in a good mood as it is hard to imagine a lovelier place to rest one’s feet after a long day of sightseeing and enjoy a glass of wine and pint of beer. On the proprietor’s recommendation I had a “1664” French golden lager originally brewed when its name suggests.

Gazing at the sea, which in color seemed to be a reflection of the cloudless turquoise sky, a lone swimmer caught my eye. He was doing laps between two yellow buoys, perhaps 50 meters apart and bearing “No Motor Boats” signs, employing freestyle towards us and breaststroke when heading away. I would estimate his pace was about a half-mile per pint by me, which means he swam a full mile as I watched.

Ernest Hemingway’s footprints had appeared a number of times during our travels that began in Venice; and his fingerprints would be found at our final destination of Barcelona two days hence; and sitting here I could imagine Papa writing and drinking, and perhaps even challenging the swimmer to a race.

Before the swimmer finished her workout, and I finished my second 1664 for the recommendation had been a good one, a second swimmer appeared. She – or he, it was impossible to tell, but I will go with “she” – was slower in pace, yet much more enthusiastic. Indeed, the Black Lab splashed with abandon as she chased a tennis ball.

The dog’s owner, a young woman with an obvious sense of mischief, threw the tennis ball towards the orange buoy – close, closer, closer still – each time the freestyler approached it. On the fourth toss her aim and timing were both excellent and it looked like the lap swimmer and the Lab swimmer would collide…

…or perhaps the freestyler, looking up as he switched to breaststroke, might see the tennis ball and fetch it himself.

Alas, the dog-paddler got there first. Returning to shore, in her own display of playful mischief, she shook herself dry while getting her owner all wet and my good mood got even gooder.

Next up: Looking for Hemingway and finding Picasso…

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Personalized Signed copies of WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and  “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” are available at WoodyWoodburn.

Dearest Auden,

Welcome to our family!

We waited for your arrival with growing excitement and diminishing patience as the big day neared. You weren’t due until the third day of the New Year, but to be honest you’re just what topsy-turvy 2022 needed to finish on a high note.

You came as a belated birthday gift for your big sister, Maya, who turned four early in December, and a three-days-early Christmas gift for the rest of us. In a wink of serendipity, you share your birthday with your Uncle Greg.

Normally, Funcle – as Maya calls him, and I’m certain you too will find the moniker of endearment to be perfectly fitting – feels slighted by birthday/Christmas combination gifts. In this case, however, he could not have felt more blessed.

Holding you for the first time, Auden, was a time machine for me. I looked down at your blue eyes and saw your big sister; saw your mommy when she was a baby; and saw your grandma, NeNe, long before I knew her.

But most of all, I saw your great-grandma – who was my mommy – for she ha the bluest eyes I have ever seen. Her peepers were the color of the Caribbean Sea and a cloudless summer sky, the prettiest blue in Monet’s palette and Wedgewood blue, which she dearly loved, all blended together. Yes, Auden, you have her movie-star eyes.

More importantly, however – for your eyes, and you, would be just as beautiful if they were green or brown, hazel or grey – you also have your great-grandmother’s name. While her birth certificate, and death certificate 30 years ago, read Audrey, your mommy and the other eight grandchildren all called her Auden.

The great poet W.H. Auden wrote a poem titled “O Tell Me The Truth About Love” and the truth is, Little Auden, your namesake epitomized love. Of a thousand stories I will one day share with you, let me begin here with this one that remains, sadly and maddeningly, relevant in this troubled world that oftentimes seems to be moving backwards.

It happened a long, long time ago, in the previous century, in the late 1940s, in the Midwest, when Auden was in high school. There was a must-go-to prom party and she was thrilled to be invited.

Shortly before the eagerly anticipated merrymaking, however, Auden’s excitement evaporated faster than a wet footprint on a scorching pool deck in August because she found out her friend Trish had not received an invitation.

Auden’s disappointed sizzled into anger when she learned why Trish was excluded: because she was Jewish. America’s G.I. Joes had just defeated the Nazis overseas, but anti-Semitism – then as now – had not been vanquished across our amber waves of grain and fruited plains, from sea to shining sea.

Understand, this was not just The Party of the Year, it was The Party of The Senior Class’s High School Lives. No matter. If Trish was not welcomed, then Auden would not go either. Instead, she invited Trish over to her house for their own two-person party…

…that turned out to be The Best Partyof Allas a growing cascade of classmates followed her example.

“Injustice,” she often told me, “is everyone’s battle.”

Little Auden, more than your lovely blue eyes, it is her traits of inner-mettle and rightness, alloyed with a great sense of humor too, that I hope you are most proud to have inherited from your namesake.

With love to the moon,

Bruno

P.S. Next, I need to tell you why Maya and you call me Bruno instead of Grandpa.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Personalized Signed copies of WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and  “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” are available at WoodyWoodburn.com