Noble Normandy

Claude Monet's Gare St-Lazare

Saturday, August 14, 2004 - Paris to Caen

We have an early train to Caen in Normandy from the Gare St- Lazare.  The station would be within walking distance if I could practice some self-restraint in packing.  However, with my 70-pound duffle and 20-pound backpack, we decide to take a taxi.  The desk clerk warns us that it could be difficult getting someone to take us on such a short trip even though, theoretically, they can‘t refuse a fare.  I imagine that if we found someone like last night’s driver, we would not have a problem.  He’d just drive around until he got the meter to what he thought he deserved.  We consider the “user unfriendly” Metro but neither of us wants to negotiate the steps and the train change.  So we strike out from the hotel picking our way around the left-over dregs of a Pigalle Friday night.

Caen Castle Ruins

I flag down a taxi driven by a skull-capped male, obviously of Middle Eastern descent.  He doesn’t want to take us but relents when I say I will be generous with my tip.  It helps that I pull my notebook and pen out while looking at his license plate.  After the less than five-minute ride, I give him slightly more than double what is on the meter.  He asks me if I think that this is a generous tip.  I reply that Yes, I do, to which he responds by asserting that he doesn’t need such small tips.  I then suggest that if he feels that way, I’d be glad to take my money back.  He turns, marches to his taxi and drives off in a snit, a type of vehicle found in every large city with insolent cab drivers.

We find our train compartment.  After getting all our bags stored and feeling really comfy, a group of people with tickets interrupt us for our seats.  Oops!  I screwed up.  We are in the right seats but the wrong car.  We get “uncomfy” and move to our proper seats for the uneventful ride to Caen.

We arrive in Caen before Noon.  We will be staying at a Best Western Hotel, Le Dauphine.  It is described as being “near the train station.”  As usual, “near” is a relative term and we cannot even find a map with our hotel’s street on it anywhere near the train station.  We see no taxis.  We ask a few people for directions but they either speak no English or have never heard of Le Dauphine.

By this time, we are hungry and grumpy (two of the seven dwarves).  I have a brilliant idea.  Since we will be renting a car for tomorrow, we’ll go to the Hertz office and they will be able to direct us to our hotel.  Problem is that all the car rental places are closed from 12:00 Noon to 2:00 PM and it is now past noon.

What to do?  What to do?  That’s easy - baguettes and beer.  We find a brasserie across from the station with sidewalk seating and settle in for the long wait.  While we are sitting there, eating and laughing at ourselves, we strike up a conversation with a couple having lunch at a nearby table.  They introduce themselves as J.C. and Caroline Thomas.  After enduring our less than hilarious J.C. comments, they tell us they are relocating back to Caen, his hometown.  They had lived in the Carolinas for two years, a while back, and recognized our Yankee accents and behavior.  They, obviously, liked living in the U.S., otherwise they would have ignored us.  They are a delightful couple and give us a ride to our hotel.  They also invite us to join them for dinner.  I am, once again, fascinated with the serendipity of travel.  If we hadn’t gotten lost, we would have never met the Thomases.

We check in at the hotel, which is a refurbished Chateau.  I find that in Europe, at least France, Germany and England, Best Westerns seem to offer the best value - three star quality, reasonable prices and interesting venues.  We do have to carry our bags up two flights of stairs.  The clerk offers to help, but we realize the bags are bigger than he is so we turn his offer down and struggle up the stairs ourselves.

I’m exhausted so I take a short nap and then grab a tram back to the station to rent our car.  You may wonder why I didn’t rent the car earlier.  I’m trying to hold the rental period to under 48 hours, thereby saving an extra day’s charges.  There are a few people ahead of me so I have to wait.  I notice how different the French and the British are in their interactions with the clerk.  The French family members are assertive and ask many questions.  The British couple is very polite and diffident and ask almost no questions.  I wish I could step back and watch myself.  The Hertz people are very nice, answer all my questions, and give me good directions back to the hotel.  Later I spend an hour and a half deleting some 2400 spams from my e-mail box at a nearby Cyber Café.

The Thomases pick us up at dusk and we first visit the castle in the center of Caen where we are treated to a beautiful sunset.  We walk to the Vaugueux area, an old part of town that has many restaurants and bars.  It’s Saturday night so the place is packed but we finally find a small bistro that looks good.

Vaugueux Area, Caen

The food is great, especially the steamed mussels in white wine and cream.  The wine is terrific.  The conversation is scintillating.  The service sucks.  The kitchen is upstairs and there are only two people waiting on tables for both floors.  The owner stays ensconced behind her cash register; arms folded, and does not pitch in to help.  The Thomases point out that this is not unusual for old-line French restaurateurs.  How different from the U.S. or Asia, where an owner would be working his or her ass off.  How different from the Tunisian’s place in Paris where the owner spent 15 minutes helping us decide what to order and what wine to choose.  C’est la vie.

After dinner, we head for the parking lot under the castle only to find it totally locked up.  We can’t seem to find a way in.  J.C. dispatches us to a nearby bar to wait while he searches for an entrance and his car.  He does show up eventually and drives us to our hotel.  We crash immediately since tomorrow is D-Day beaches day.

Pegasus Bridge

Sunday, August 15, 2004 - D-Day Beaches

Our guide for the day is John Flaherty of Hand Maid Tours, his solely owned company.  I had spent three days with John in March 2003 visiting, not only the D-Day invasion sites but also the Bayeux Monastery and Tapestry as well as a number of outstanding restaurants and bars.  John is living out his fantasy.  He’s British by nationality with an Irish surname.  He chucked it all a few years ago and bought a 300 year old farmhouse in a small crossroads village and lives there with his wife, Elaine.  She’s a sweetheart, a superb cook, and teaches English as a Second Language in the area, a renaissance woman.  He is an invasion buff, obsessed with bunkers and concrete.  He also does tours of the Loire Valley and is a bit of a wine connoisseur.  He’s also an expert on Calvados, the apple brandy of Normandy.  He convinced me of that halfway through a bottle of the local product.  He never wears shoes, only sandals even in the Winter.  He wears his hair quite long and is well-known and respected, not only by other WW II buffs but also by the local people, a difficult accomplishment with the French.  He’s the perfect choice to fill Tom’s head to overflowing with all the information he will share. 

I’m looking forward to re-visiting some of the places I saw in March, 2003.  I also want to hear John’s stories of the 60th anniversary celebrations held in June.  I don’t intend to go into great detail on all the places we visited.  If you are interested in the details, please use the links I’ve provided.  In addition, I have over 100 pictures on my photo site, most of which are from my 2003 trip to the area.  There is a ton of material on the D-Day invasion, 996,000 web references on Google alone.  Your interest my be as great or greater than mine so I encourage you to research what is a great historical event and if you get turned on, contact John and spend some time visiting the area. 

We meet John at the train station.  He will be driving us in my rental car.  Our first stop is Pegasus Bridge.  The site of the famous British glider drop.  We drive to the British and Canadian beaches, Sword, Gold, and Juno.  Unfortunately the long weekend creates a huge traffic jam and the beaches are so packed with tourists that we can‘t get close enough to see anything.  Parking is out of the question.  The houses in this area come right down to the road that runs along the beaches.  Our only choice is to drive slowly while John describes the history of the area.  I feel bad for Tom.  I was lucky in 2003 because it was March and there were very few people about.

Tom at the American Cemetery

We finally manage to get out of the car a short way south at Longue sur Mer, a site overlooking the beaches with many artillery casemates, bunkers and other interesting sights.  We decide to lunch at a nearby beach that is somewhat deserted because of its location, south of the resort area.  The food is wonderful.  The pommes frite are superb and once again I am surprised at how good European food is, even out of a hut on the beach. 

We finish lunch and next visit Pointe du Hoc, where 250 U.S. Army Rangers scaled the cliffs only to find that the guns they intended to put out of action had been moved.  135 out of 250 Rangers died in the attempt.  The cliff face is crumbling into the ocean so we can’t get close to the monument honoring the Rangers.  The area is covered with bomb craters and busted up bunkers which gives a clue as to why the Germans moved the guns.  Thousands of tons of bombs were dropped here prior to D-Day.  We can look down on Omaha Beach from here.  Pieces of the supposedly temporary Mulberry Harbor are still there.  The beach is now used mostly for the cultivation of clams and mussels.  What a benign end for such a bloody site.

We next visit the American cemetery at Colleville/Saint Laurent sur Mer.  It is the cemetery featured in the movie “Saving Private Ryan.”  President Bush attended a Memorial Service there on the sixtieth anniversary of D-Day.  The first time I visited this place, I couldn’t stop weeping.  This time I teared up only part of the time.  I can only imagine what the men buried here went through and I am deeply moved this time as I was last time.  John is a member of a group of nearby residents who place flowers on the graves on a regular basis.  He’s adopted three graves including that of a major who shares his family name, Flaherty.  .

We leave the cemetery and drive to Utah Beach.  We walk around for a bit before visiting the town of Ste Mere Eglise.  Many 101st Airborne troops were killed here.  You may recall the scene from the movie, “The Longest Day,” where Red Buttons hangs from the steeple as his buddies are mowed down in the courtyard.  They have a full size model of an American Paratrooper hanging from the steeple. 

John leaves us here and we manage to get back to Caen, with me driving but without getting lost.  The only explanation is that Tom is a great navigator. 

We decide to eat in the center of town and choose a German restaurant.  We are more interested in the beer than the food.  The restaurant has been here for over 100 years and is more Alsatian than German but the food is excellent and the beer meets our expectations.  Life is good, thanks in part to the thousands who died on the beaches only minutes from here.

Caen Peace Memorial Museum

Monday, August 16, 2004 - Caen

Tom and I oversleep, sort of on purpose.  I’m dragging a little.  Must be the result of being on the road for six weeks.  Not so much just being on the road as always being in new places, which makes it difficult to relax.  I think traveling is sometimes more enjoyable in the abstract than it is in reality.  I’m sure the life of a travel writer is less exciting than I imagined a couple months ago.

I do get the opportunity to learn something new today.  I am totally steamed when I discover that my Hertz rental was given to me with less than a full tank of gas.  Tom and I agree to have our morning coffee and roll near the train station so I can give the Hertz people a piece of what little mind I have left.

Memorial Garden, Caen Peace Museum

I present my irrefutable arguments expecting some kind of lame response.  The clerk smiles instead and sweetly explains that on the rental form, the gas level is noted as ¾ full.  This is my first time running into this situation.  As soon as I recover the piece of my mind that I had expended earlier, I realize that the whole thing makes sense.  They do not have access to a gas pump on the premises and on the weekend, they have no one to send out to fill the tank.  After apologizing for being an idiot, I drive us to the Caen Memorial Peace Museum. 

We finally find the site, which is packed with cars.  The “Feast of the Assumption” holiday strikes, again.  The place is beautiful, though, and the building impressive.  We stand in line for 30 minutes to enter the exhibit area.  The exhibits are magnificent covering the complete history of WW II including the pre-war events leading to the conflict and the winter 1939-40 phony war, the occupation, the holocaust and the liberation of Normandy and France.  The design creates a bottleneck, though, because the first exhibits are set up linearly which backs everyone up like a traffic jam on a freeway with no exits.  One person’s interest becomes everyone else’s delay.  Once through the initial exhibits, though, things open up.  Overall, I would say that the exhibits are impressive, well planned and artistic but the museum as a whole is not as user friendly as it could be.

The cafeteria and restaurant have excellent food.  There is, of course, a long queue that we gladly endure.  After lunch, we visit additional exhibits covering the worldwide aspect of the war, the Cold War, and the “Hope Exhibit,” which was a bit confusing.  The “Hope” multi-media presentation was wonderful, though.  We finally run out of steam but do find the energy to visit the outdoor gardens.  I would compare this museum favorably with the Peace Museum in Hiroshima.

We drive back to our hotel without incident where I drop Tom before turning the car in to Hertz.  They even give me a refund for the difference between a full tank and one ¾ full.  I grab a tram back to the hotel, catch a bit of the Olympics and a short nap.

We decide to dine in the Vagueux area again.  We find an appealing outdoor venue for drinks and dinner.  While enjoying a meal ending cappuccino, we see J.C. and Caroline Thomas walking by after their meal.  Caroline’s mother is with them.  She’s helping with their move.  We repair to a nearby bistro for an after dinner drink, delightful conversation and laughter.  .

We stroll back to Le Dauphine.  I take a quick look at the Olympics and I’m out to the world.  Later, I wake up long enough to turn the TV off.  On to Strasbourg tomorrow.

Ah, Paris!

Hotel Atlanta Frochot

Thursday, August 12, 2004 - Paris

We grab a taxi outside the station.  We will be staying at the Hotel Atlanta Frochot, which is described as being ideally located between Montmartre and the Paris Opera House and within walking distance of a major Metro Station.  The taxi driver has some difficulty figuring out where Rue Frochot is but we finally get rolling.  It’s a long ride from the station.  As we near the hotel, the neighborhood becomes tackier and tackier.  When we finally arrive, Tom and I realize we are in the center of the Pigalle red light district or, as it was lovingly referred to by WW II GIs, Pig Alley.

Entrance Napoleon's Tomb.  Eiffel Tower in Background

It’s too early to check into the hotel so, leaving our bags, we wander over to a nearby brasserie for coffee and croissants.  We are served by a woman in her mid-fifties.  She has a cigarette dangling from her lips and owns a huge German Shepard that goes wherever he wishes.   I’m having a hard time imagining a U.S. eating establishment with a similar ambience.

We finally check in.  Our rooms are small and without air-conditioning.  I have a beautiful view of three other walls that surround the air shaft outside my window.  The hotel staff people are very friendly and helpful.  The young female desk clerk gives me a lecture on how to protect my belongings and warns us of the dangers in the neighborhood.  So here are Tom, aged 69 and myself aged 67 being cautioned by a 25 year old.  I suspect the only real danger we are in, since we don’t stay out late and are highly unlikely to sample the wares being offered on the street corners, is to drop dead of shock if we were ever propositioned. 

We scope out how to ride the Metro to Les Invalides to see Napoleon’s Tomb.  The tomb and its setting in the Eglise du Dome are awesome.  You can find pictures of it and other Paris venues on my personal  photo site titled “Paris“.  We visit the Musee de L'Armee behind the tomb.  The largest section of the museum covers French military history from Medieval times to 1871 when the Prussians captured Paris in the Franco-Prussian War.  Next to Napoleon’s retreat from Russia and Hitler’s Blitzkrieg it is one of the worst defeats the French have ever endured.   

I try to locate the WW I section but instead end up in the WW II exhibit.  It has been re-furbished recently and is very well done in spite of all the attention given to Charles DeGaulle.  I never do find the WW I exhibit.  This gives me another excuse to return to Paris.  My energy is flagging badly so I head for the museum restaurant for beers and baguettes.  Tom soon joins me and we take a well-deserved break.

Next stop is Rodin Museum which is a short distance away in what was once the Hotel Biron, where Rodin lived and had his studio when he was in Paris.  Tom, who prefers sculpture to paintings, is blown away, particularly by the gardens where so many of Rodin’s works are placed.  While I am wandering the Gardens, the skies open wide with a steady and heavy downpour.  I take shelter under the eaves of an outbuilding where I meet a very interesting British couple on a long weekend in Paris.  She’s from Hexham which I had visited while walking Hadrian’s Wall.  I decide to make a run for the main building.  He offers to cover me with his umbrella but our effort fails miserably and we both get soaked.

As you can imagine, the museum is packed with steamy people staying out of the rain.  The museum itself is interesting but stuffy and humid.  I’m now so tired I don’t enjoy it as much as I could.  I find Tom and we leave as soon as the rain lets up. 

We first try to get a beer at a nearby cafe but the place is seriously overcrowded and understaffed.  We decide to move on when the lone waitress drops a tray full of wine and beer.

We get back to our “neighborhood” and visit a French pub complete with dart boards and warm beer.  It doesn’t work very well, though, because the bartenders are not playing their roles as pub owners.  Tom and I decide to play a game to try to coax them out of their Gallic indifference.  We finally see a smile around the ever present burning cigarette hanging from the lips of one of them.  I love people who fit my stereotypes.  That way I can feel smart about my ability to read people no matter where I am.  By the way, on the indifference scale, Parisians are no better or worse than New Yorkers.

We ask the night clerk, an expatriate Brit, for a restaurant recommendation.  All he wants to do is tell us really bad jokes.  Lucky for you, I can’t remember any of them so I can’t repeat them here.  He does come up with a great recommendation, though, The Rose Blue (That’s in translation, obviously).

Rodin's Burghers of Calais

It’s a very inviting, warm place with great food.  We have a nice conversation with the owner, a transplanted Tunisian who’s been in Paris for a long time.  He started as a waiter, saved his money and now has two places of his own.  The only ordinary thing about the meal was the house wine but as I pointed out to Tom, “What can we expect from a Muslim?  They forbid alcohol.”  The owner asks us to check his other place out on our way back to our hotel.  Turns out, it’s almost empty so we don’t stop.  Besides we are both exhausted.  It’s been a long day.

I want to go to sleep but a couple one floor below me decide to have a marathon love-making session with the window open.  The air shaft is a great sound conductor.  I can hear everything.  Since there is no air conditioning, I’m loathe to close my window and try as I might; I can’t see what they are doing.  At some point they realize they are not alone in the air shaft and shut their window.  I can now only hear indistinctly so I fall asleep, hoping they won’t start up again.  I sleep through the night so I can assume they either kept the window closed or I was so exhausted even their noisy exertions couldn’t wake me.  No way, I’m sharing my dreams, though.

Front Courtyard, The Louvre

Friday, August 13, 2004 - Paris

It's Friday the 13th but we are undaunted.  We are up in plenty of time for breakfast, not a gourmet adventure but satisfying, nevertheless.  We are in a hurry to get to the Louvre.

Whenever I think of the Louvre, I am always reminded of a Thai friend who was in Paris on a five day tour.  This was her first trip so the next time I saw her, my first question was, "What did you think of The Louvre?"  She replied that she hadn't visited the Louvre.  I was aghast.

"Why not?" I blurted out. "How could you not visit the world's greatest art museum?"

She explained that the group she was with had limited time and had to choose between shopping and visiting the Louvre.  They chose shopping.  Maybe I don't get it because I'm a man but shopping over visiting the Louvre?  Incroyable!!!

We ride the Metro and surface near the Palais Royale, home of the Cultural Ministry.  As usual, we get confused and can’t find an entrance into the museum.  We finally discover a side entrance used by school groups and such and enter the courtyard.  We are impressed.  The exterior of what was once the home of the Kings of France blows us away.  We rush in without waiting in line, thanks to our Museum Pass.  Since we have different agendas, we agree to meet in four hours.  Four hours?  Not enough time to see one-fifth of what’s available.  I take off to see the History of the Louvre but the exhibit is closed.  I then decide to do the three biggies first, Mona Lisa,  Winged Victory of Samothhrace and Venus de Milo.  I walk past more masterpieces on my way to the Mona Lisa than I’ve ever seen in my lifetime.  What a place?

The queue is quite long and at best I get two or three minutes in front of the painting.  I read recently that the museum now has a refurbished, special room, the Salle des Etats, for the Mona Lisa, so I’m sure things are better and the viewing is less troublesome.  At least I get to see the painting.  When it was on exhibit in the early 70’s at the National Galleries in Washington, I tried to view it and the crush was so great that I never got close enough to actually see any detail.  I would have needed binoculars to study it.  This experience is a definite improvement.

Interior, Musee d'Orsay

I next find the Winged Victory of Samothrace, sometimes called Nike of Samothrace.  Huge crowds surround the statue.  Everyone is trying to position themselves for a good camera shot.  I’m just trying to get any kind of a shot,  when I overhear a woman tell her husband to wait until there aren’t any people around to take her picture next to the statue.  I almost break up laughing.  Hundreds of people in a small space and he‘s supposed to wait until they all disappear.  I think to myself, “I hope he‘s brought food and water.”

The last of the three, Venus de Milo, is also surrounded by hundreds of people.  It occurs to me that I have no reason to be surprised.  It’s August.  It’s the Louvre.  What did I expect, leisurely viewing?  I take my photos and move on.  I next visit the “monster gallery.”  This series of rooms has most of the huge paintings by Eugene Delacroix, Paolo Caliari (Sometimes known as Veronese), Jacque-Louis David, and Teodore Gericault among many others. They seem to mostly focus on Classical, Biblical or Military themes. 

With my limited time, I must pick and choose.  I skip the Italian paintings, even though they are considered “the core” of the museum.  I’ve just spent 10 days in Italy.  Instead I visit the basement to look at exhibits covering the period the Louvre was a castle rather than a palace. 

I only have time for one wing so I choose the Richelieu which seems to be the “French” wing.  I quickly visit the sculpture area in the Cour Marly followed by a visit to the apartments of Napoleon III.  It demonstrates 19th century luxury at its best.  I decide, because we will be visiting the Musee d’Orsay after this, to look at French painting from the 14th to the mid 19th century, that is everything before the Impressionists.  It’s quite a task, sixty rooms of paintings extending into the Denon Wing.  I don’t know if I make it to every room but I am able to see just about every painting I want to see, finishing up with Corot’s “Souvenir of Mortefontaine."

It’s already 2:30 PM and I’m late meeting Tom.  We are both very hungry and decide to grab a baguette in the ground floor café.  The place is incredibly crowded but the waiter is very efficient and “cool” so we get our food and are on our way by 3:00 PM.

We walk the length of the Jardin des Tuileries.  I take many photos.  Tom and I are both impressed with the beauty and the views as we stroll along.  We cross the Seine on the Pont de la Concorde and backtrack to the Musee d’Orsay, passing the Assemblee Nationale on the way.

The Musee d'Orsay was once the main train station serving Paris has been totally redone to house late 19th and early 20th century painting and sculpture including the Impressionists.  The building could be considered a work of art in itself and is appropriate to house its collections since so many of the artists used the convenience of the train system to visit places outside Paris and make painting on site an accepted method, as opposed to working in a studio from sketches. 

The queue to get in is very long even for Museum Pass holders.  They are trying to keep the place from being overloaded, an impossible task since almost every tourist visits this museum because of the Impressionists.  We finally enter.  We’re tired but manage to find an elevator to the upper floors where the most popular exhibits are housed, including the Impressionists and the Post-Impressionists.  The quality and the quantity of the exhibits are overwhelming.  It’s almost too much. 

Rodin's Victor Hugo

I need time to sort out what I’ve seen.  I try to visit the beautiful museum restaurant but I’m too late to get a snack.  I meet up with Tom, who has been able to grab a beer, and we stroll around the sculpture gallery.   It contains many Rodin pieces including a bust of Victor Hugo that Tom cannot resist touching.  A guard sees him and gives him a bit of a hard time but he apologizes.  Only he and I know he’s really not that repentant.  I totally understand.  It is such a compelling piece.

When we exit, street musicians are entertaining on the Plaza outside the museum.  It’s an ad-hoc party.  We have trouble finding the nearest Metro Station.  We finally get directions from a gendarme after unsuccessfully trying to get them from passers-by.  I always suspect that many Parisians can understand and speak better English than they are willing to admit.  Am I paranoid or what?

After a beer at our Pigalle neighborhood pub, we make arrangements to meet an old Hong Kong friend, Gregg Hoffman, and his girl friend Kim de Roos.  She has a fascinating background.  Born in Indonesia and adopted at two months by a Dutch couple, she was raised in Holland, speaks four languages and has an excellent sense of humor, a quality not always easily found in either Holland or Paris.  When Tom said he was going to buy a lottery ticket, he asked her if she wished him luck.  Without missing a beat, she said, “No way.”  When he asked why, she replied, “Because the taxes you would have to pay would support the war in Iraq.”

We have dinner in a regional restaurant in the Boulevard St Michel area.  Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten the name.  We were introduced to a great red wine served chilled, Brouilly, fruity without being sweet.  The food is terrific, the conversation spirited as Tom does his best imitation of a naïve tourist, which instigates disagreement and fun.  Some of our neighboring diners who speak English seem to be enjoying the conversation, also.

After dinner we have an unnecessary nightcap at a local bar.  We grab a taxi back to our hotel.  The driver pulls an old New York City trick on us and drives in a huge circle so we come at Pigalle in the opposite direction from St Michel.  It is such a beautiful evening and I am feeling so mellow that I can’t get upset at his little ruse.  We roll the windows down and drink in the cool night air.  Back at the hotel, I discover the previous night’s lovers are missing so I easily fall asleep.  We are moving on to Normandy, tomorrow.

San Marco Basilica

Sunday, August 8, 2004– Florence to Venice

After a last cappuccino at the now familiar coffee bar, we depart for the train station.  We get there early and wander around sampling the scene and enjoying the diversity and cacophony of the hundreds of people there. 

The train ride is uneventful as it’s cloudy and the scenery between Florence and Venice is not that interesting.  On arrival at Stazione Ferroviaria S. Lucia or Venice Train Station in English, we search for our hotel, The Abbazia.  I chose it because it is very near the train station.  As usual we can’t find it even with the help of our “Streetwise Venice” map.  That’s because it isn’t on a street.  It’s down an alley, which sharp-eyed Tom notices has a sign with our hotel’s name on it.  We are delighted to discover the Abbazia is a converted abbey with an astounding lobby, that was, at one time, the monk’s dining room including a raised pulpit, from which scriptures were read during meal time.  We also notice a beautiful garden and breakfast site that we can see from our window. 

After unpacking, we walk to Piazza San Marco via the Rialto Bridge - a long walk.  The crowds are horrendous.  I can now see what I missed in December, that Venice is over-touristed.  At the square we note the long line to visit the Cathedral so we take some pictures of the tourists interacting with the pigeons.  You can find them along with other pictures at my Venice photo site

I remember a really friendly place Pam and I visited in December, Planet Dream, a pizzeria and bar.  We struggle to find it but finally do.  It’s crowded with young people.  I am shocked to discover the place now has a cover charge.  I learn that during the high tourist season most restaurants have such a charge whether you eat there or not.  The pizza is very good and the beer is refreshing but the aftertaste is disappointing.  This is the first disappointment. There will be others.  After eating, we take a Vaparetto to the Train Station and after a quick drink in the lobby, call it a night.

Reception Stairway, Palazzo Ducale

Monday, August 9, 2004 – Venice

This morning the food served at breakfast is mundane but eating it in the garden is terrific.  After breakfast we decide to visit San Marco Basilica so we head for Piazza San Marco.  The crowds along the way are horrific but we enjoy making snide comments about the “other” tourists as we go.  I suspect we garnered a few snide comments ourselves.  Fortunately, we couldn’t hear them. 

We get to the square only to find that it is a two hour wait to get in the Cathedral.  We pass.  Instead we visit the Correr Museum which is opposite the Basilica.  I had been there in December and I enjoyed the visit just as much this time.  It is a superb museum in terms of its artistic treasures, incredibly restored library and archeological exhibits which go back to Roman times, when Venice was just a collection of mud huts in a marsh.  The murals in the library are worth the trip by themselves. 

Next we visit the  Palazzo Ducale, (Doge's Palace) also on the piazza.  This is also a fine museum but more importantly a repository for the history of Venice, architecturally, artistically and historically.    We love wandering around, visiting the dungeons and the Bridge of Sighs, the throne room, the armory, etc., etc, etc.  We realize we could spend the rest of the day here but we are already thirsty, hungry and weary, a common state when one gets caught up in the beauty and history of a place.  I was particularly fascinated with the governing system of Venice.  It was an oligarchy with some democratic features.  For instance, a really incompetent or evil duke would not last very long.  He would just happen to die sooner than he should so the leaders could choose a more suitable candidate.

Piazza Scene: San Marco Basilica and Palazzo Ducale

As we re-enter the real world we comment on the juxtaposition in Venice of beauty and greed.  The square, which is architecturally fascinating, contains many over-priced jewelry stores, souvenir shops, restaurants serving $15.00 cups of espresso, etc.  Musically challenged bands duel for attention while the tourists try to attract pigeons to sit on their arms by buying over-priced bird seed.  The only difference between the tourists and the statues the pigeons usually sit on is that the statues can’t contract any diseases from the pigeons.  We buy a couple panninis and beers at a delicatessen on the way back to the hotel.  We walk for at least 45 minutes to reach our hotel by which time we are tired, thirsty and our feet hurt.  So we do what any over-65 should do in such a situation, take a nap.

Early evening, we go looking for a non-touristy place to drink some wine.  We find such a place but unfortunately the owners don’t want tourists any more than we do so they basically just ignore us and never take our order even when we ask them to.  We get the message and move on down the street to a friendlier venue.  In discussing what has just happened, we come to the conclusion that Venice is so over-touristy that the locals resent the tourists even knowing that without them there would be no Venice to visit.  A British couple overhears us and basically agrees.  They are here for the weekend having taken one of Ryanair’s cut rate flights.  She is a teacher at Dorton College , the only college in England dedicated solely to teaching blind students.  She tells us it is actually funded by the queen.  He works as a mechanic which, given the reputation of English automobiles, most likely provides him with a healthy income.  We manage to polish off a couple bottles of Soave as we talk. 

Feeling no pain, we sort of walk/lurch back to the hotel, stopping on the way to buy salami sandwiches to eat later.  We sit in the magnificent lobby bar to have a beer or two and eat our sandwiches.  The bartender is an expatriate Argentinean, who has worked all over Europe at many different jobs and has some great stories to tell.  Unfortunately, I can’t remember even one of them.  Luckily, he closes fairly early allowing us to get to bed before we make complete fools of ourselves.

Abbazia Hotel Lobby

Tuesday, August 10, 2004 - Venice

This morning I realize my Achilles tendon must be healing.  I have gone from four Celebrex on heavy walking days to only one in the morning. 

I arrive in the breakfast room a little late.  Tom looks terrible.  He tells me his back went out and he had not slept much the previous night.  I commiserate and offer advice.  First, take Ibuprofen.  Second, I quickly explain a few exercises my chiropractor recommended I do when my back goes out.  I know they work.  Third, I suggested ways to use a pillow between or under your knees to minimize back stress when you are in bed.    Personally, I’ve learned the hard way to wear a back brace when visiting museums and galleries.  I used to get horrible back spasms sometimes when I was traveling as a tourist, especially in museums.  I suspect it’s the combination of standing with minimal movement for two or three hours, straining to see the exhibits and, oh yes, carrying 40 or 50 extra pounds around.  Tom is slender but being a tourist is stressful and makes different demands on the body.

Since Tom is out of action for at least the morning, I opt for laundry duty.  I find a nearby launderette.  It has the most complicated self-service system I have ever seen.  It's almost impossible to figure out the connection between the coin insertion device and specific machines.  Fortunately, a bright computer genius from Denmark helps me figure it out.  I get my laundry going and spend my waiting time tutoring others who are as confused as I was.  At first, I think language may be an issue but an Italian couple has a harder time than anyone using the process.  As an additional bonus, I meet a very attractive, delightful Indian-American woman from San Jose.  She’s traveling solo through Italy and assures me that she has had no problems, not even from Italian men.   Another urban legend shot down.

Chiesa Frari

While my clothes are drying, I go next door to an internet place to access my e-mails.  Nothing works!  I get very frustrated and, of course, the attendant knows nothing beyond making change.  Equally frustrating are the people calling home and trying to get the person on the other end to hear them without the complication of telephone lines.  I surrender to the computer Gods and the multi-language cacophony and return to my tutoring duties at the launderette.

When I return to the hotel, I am happy to discover that Tom’s back has improved to the point that he wants to do some sightseeing this afternoon.  We decide on our itinerary.  Aside from the most important decision, where to have lunch, we choose to visit the Chiesa (church) Frari in the San Polo section and the Gallerie dell’Academia in Dorsoduro.

The church is surprisingly beautiful.  I say surprisingly because it isn’t as heavily visited as many other attractions in Venice.  Artworks created for this church; by Giovanni Bellini, Titian and Donatello grace this place.  You can see photos of the church on my Venice photo site.  After the church visit, we find an outdoor café for a late lunch.  We struggle with the waiter to get what we want and finally give up and accept what he brings us. 

After lunch, we wander the lanes and alleys of southeastern Venice and more by accident than design we manage to locate Gallerie dell’Academia.  Even though the building isn’t air-conditioned, we spend a couple hours inspecting the incredible paintings covering ten centuries of Italian history.  It is here that Tom announces he is only interested in looking at masterpieces.  He says he just doesn’t have time for minor works.  I suspect that, if he’s like me, he also doesn’t have enough “ram” in his brain to absorb it all.  After two hours, I go into intellectual overload.  We take a Vaparetto back to our hotel.  I grab a short snooze and do some reading in air-conditioned comfort.

In the early evening, we find a relatively cheap place (this is Venice, after all) where we can drink beer and people watch.  We are particularly fascinated by what appears to be a North African group including children who are truly enjoying themselves.

We decide to splurge on dinner at a restaurant overlooking the canal.  We should have known we might be making a mistake eating at a place imaginatively named, Ristorante Roma.  It even has candles at the tables.  Well, the view is great but everything else is, at best, pedestrian: service with a sneer, frozen and canned vegetables, oily roasted potatoes, and fatty veal.  We order off an over-priced wine list and our selection turns out to be more acidic than fruity.  The meal's denouement comes when our waiter, on one of his infrequent appearances, announces that he wants to be sure we understand that the service charge is not a tip.  It is the only time we see him attempt a smile.  Tom and I have problems swallowing our laughter.  Since it is my turn to pay, I deliver an old insult remembered from my days as a traveling executive by leaving him a few small coins and insuring he sees me doing it. 

This encounter is one of the reasons I titled this section, “Venal Venice.”  Both Tom and I agree that we were treated far better in Florence and Rome than here.  No question this place is beautiful, though decaying.  During our time here, we ran into only one waiter who wasn’t disinterested or downright surly.  I still am having trouble accepting the idea of a cover charge just to eat at a restaurant.  The hotel personnel were O.K., albeit a little greedy.  I think the problem is quite simply too many tourists and too few residents.  I can see how the constant crush of tourists would get on people’s nerves but that same situation has not created the same effect in places like Florence, Siena or San Gimignano, all of which are similarly inundated with tourists. 

Tom and I slip back to our hotel for a Sambuca nightcap.  Tom’s feeling good that his back held up.  We have a long day tomorrow including an overnight train trip to Paris.  It’s time to crash.

Hidden Piazza with restored Casa and Lost Tom

Wednesday, August 11 - Venice to Paris

We decide to take a room for the day since we are taking a sleeper to Paris tonight.  The clerks tell us we can have a discount as long as we pay in cash.  Hmmmmm?  We are happy to collude in the arrangement.  We take the opportunity to cut our sightseeing day short, sleep a little later and laze over breakfast in the garden.

We choose to visit the Ca’ Rezzonica, a beautiful Palazzo on the Grand Canal in the Dorsodura District.  As usual we wander the streets until we find it down an unmarked alley.  It contains not only paintings but also murals, furniture, statuary and many other artifacts from opulent 18th Century Venice. 

We have a leisurely lunch on our way back to the hotel via Piazza San Marco and after showering and changing, head for the nearby Sta. Lucia train station.  We stop to buy provender for the overnight trip and stroll into the station with lots of time to board our train.  I glance at the departure board and I don’t see our train number on it.  I begin to feel the first stirrings of panic.  I look again at our tickets and realize they show a Mestre departure.  Mestre is the mainland station for Venice.  Now, we are in full panic mode.  We find a train leaving in two minutes, going to Mestre that will get us there with about five minutes to spare.  We run for it, jump on and with beating hearts congratulate ourselves on recovering so quickly.  We make Mestre with time to spare and gratefully board our Paris bound train thinking how lucky and plucky we are.

When I have time to think about it and after realizing our train actually did leave from Sta. Lucia, I begin to feel more stupid than lucky.  First, I didn’t really look at the tickets until I was in the station.  Second our train was there but since the departure board is organized by hours, I looked under the 8:00 PM to 9:00 PM section whereas our train was in the 7:00 PM to 8:00 PM section.  It obviously left Sta. Lucia earlier than Mestre.  Duhhhhh!  I learned a valuable lesson, which is to pay more attention to the details when buying tickets in advance.

We have the compartment to ourselves until we get to The Lake District when we are joined by an anthropology professor from Montreal and his daughter.  We have an absorbing conversation. He speaks five languages.  He was born in the Lake District and has lived in four different countries.  I am always in awe of people who are multi-lingual.  I struggle just to learn simple phrases and here is someone who not only speaks English as well as I do but is evidently fluent in Italian and French and also speaks Spanish and Portuguese.  His daughter, interestingly, only speaks French fluently. 

We finally set up the sleeping arrangements around 11:30 and I crawl into my berth and sleep very soundly.  Tom does not, unfortunately.  He blames it on claustrophobia brought on by being in the upper berth.  Makes sense to me.  We arrive in Paris about 6:30 AM at Bercy Station, which is basically a Metro hub rather than a train station.  It is near the relatively famous Gare De Lyon, gateway to the Cote d'Azure.  We are both excited to be in Paris.  Lafayette, we have arrived.

Fabulous Florence

Florence from Fort Belvedere

Wednesday, August 4, 2004 - Rome to Florence

As we are checking out of our hotel, we are interrupted by an American woman who asks the owner, who's checking us out, if there are any churches nearby where she can go to mass.  The poor fellow is totally confused by her question.  No one has ever asked him if there are any churches nearby.  This is Rome.

We decide to go to Termini Station with plenty of time to spare as Tom must have his Eurail pass validated.  It being Wednesday, we figure we will have no problems.  Wrong!  The lines at the ticket windows are very long.  After trying to find an alternative to standing in line, such as an information booth like they have in other European countries, we discover there is only one place you can get your pass validated and that is at the ticket window.  We are aware the ticket can be validated on the train but there is some unspecified charge to do so.  The line moves slowly.  The clock moves swiftly.  With about 15 minutes to spare, Tom gets to a window where the agent is surprised that all he wants is a validation.  We never do figure out what the alternatives might be.  Fortunately it's a one time issue.

We are forced to kick a surly, German-Thai cross-cultural couple out of our seats.  They obviously have no reservations but they just move across the aisle to a couple empty seats there.  Not that they need to sit near one another as they never say a word to each other during the entire ride to Florence.  Tom notices their lack of communication and mentions it to me.  I tell him I don't find this kind of behavior abnormal in Western-Asian marriages.  I think part of the problem is lack of a common language and part of it is lack of a common cultural background.  There are exceptions, of course, and there are plenty of common-culture spouses who don't talk to each other.  Nevertheless, this phenomenon is a good reason for people to think deeply before they marry someone from another culture, no matter how strong the attraction is at first.

We have reservations but I'm not so sure we need them in First Class.  They aren't so expensive so maybe it's better to play it safe but I notice that every train I take during the entire seven weeks has empty seats in First Class.  I think if I was traveling alone, I'd forego the reservations except on holidays.  With a partner, it's nice to know you'll have seats together, assuming you are talking to one another.

Rape of the Sabines, Loggia dei Lanzi

On the train, we meet a couple from Las Vegas, in the facing seats.  She works for a private school in Las Vegas.  We never discover exactly what he does for a living.  Since Tom teaches in a reform school, they are both fascinated by his stories, as am I, so the time passes swiftly.  We also compare travel stories as do most tourists from the same country meeting in a foreign land.  I think it's partially bragging and partially information sharing.  The tales usually involve some kind of situation that requires the teller to come up with an innovative solution.

We arrive in Florence at the Santa Maria Novella train station and head in the general direction of our hotel, the Sempione, which is "only a few minutes from the station."  This "few minutes" takes about a quarter of an hour.  I always thought "few" meant three or four.  I must now adjust my thinking when booking hotels.  The hotel is in a so-so neighborhood but the clerk is very helpful, making reservations at the museums for us, and the rooms are clean and airy.  We grab a quick lunch at a near-by restaurant and I hit the internet while waiting for our room to be made ready. 

After a necessary nap we head out for a restaurant Pam and I discovered in December, Bacchus.  It is about an hour's walk - a real sixty minute "hour."  It takes us much longer, though, because Tom becomes totally enraptured with everything he sees.  I must agree that walking through Florence is like walking back in time.  We pass the Duomo and the Piazza Della Signoria, which is fronted by both the Pallazo Vecchio and the Uffizi Gallery.  It is close to dusk so the Piazza is relatively uncrowded.  We make a quick stop to see the sculptures in the Loggia dei Lanzi and the copy of Michelangelo's David which stands where the original did for hundreds of years.   It is not hard, at this time in the evening, to realize that the piazza has changed very little since the Renaissance.  We move on to the Ponte Vecchio, Florence's most famous bridge, and then walk along the Arno River at sunset to the restaurant. 

I am shocked to find the restaurant staff remembers me from December.  Of course, they are disappointed that I show up with Tom rather than Pam.  She has that effect on people.  We order the house wine which is the best wine bargain in Florence at €7.00 a bottle, as well as an appetizer.  For dinner we get a "Tuscany T-bone," a kilo plus piece of beefsteak grilled over an open wood fire accompanied by two kinds of pasta and another bottle of wine.  We stagger out of the restaurant sated beyond the bounds of good sense and decide to walk back to our hotel hoping that we will have digested enough of our dinner by the time we arrive to be able to go to sleep.

On the way we meet a group of four young female teachers from the Lyon area of France, who are lost and trying to find their way to the train station.  Since this is my "second" trip to Florence, I am able to help them.  Since only one of them speaks much English and Tom and I could most likely come up with maybe ten words in French if our lives were on the line, the conversation is limited but spirited.  

I decide I must have a gelato "to settle my stomach."  Lying to myself about how much food I need comes very easily in Italy.  The gelato works and I fall asleep quickly.  Tomorrow is a daunting day.  We plan to do Academia, the Uffizi and the Pitti Palace.

Tom on the Piazza della Signoria

Thursday, August 5, 2004 - Florence   

Tom and I decide that the breakfast at the Sempione, is barely edible and later discover it cannot compare with the coffee and pastries at the coffee bar next door.

Our first full day in Florence is fully booked.  You can find Florence photos on my photo page.  We have an early reservation at Accademia.  What the reservation allows us to do is stand in the "reservation" line which is not clearly marked and can only be identified by asking people already in the line.  Why someone would not make a reservation is beyond my understanding.  The procedure is for the "reservation" people to be admitted about 15 minutes after their scheduled time and if there is room, then people from the "non-reservation" line are admitted.  It keep the crowds from overwhelming the venue.

Michelangelo's David

I have never seen a statue that impresses me as much as Michelangelo's "David" does.  When I visited in December, experts were restoring the statue and the scaffolding was intrusive.  Today there is no scaffolding and I sit for 20 minutes or more just looking at "David."  How did Michelangelo create such a masterpiece at such a young age, especially one that so broke with the past?

The rest of the museum, with the possible exception of Michelangelo's unfinished "Prisoners" and a couple Botticellis, is rather pedestrian. An inordinate amount of space is given up to copies of ancient works of art done by students over the years.  I also discover that finding the men's room is even more problematic and I have a near disaster - poor planning on my part given my eating habits while in Italy. 

We leave "David" reluctantly and head for the Museum of San Marco, previously a Dominican monastery and the home of both the sublime Fra Angelico and the rabble rousing Savonarola.  This museum, which is relatively uncrowded, has a room of incredible illuminated bibles, dozens of Fra Angelico's paintings on the walls of the monks' cells, and a collection of Savanarola's artifacts in the rooms he lived in.   I'm surprised and thankful that it isn't more popular with tourists.

Uffizi Gallery Courtyard

After last night's pig-out, Tom and I decide to skip lunch so we can grab a quick rest at the hotel before heading for the Uffizi Gallery.  While waiting for our reservation time, we meet a couple from Chicago. They are using the plane tickets and hotel reservations of his brother who couldn't make the trip at the last minute.  We only later appreciate the irony that this couple, who freely admit they are only visiting the Uffizi so they don't have to explain to their friends why they missed it, are here by accident when Tom and I and many of the other visitors have waited years to be able to visit this incredible museum.  Tom runs into them later and the man's only comment is that the place is poorly lit and dirty; a comment that serves to break both of us up as we view 45 rooms of Renaissance art to say nothing of the additional rooms full of the paintings of Rubens, Van Dyke, Titian, Giotto, Caraveggio, etc. and the hallways studded with statuary covering centuries of Italian history.  I'm reminded of the 60's San Francisco disk jockey who spent a week in France and ate only at McDonald's because he didn't like French food.

I go into data overload after about 90 minutes but spend another hour seeing things Pam and I missed when we were here in December.  Tom and I stagger out into the rain and decide that the Palazzo Pitti will have to wait for another day.  We find a small café and tank up on foccaccio and beer while waiting for the rain to ease.  The rain never eases and we finally decide to make a run for it but manage to get lost and arrive at our hotel completely soaked and exhausted.

After the mandatory nap and changing into dry clothes we, on the advice of the desk clerk, go to a nearby trattoria, supposedly very popular with tourists.  After entering the place, we decide to try to find another restaurant.  The place is overcrowded, under-serviced and over-priced.  Other than that, it looked great.  Instead we wander into Trattoria Alliense.  It's owned by an Italian Canadian.  The food is superb.  The wine is good.  The service is personal and efficient.  The ambiance is warm and welcoming.  We decide later that it was, most likely, the best restaurant we visited while in Italy. 

While we are there, we help a couple of young Japanese women figure out what they might like off the menu, argue with a Danish woman whose husky voice reminds me why I stopped smoking, discuss the failings of Northern Florida with a woman from Orlando who has already been befriended by the Dane and defend our Florida position with a family from Jacksonville, Florida who are very aggressive in singing the praises of their city.  It appears the owner, whose name I have unfortunately forgotten, seats foreigners in the front room and locals in the back room which works out well for all.  As we depart and are making our good-byes, he thanks Tom and me for the free entertainment.

We reluctantly return to our hotel but not before eating a stomach settling gelato.  It's been a great day.

Michelangelo's Tomb, Santa Croce

Friday, August 6, 2004 - Florence

As I get up three or four times during the night, it occurs to me that I might not be eating right.  My solution: ignore my stomach and enjoy the Italian food.

I skip the hotel breakfast and go next door to the coffee bar - great coffee, great pastries.  Tom doesn't show and I start to worry.  He hasn't slept past 6:00 A.M. since we met in Rome.  He commutes over 100 miles each way to his job so he usually rises at 4:30 A.M., evidently a hard habit to break.  He eventually shows and announces that he inadvertently slept in.  As we leave, I am undercharged by the cashier and go through a lot of self vs. self arguments about whether to say something or not.  I finally decide to go back and tell the owner.  He misunderstands and thinks I'm complaining about being over-charged.  I try to explain and at some point, he tells me to forget about it.  I decide further explanations are useless.  Is this Karmic justice or what?

Tom has mentioned that he loves sculpture so I suggest he visit the Bargello Museum, which Pam and I had been at in December.  I decide to try the Palazzo Vecchio, which Pam and I missed in December.  We get lost but find our way eventually after walking an extra mile or so.  God knows we can use the exercise.

The Palazzo Vecchio is unimpressive from the outside but very impressive on the inside.  Its contents are more interesting from an historical point of view rather than from an artistic one.  As I wander around, I realize that even the wealthy Medici's lived in circumstances that today's average American middle class family would totally reject.   I visit just about every room and have to rush to meet Tom at our pre-arranged spot.  We have a late morning beer and a snack before moving on to Santa Croce Church.   

Visiting this church for the second time does not detract from the wonder of its attractions.  First, who's buried there - it's a list of the Renaissance who's who, Michelangelo, Galileo, Machiavelli, etc.  The art is magnificent.  The courtyards are well kept.  The attached museum is fascinating.  One could easily spend four or five hours here and still not take in everything.  I start to get compulsive about seeing it all when I begin to feel light-headed.  It's time for lunch.

Since we plan to visit the Palazzo Pitti, we walk across the Arno and stroll along the south side of the river.  We stop to rest in a little park in front of the first and only Lutheran Church in Florence.  It is there, sitting in the shade, that we decide to skip the Palazzo Pitti and concentrate on enjoying our late lunch.  It's now about 2:30 P.M. or so.  We choose the Golden View Open Bar even though it's recommended in a number of tourist guides.  It turns out to be a great place for a relaxing lunch with views of the Ponte Vecchio and the Arno River.  We are the only guests in the dining room so we stretch out, order foccaccio and a number of beers and discuss the nature of existence, which appears to be the ability to enjoy foccaccio and a number of beers.

After lunch we head back to our hotel, ostensibly to read and relax.  Hah!  Actually, I take a long nap and awaken after dark, ready to enjoy the evening.  We decide to find an outdoor café on the Piazza della Republica and watch the free and never-ending entertainment.  We snag a ringside table.  Bands are playing, one on each side of the piazza, each trying to outdo the other.  Jugglers are juggling.  Flame eaters are eating.  Acrobats are acrobatting.  It's a hell of a scene.  We drink wine mixed with a little bit of mineral water to lessen the wine's effect and continue our discussion of the nature of existence which now appears to be the ability to drink wine and enjoy the passing parade on the piazza.

Piazza della Republica at Night

Three hours later, Tom realizes he must return immediately to the hotel while I'm not exactly ready, having napped much longer than he did.  He goes to grab a taxi but soon returns because he can't remember the name of our hotel.  I give him the name but I can't remember the address.  Tom leaves anyway and I wish him luck and return to the job of finishing up our last bottle of wine.  I am unequal to the task so I pay the bill, cork the bottle and head for the hotel.  I manage to find my way back but cannot raise Tom on the phone.  I finally go to his room and knock on the door to find he had been in the shower.  It evidently took him and the taxi driver a while to find the hotel and as soon as he got to the room he jumped in the shower and stayed there until he felt better.  Such is the nature of existence.

I tell him a few embarrassing stories from my own past and finally go back to my room to finish the bottle of wine we had started and find out how quickly I can fall asleep - turns out to be quicker than I can drink.  The wine is still there in the morning.

Donatello's Mary Magdalene

Saturday, August 7, 2004 - Florence

I am now habituated to the coffee bar experience.  This morning, Tom and I sit there sipping our cappuccinos, nibbling on our pastries and just drinking in both the passing scene and the activity in the bar itself.  Wonderful!  To make it even more charming, the owner undercharges me again.  I've learned my lesson.  I say nothing.

We start with the Opera del Duomo Museum.  This is one of the most delightful, entertaining and educational museums in Florence and it's seldom overcrowded except for the occasional tour group and even then, you can leave the area and come back later when the group has moved on.  It has the restored panels of Ghiberti's Baptistry door; the door on the Baptistry itself is a copy.  There is much sculpture to see including Donatello's carved wooden statue of the suffering Mary Magdalene, a statue people either love or hate.  I love it.

The museum also contains the finger of John the Baptist and if you believe that I have a number of fingers of historical figures I'd like to offer for sale.  In addition, there are numerous exhibits devoted to the tools and equipment used to build the Duomo Dome including some of the original block and tackle pieces along with architectural drawings and other historically fascinating artifacts.

After exhausting ourselves in the museum, we decide to take an early lunch.  For that we head to the Mercato Central which is fascinating in itself with its deli's, butcher shops, vegetable shops, olive oil shops, wine shops, etc.  We grab a seat at one of the food stalls in the building and the owner remembers me or pretends to remember me from my visit in December.  What does it matter?  I am charmed by his friendliness and Tom and I celebrate the situation by eating and drinking more than we should.

Santa Maria Novella Church

After lunch we visit Santa Maria Novella church.  It is not nearly as interesting as Santa Croce and has rules about wearing shorts, even for men.  It also has lots of places visitors are supposed to stay out of.  We meet an angry German guy with a church supplied shawl around his waist to cover up his legs.  Frankly, he looked a lot more fey and irreligious in the "skirt" than he would have without it.  I get busted for taking pictures, even though our guidebook says it's permissible.  The attendant is incensed that I would even try to take photos and stares at me the rest of the time I'm in the place.  We don't stay long. 

We note that there is such a different atmosphere from Santa Croce where picture taking is encouraged.  Since Santa Croce is a Franciscan church and Santa Maria Novella is a Dominican church, I immediately generalize as to the probable differences between the orders - Dominicans intellectual and forbidding, Franciscans emotional and accessible like their founder, St Francis of Assisi.  I recall the many years of my childhood under the tutelage of Dominican nuns and decide I have the right to generalize about them.

In addition to my usual nap, I spend part of the afternoon in Internet frustration since I can't seem to access my e-mails.  I keep getting a "timed out" message before the Netvigator site has a chance to load.  I try to change the settings but am locked out and the clerk is no help.  I finally figure out how to import all my Netvigator mail into Yahoo Mail and am not only able to read my messages; I get to feel like a technological genius.

At dusk, Tom and I begin our search for a suitable happy hour site.  We settle on the Trattoria San Lorenzo, a very friendly place.  Our Romanian waiter is a jokester and we meet a family from Washington D.C. and another wandering soul from the same area.  After a number of beers and a long discussion of music and art, we decide to go back to Thursday's restaurant the Trattoria Alliense for dinner.  Perhaps because of the beers, we get lost trying to find it and after a buzz busting half hour walk, end up less than two blocks from where we started.  As a last resort, being males, we ask for directions and manage to find our way to our destination.    

We are not disappointed with either the food or the company.   There is a cross-cultural family from Oregon.  He's French Basque, she's American - kind of a stereotypical do-gooder but much more open-minded.  They met in Togo doing good works and have two beautiful daughters.  We also meet an architectural student from Washington University in St. Louis returning from a field trip to Barcelona.  The conversation is scintillating (I think) especially since I own property in Oregon and recently spent a week in Barcelona. 

We get our buzz back drinking the excellent house Chianti and almost wait too long to order.  Tom has a single huge pork chop which he announces is the best pork chop he's ever eaten.  This from a mid-western meat and potatoes guy who, if he's like me, at one time, thought fish swam around with breading on them.  I have a scrumptious grilled veal steak, a dish almost never found outside of France and Italy.  Both meats are accompanied by home-made tagliatelle pasta with a sauce directly imported from heaven.  We both agree we will miss Florence and not just because of its cultural attractions.

A gelato on the way back to the hotel completes the evening on a high note.  I fall easily asleep looking forward to tomorrow when we will be traveling to Venice.

Roma Bella

Treno Michelangelo

Saturday, July 31, 2004 - Frankfurt to Rome

It's 4:30 AM and I'm wondering what I was thinking when I scheduled a train trip from Frankfurt to Rome.  It's more than a 14 hour ride albeit through the Alps where the scenery should be exceptional.  Oh, well, it's time to go to the station.  I say goodbye to Pam who I won't see for three weeks or so and head for the hauptbahnhof (I still love this word). 

The hotel front door is locked and as I am trying to find someone to open it when a guest returns from his all-night wanderings and opens it.  At this point, the desk clerk mysteriously appears and starts to freak, thinking I'm running out on my bill.  I try to explain that my wife is still in the room but he's in such a state of excitement and confusion that he doesn't understand.  I finally yell at him to cool it and then explain that Pam is still checked in and he also has my damn credit card.  I don't wait for his response.  I just walk out.  As I cross the street, I keep expecting someone in a uniform to stop me but nothing happens and I enter the station (enough with the hauptbahnhof).

Wow!  The station is busy at 5:00 AM.  I suspect this station is busy 24/7.  I grab a croissant and an extra large coffee, find my train, find my seat and at exactly 5:30, the train leaves.  I am the only person in my luxurious car.  The dawn arrives about a half hour into the trip. The sunrise is beautiful.  I feel like I am looking at a Monet painting of the fields.  There is a light mist which adds to the effect.  After an hour of pastoral beauty, we pass into the hills and what is left of the Black Forest.  Everything we pass seems to be waiting for someone to make a postcard of the scene.  I am actually sorry, four hours later, when we pull into the Munich Station, right on time for a change.

Brenner Pass, Austrian Side

I have only 20 minutes to find my connection, the "Michelangelo" direct to Rome.  I am anticipating a luxurious inter-city train like those I have been riding throughout this trip.  Wrong!  Michelangelo, were he familiar with trains, would have either laughed at the use of his name to describe this horizontal pile of junk or he would have cried at the damage to his reputation. 

I find my reserved seat, the middle of three in an empty compartment for six people.  I struggle to get my 70 pound duffle onto the luggage rack above the seats and grab a window, wondering how long it will last.  After a while, I decide to find a window seat in the non-reserved section so I can view the scenery for the whole trip. 

We head into the Alps through Innsbruck and eventually climb over the Brenner Pass between Austria and Italy.  The scenery is indescribable, at least by me.  We hesitate for about 30 minutes at the Brenner Pass Station and I get off the train and stroll around, breathing the air and contemplating all the history that has involved this place.  It's summer so the climate is benign but I can imagine how mean it could get in the winter. 

As we descend I decide to have a little lunch and some beer in the dining car.  While the service is excellent, I am surprised to find that when I order the cheese and sausage platter, I get not only the expected salami, prosciuto and mozzarella but also a huge chunk of bleu cheese, which I don't like.  I also find I must pay an extra €2.50 for bread and crackers.  I really didn't expect an Italian train to have mayonnaise but no mustard?  That's right, just butter.  I learn another lesson.  Next time I buy baguettes in the station and just buy beers on the train.

As we descend into the Po River Valley, the hillsides are covered with grape vines.  The sun becomes Italian.  By that I mean sunlight is somehow softer in Italy.  At every stop the car fills with more and more Italians.  I feel myself starting to get upset at the intrusion on my enjoyment of the scenery.  After a short while, I start to laugh at myself.  Where did I think I was, still in Germany?  This is Italy.  People are noisy and chaotic and interesting. 

One young lady is particularly fascinating.  I first notice her out the window.  She is accompanied by her father whom she is totally ignoring as she talks on her cell phone.  She decides to sit in my compartment and is off the phone only long enough to get her bags situated with lots of help from two nearby young men, then immediately ignores them and re-starts her rapid fire conversation.  This goes on for at least an hour.  At one point someone says something so she goes out into the passageway.  This does not help, though, as we can still hear every word of her conversations.  Later when I move to my original compartment in the same car, she's still yakking away at the top of her voice so that everyone in the car can hear what she's saying.  A number of the listeners are chuckling to themselves.  I wish I knew someone who could translate for me.

I have to move to my original compartment to avert an international terrorist incident with me as the terrorist.  At one stop, I hear a number of raised voices and I have just enough Italian to realize they are trying to determine the ownership of a piece of luggage.  It tangentially occurs to me that they could be discussing my bag but since I don't want to give up my seat by the window, I ignore the whole thing.  At the next stop, I notice an armed policeman marching down the passageway towards my original compartment.  I reluctantly get up to find out what's going on.  Sure enough, the policeman, the conductor and a number of other people are standing outside the compartment discussing and gesticulating.  I move to the doorway and notice they are pointing at my duffel bag.  I quickly claim ownership much to the relief of everyone.  I decide I better sit in my assigned seat to avoid a similar misunderstanding.

Rome Termini Station Interior

Now I can't see any scenery.  Additionally, none of my four compartment mates speak English and they are carrying on an excited conversation that looks like it will continue until we get to Rome.  I try reading and that works for a while.  I decide to go to the dining car and have a couple beers and some snacks.  At €5.00 a can, this is an expensive diversion.  After I spill part of my fourth beer, I realize I better return to my seat and try to snooze for a while.  Wrong!  The seat is too uncomfortable and the conversation is too loud for snoozing.  I surrender to the experience and look out at what little I can see through the window and look forward to arriving in Rome. 

This is my first experience of a "regular" Italian train and as I am sitting there, I begin to develop some conclusions about the differences between German, Dutch or Belgian (GDB) trains and Italian trains, not including the modern train that runs from Rome to Venice via Florence, which I expect has been upgraded for the zillions of tourists that visit along that particular route.

On GDB trains they announce the upcoming stops about five to 10 minutes before arrival.  On Italian trains the announcement comes five to 10 seconds before the train screeches to a stop.  I do mean screeches.  GDB trains roll to a slow stop.  On Italian trains you had better be well-anchored or seated as the train enters the station.  On GDB trains, people honor reservations politely.  On Italian trains, if you try to claim your reserved seat from someone who is already there, you will have to endure all sorts of facial and other contortions, to say nothing of muttered imprecations as the usurped passengers gather up their belongings, taking as much time as they can to vacate the compartment or seating area.  Maybe they secretly hope you'll get tired of waiting and go away.  On GDB trains, someone comes through checking tickets after every stop.  On Italian trains ticket checking is a sometime thing.  No one asked to see my ticket nor anyone else's as far as I could tell after Brenner Pass.  Lastly, on GDB trains the water from a flushed toilet drains into a tank.  On Italian trains it fertilizes the track bed.

Hotel Julia

We arrive at cavernous, confusing Rome Termini Station at last.  My compartment mates who have said nothing to me since the duffel bag incident are suddenly showering me with arrivedercis.  I join in the insincerities and de-train quickly.  I grab a taxi and head for my hotel, The Julia.  The Julia is in a centuries old building but the rooms have all been remodeled and the location is superb.

I am meeting my friend of 40 years, Tom Trier.  This is his first trip to Europe.  He has been very eager to make this trip.  For my part, I am sure I will enjoy the next three weeks even more with his company, especially when we see the sights I've visited in the past.  Tom got in yesterday and is waiting in his room when I arrive. 

We decide to eat near the hotel on the Via Veneto or Tourist Central.  It seems as if there are more Americans walking around than Italians.  We choose a place named Ciao Bella if you can believe that.  Nevertheless, Tom's enthusiasm is contagious and our pizza and pasta dinners are actually quite good.  The food is accompanied by a pretty good soprano of indeterminate age singing popular light arias.  After dinner, we walk around getting caught up, stopping only to buy a gelato.  But even Tom's excitement can't hold back my exhaustion so we return to The Julia and a great night's sleep.

Trevi Fountain – Rome

Sunday, August 1, 2004 - Rome

I decide to sleep in until 9:00 AM., it being Sunday and all.  Tom and I breakfast in the crowded dining room. This seems to be a very popular hotel with Americans.  We Americans do love our breakfasts.

Tom and I stroll to some of the nearby tourist sites.  You can access pictures of these sites in my Rome photo album.  We start with Trevi Fountain, hoping to see Anita Ekberg wading in the pool.  We are disappointed but continue on to the Pantheon and the Piazza Navona.   It's Sunday and families are out in force.  Church bells are ringing all over.  I feel like I'm in a video being shot by the Rome Tourist Authority.  We also visit the churches of San Luigi dei Francesi and San Agnes fuori le mure.  Even the most obscure churches in Rome are filled with beautiful art and sculpture.  They also almost always have an old woman or a young woman with an infant begging on the front steps. 

Gesu, the mother church of the Jesuits, is not available for tourists.  We should have guessed that.  There are no begging women in the vicinity.  It's Sunday.  We can't figure out why we can't get in.  Do you suppose the "Soldiers of Christ" are hatching some kind of plot?  Nah, we've been reading too many Vatican conspiracy novels.

We continue to the Piazza Venezia. Mussolini loved to orate from the Vittorio Emmanuele Monument, overlooking this piazza.  I'm tempted to climb the steps and yell to the masses of people in the area, "Go home, Mussolini is dead!"  The architecture here may define the term wretched excess.  Look at the picture below and draw your own conclusion.  The historically significant Palazzo Venezia is also on this piazza. 

We cross the piazza to visit Trajan's Forum and Trajan's Column.  I'm flagging badly but walking with Tom is such a pleasure because he is so obviously enchanted by everything.  At one point I see him hug a pillar.  This is not the same as hugging a tree, I assure you.  Maybe he's using it to cool off.  It is hot in the sun but comfortable in the shade.  

We must return to our hotel.  Tom has booked a tour for the afternoon and I plan to find an internet cafe and take it easy.  I grab a couple beers at a corner combination café/bar/grocery store on Piazza Barberini which contains the well known Fountain of Triton designed and built by Gian Lorenzo Bernini in 1642-44.

Vittorio Emmanuele Monument

I am disappointed at the internet place.  I can't access the e-mails on my Hong Kong ISP - very frustrating but a common occurrence on this trip.  The site loads too slow and I get a "site not available" message.  The internet cafe itself is fascinating.  It has hundreds of computers and an elaborate system for insuring that the user does not get one extra second of time.  It is packed with people, mostly tourists, spending a Sunday afternoon in Rome reading and writing e-mails.  

I give up and return to the café for more beer and a sandwich.  I meet two young couples from Chicago who are sick of riding on tour busses and have decided to strike out on their own as frightening as that might seem to them.  We discuss possible scenarios and they set out with renewed determination, partially fueled by cheese, sausage, beer and wine.

At the hotel, I sneak in a nap for an hour or so waiting for Tom to return from his tour of "Early Christian Rome."    On his return, we grab a table at the corner café and suck down a few beers while watching the world walk by.

Piazza Barberini - from the cafe

One of the more interesting sights is of a man warmly dressed in red and orange woolens in spite of the heat.  He also has on a set of headphones which are actually two mobile phones wired together.   He gently accosts passers-by, both those on foot and those in their cars.  We ask the waiter about him and he tells us that the man often shows up on Sunday afternoons, is harmless and provides a good show. Tom and I agree, noting that the more beer we drink, the more entertaining the man becomes. 

We decide it's time to add a little food to the liquid nourishment we've been consuming.  After wandering around for 15 or 20 minutes, we find a street-side pizza restaurant.  Forgetting our good intentions, we order and just about finish a bottle of Chianti before we order our food.  We now know we must have something to eat so, with weakened restraint, we order more than we can possibly finish, bruschetta, two different kinds of pasta, two veal steaks with sautéed mushrooms and spinach and, of course, another bottle of Chianti. 

We introduce ourselves to two very young female students at the next table.  Only one of them can speak English.  They are from the South of Italy, outside Naples and are visiting Rome for the first time.  Somehow, everything we say and they say is hysterically funny.  Everyone is laughing.  In retrospect, perhaps they are laughing at us rather than with us.  We offer to buy them an after dinner drink and when they demur, we force the issue by agreeing to have one ourselves.  We order Sambucas all around.  Not being totally out of it, we drink the Sambuca the "boring" way.  You'll have to check the link to discover what that means.

About this time, Tom runs out of cigarettes and asks where he can buy some.  The Maitre de indicates no problem, walks across the street to his Vespa and returns with a pack of cigarettes for Tom.  Tom is so taken by this act of generosity that he tips the guy about three times as much as the smokes would have cost. 

The girls leave.  We settle our bill.  Now we must somehow find our way back to our hotel.  This becomes a bit of a problem as we can't remember how we got to where we are.  We don't realize this immediately, of course, and, when we do, we can't seem to find anyone from whom to ask directions.  Lurching from side to side, we wander around until we find the Piazza Barberini and from there lurch our way to our hotel.  We lurch to our rooms.  I manage to undress and lurch into bed.  This act is the last thing I remember.

View of Roman Forum from the south

Monday, August 2, 2004 - Rome
Ouch!  I awaken with a headache but a couple Tylenol and breakfast take care of the pain.  We meet a lovely couple from Vancouver, Canada over breakfast.  They had spent time in Hong Kong so we had great fun talking about it.  I can't believe that I'm feeling a little homesick for the place.

Tom is off on a guided tour and I decide to visit the Forum.  Last time I was here with Pam, we only saw the Forum from above.  This time I want to walk among the ruins.    Before I take off, I call SOSRome, a home away from home for Americans in Rome. It's run by a retired air force officer, Mario Brunetti.  Pam and I had some problems with our tours when we were here in January and Mario had gotten us credits which Tom was using.  Mario's operation is first rate and I try to set up a time for us to meet face to face.  Unfortunately Mario has a medical problem he needs to have treated daily and we just can't put a meeting together - next time.

Spanish Steps - Rome

Off I go to the Forum.  It's about a 30 minute walk from the hotel.  The weather is hot but breezy.  The Forum overwhelms me.  As a history major and with four years of high school Latin under my belt, I am in awe of being in this place where so many historical events occurred.  I take many pictures, trying to capture everything. You can see them in my Rome Photo Album.

The breeze does not reach the floor of the forum, so I eventually give up because of the heat, and climb out of the small valley it sits in.  I walk back to the hotel exhausted and sweaty but also exhilarated by what I had seen. 

Tom is waiting and we grab a quick lunch at a nearby pizzeria accompanied by liberal amounts of beer.  The combination of the previous night's activities, the heat, the pizza and the beer make me want to take a nice long nap.  Tom is agreeable so we decide to meet about 5:30 or 6:00 for more exploration and dinner.

We finally recover enough to explore the area north and west of our hotel.  We first visit the Spanish Steps.  Pam and I had walked up them the previous January but Tom decides my description is good enough.  The scene is fascinating.  People sprawled all over the steps and the fountain at the foot of the steps.  Tourists, vendors, pick-pockets, horse carriage owners, taxis are all fighting for space on the street.  Pure chaos - I loved it.

Our next stop is the Piazza Del Popolo.  It's relatively empty after the crowds at the Spanish Steps.  I remember that, on New Year's Eve, this is to Rome what Times Square is to New York.  I had watched the festivities on TV from Venice the previous December 31.  The buildings surrounding the piazza are interesting in their own right and I keep my camera busy. 

We head south and discover a weird looking brick building we can't immediately identify.  It is the site of some kind of street art exhibit that neither Tom nor I understand.  This is true of most street art that I encounter no matter where in the world I am. I recently saw some photos of 3-D sidewalk paintings from New York City that I got but that's about it.

We figure out we are at the Mausoleum of the Emperor Augustus.  There are no signs and the whole site is totally rundown and surrounded by a chain link fence.  How soon they forget!  We walk around the place.  I take some pictures and we move on to the Tiber River.

Walking along the Tiber is a wonderful experience.  It's dusk, a cooling breeze is rustling the leaves on the trees, the nearby houses all look architecturally interesting, there are few tourists around, and the whole scene has a calming effect.  We walk as far as Giusti Palace, take some photos and head away from the river toward the Piazza Navona where we intend to have an al fresco dinner. 

We find a suitable venue, The Quatro Fiume, named after the famous fountain in the piazza.  We proceed to make the same mistake we made last night.  We drink some beer, order some antipasto, drink some Pinot Grigio, order some pasta, drink some more Pinot Grigio and watch the people passing by.  Our smart-ass waiter keeps taking my menu as soon as I tell him I want to keep it and then deposits it on my blind side.  Tom enjoys this much more than I do. 

The people watching is spectacular.  We particularly notice an unbelievably attractive couple dressed as if they were straight out of a high fashion ad strolling around the square with their hands firmly around each other in the area just below their waists and non-verbally sending the message, "Eat your heart out." to both sexes.  Tom and I were unaffected by this display, of course, because we are just too mature and dignified to be caught lusting after this representation of our lost youths.  Yeah, right!

As we are drinking in what is basically an after-dark carnival, we suddenly realize it's after 11:30 PM.  To avoid turning into pumpkins and also to insure we can carry out our planned excursion to Ostia the next day, we rush back to our hotel to sleep, perchance to dream of being 25 and parading around the Piazza Navona on a warm summer's eve.

Roman Theatre, Ostia Antica

Tuesday, August 3, 2004 - Rome and Ostia

We are up bright and early.  We hope to unravel the mysteries of the Rome train system so we can get to Ostia Antica, supposedly the site of the best preserved Roman ruins in Italy including Pompeii. 

We have no problems with the trains but when we arrive in Ostia, because we cannot seem to read signs, we end up wandering around in the in the ancient district of Gregoriopolis instead of Ostia Antica.  It contains a medieval castle, called the castle of Julius II or sometimes Castello Ostia.  After asking several amused locals for directions, we finally backtrack to our starting point and ultimately arrive at the entrance to the ruins which were only a few hundred yards from the train station. 

We are immediately overwhelmed at the extent, beauty and historical significance of the area.  You can see photos in the Ostia photo album.  We are impressed not only with the preserved condition of many of the ruins but also by the information available at every stop we make.  The most outstanding building is the theatre which has been partially restored and is used for plays and concerts.  We also cannot take our eyes off the preserved tile work that is spread throughout the site.

The only sour note is supplied by a number of children who are climbing all over the ruins.  Their parents have, obviously, no regard for the signs that ask people to stay off the ruins to insure that the ruins are still there for future generations.  I take it as long as I can and I approach one group of chattering British mothers, watching their kids try to destroy 2,000 year old brick walls and ask if they have read the damn sign?  I forget the first rule of intervening in such situations by using profanity.  The focus immediately shifts to my use of the word damn.  I try to apologize while maintaining my intention of reminding them of their parental duties and finally announce that my use of the word damn does not obviate the need for them to get their damn kids off the ruins.  This announcement sets off a whole new round of tsk, tsks but has the desired result.  I handle an Italian father much better by merely reminding him of the sign.  He responds immediately by calling his children off the ruins.

I need a beer or perhaps something even stronger so Tom and I go to the cafeteria, which believe it or not, serves one of the best lunches we have in Italy and at very reasonable prices.  I can't imagine a cafeteria anywhere else in the world, but Italy, that would have as high quality food.

Restored Floor Mural, Roman Bath

After lunch we visit the small but impressive museum full of statuary, rescued from the ruins and restored.  Unfortunately, they don't allow picture taking, We also have to rush through the museum because of a peculiar custom we find in Italy.  Instead of staggering the lunch hours of the staff, the museum closes for an hour and a half in the middle of the day.  I guess everyone wants to eat with their friends even if it is during the peak viewing hours. 

We explore the ruins even further and observe areas where they are continuing to unearth buildings that were buried centuries ago when the Tiber changed its course.  The area also provides some beautiful views of the Tiber. Eventually our energy flags and we make our way back to the train station. 

Temple to Augustus, Ostia Antica

The train is full and not air-conditioned so we must stand and sweat.  This reminds me of that lovely verse from some long ago war, "They also serve who stand and sweat." 

We are exhausted and thirsty by the time we get to Piazza Barberini.  We flop onto the chairs outside our favorite little café and order two beers each.  The waiter doesn't hesitate fetching them so I don't get the pleasure of quoting one of my favorite lines from John Steinbeck's "Cannery Row," "The first for thirst, the second for taste." 

After a short nap and a quick reconnoiter of the area we choose a nearby restaurant.  We are moderate in our alcohol consumption and just enjoy people watching.  After dinner we walk to a café just off Via del Tritone near the bus terminal for a slice of tiramisu that I recall from Pam's and my visit here last January, is "to die for."  The tiramisu does not live up to my memory of it so we don't die but we do enjoy the parade of interesting "night" people wandering in and out of the place.

We end the evening relatively early for tomorrow we entrain for "Fabulous Florence."

The Romantic Rhineland

Tuesday, July 27, 2004 - Amsterdam to Düsseldorf

We have another terrific breakfast, some internet time and check out.  Amsterdam has one last surprise for us, though - a laundry charge of 85 Euros.  We could have damn near replaced the laundered items for that.  Amsterdam deserves it's reputation as one of the most expensive cities in Europe.

Still in sticker shock, we checkout and head for the Central Station.  We get another Yemeni taxi driver so the conversation is limited.

Düsseldorf's Altstadt Area

We had decided to take our chances on seating rather than wait hours to make a reservation.  We have no problems when the train arrives, late, believe it or not.  Note that this train is going to Germany where, according to legend, the trains always run on time.  It will be interesting to see if the legend is true.

The train is beautiful as is the countryside.  We arrive, late, at a busy Düsseldorf station but nowhere near as busy as Amsterdam was.  Now we must find our hotel which is a "five minute" walk from the station according to the Hotelclub.net web site.  We stop at the TI office to get directions and some idea as to where we are in relation to the rest of Düsseldorf.  We realize we are facing a "10 to 15 minute" five minute walk and struggle with our bags through a seedy neighborhood to our hotel, the Residenz Hotel.

We have trouble rousing anyone to come to the desk.  When a young man and woman finally show, they seem strangely unfamiliar with the procedures to check us in.  They are, obviously Middle Eastern and speak little English.  Somehow we manage to get checked in.  I am second guessing my decision to get a hotel near the train station.  In retrospect, I would have been better off booking a hotel closer to the river.  The taxi fare would have been worth it.  I find that the train station areas in Germany are not nearly as desirable as they are in Italy or France.

The room is spacious but Pam will have to do her internet thing while sitting on the bed since there is no desk.  This arrangement creates a bit of a problem since I am hoping to take a quick nap before we head out for sightseeing and dinner.

Somehow, I doze off and an hour later we are off to the center of Düsseldorf, a "30 minute" 15 minute walk.  We first wander down Königsallee, the Rodeo Drive or Champs-Elysées of Düsseldorf.  The weather is clear and sunny but cool.  We walk down to the river and stroll along the bank. We also check the schedule for the boats that ply the Rhine as we plan to take a boat tour later in the week.

We circle back into the Altstadt in the old part of the city looking for a restaurant.  I want to go to the same brewery I had been to the last time I was in Düsseldorf, 1986.  I was working for a Saudi company at the time and was so starved for beer and atmosphere that I fell in love with the Braueri Uerige.  Pam resists because the menu shows only heavy German dishes and snacks available. 

Braueri Uerige

We compromise by strolling around and choosing the Altstadt Restaurant which serves the Uerige Alt beer I want but also has an extensive menu of Pam-like items, mainly green stuff.  We can sit outside and people watch while drinking and eating.  I order the specialty of the house, roast pork knuckle, and wash it down with a liter and a half of beer.    The food surpasses my expectations.  The beer is as good as I remembered it.    We josh with our waiter who is working hard to get an American family at the next table to order something other than roast beef.

We need a walk to open up room for dessert.  We get to the "Kö" - Königsallee to the locals - and find an Italian place where we can sit under the trees, eat tiramisu, drink cappuccino and watch the people parade by.  Düsseldorf is not that popular a tourist destination so most of the passers-by are locals.  I don't understand why Düsseldorf isn't more popular.  The town has a number of attractions and the Altstadt is one of the nicest, pedestrian-friendly eating and shopping areas in Europe.  Rick Steves doesn't even mention it in his guide to Germany - a serious omission.

We stagger back to our hotel as full of good food and drink as possible.  Pam decides to pass on the internet so I fall asleep watching CNN.  I don't believe Pam snuck a look at her e-mails while I was asleep but I'll never know.

Wednesday, July 28, 2004 - Düsseldorf and Köln

Today Pam and I mark our 25th wedding anniversary.  Neither one of us makes a big thing out of it, agreeing to celebrate when we get back to Hong Kong.

I did not sleep very well last night.  I think it's because, I ate too much so I have no one to blame.  I have a hard time getting out of bed.  When I finally go to breakfast, I meet a Thai woman, working in the dining room, who married a German some 10 years ago.  We discuss how she likes living in Germany.  She acknowledges she likes it O.K. but still hangs on to her dream of returning to her home in Phuket, soon.

We are slow to get to the train station and we struggle with the ticket machine.  Suddenly, a man pops up and starts to help me figure out how to use the machine.  It has multiple options and I'm not sure which one to use.  With my Good Samaritan's help, I select a five person all-day ticket for 25 Euros - what a deal!  We can use it on any train except an Inter-City (IC).  The trains have so many designations; it's difficult to sort them all out. There's IC, EC, RE, S, and A trains.   We pick one that we assume is going to Köln.  The train is late.  Are we really in Germany? 

We arrive at Köln Dom Station.  Because of construction, the place is a mess.  It takes us 10 minutes to figure out how to get from where we are to the square in front of the Köln Cathedral.  We can see the Cathedral, we just can't find it.  We are late for the English language tour of the cathedral so, using our trusty guide book, we explore the place on our own.  I've seen many churches and cathedrals but this one is in a category all its own.  We spend almost two hours exploring. You can see the pictures on my Köln photo site.

After the Cathedral, everything else is likely to be a disappointment, anyway, so we choose the Stollwerck Chocolate Museum for our next stop.  A wheeled tram makes the run in about five minutes but true to today's rhythms, we just miss it and decide to walk. I'm glad we do.  The paved path along the Rhine provides vistas and photo opportunities by the dozens.  The people-watching is fruitful, too. 

We enjoy the Chocolate museum far more than we thought we would.  I learn a lot more about chocolate than I ever wanted to know.  I like the historical information best.  I also enjoy watching people make the chocolate and am fascinated with how they create chocolate sculptures in so many sizes and shapes.  The museum is surprisingly crowded.  I guess chocoholism is a universal disease.  We eat in the museum cafeteria and the food is quite reasonably priced and good.  I can't believe we skip dessert.

Chocolate Fountain

Naturally, we just miss the tram back to the main square.  We decide to walk back.  Pam takes off at her usual pace, just below that of a long distance runner.  I have a problem.  My repaired Achilles tendon hurts like hell and I can't keep up.  Hell, I can't keep up with strolling young parents pushing their infants in prams.  I send Pam ahead, as if I could hold her back, and tell her I'll meet her at the TI center on the square.  I walk for a while and rest for a while.  I pop a couple ibuprofens but they will take a while to go to work.  A half hour later I manage to get to the bottom of the stairs leading to the square.  I square myself away and pull myself up the steps using the handrail as an aid.  I stagger into the TI building to meet Pam, who is enjoying a relaxing cup of coffee.  I'm exhausted.

Barge on the Rhine

Pam immediately expresses a desire to visit the Roman Museum on the Square.  I beg off for two reasons.  One, I can hardly stand erect much less walk and two, I saw quite a bit of Roman ruins along Hadrian's Wall and I'm headed for Italy later this week. I suspect I'll be "Roman'd" out before this trip is over.  Pam is not dissuaded and takes off. 

I decide to enjoy a glass of apple juice - they don't serve beer here.  I notice an exhibit set up, outside the Center, to support the Palestinian cause.    After I recover from my exertions, I go out to look at it.  The site features a number of photos of alleged Israeli atrocities.  Many of them are of the English girl who was run over by a bulldozer while protesting the Israeli effort to knock down houses to provide an obstruction free zone between Gaza and Israel.  I approach the person in charge of the exhibit intending to ask, "Where are the pictures of Israeli children and other innocents blown up by Palestinian suicide bombers?"  I can't ask, though, because I don't speak German and the man doesn't speak English. I'm still incensed at the one-sidedness of the presentation but I can do nothing about it. 

Pam returns saying how much she enjoyed the Roman Museum.  We decide to see the multi-media story of the Cathedral. We buy our tickets for the next English language showing.  We descend into the bowels of the building and get lost.  The place is not over-signed.  We try a number of doors and finally we open one, to find ourselves in the midst of a German language presentation.  We quickly retreat and wait for the German contingent to leave.  We re-enter, take our seats only to be accosted by an usher who asks, "How did you get in here?"  I do not mention that if she had been around before, we would have entered normally.  I figure German-American relations are bad enough. 

The slide and sound presentation is mostly interesting but boring in spots.  Worth our time, though.  We have a much easier time getting out than we had getting in and decide we've seen enough for today and head for the train station.  The train we want is crowded.  Nevertheless we are able to sit together in our mutually exhausted state.  We are no longer surprised when the train arrives late to Düsseldorf.

In our room, Pam works, I nap.  Pam working on the bed cannot stop me from immediately falling asleep.  Later we decide to eat at a near-by restaurant.  We just want to have a light supper. 

We find an outdoor café near our hotel and down the street from a bus stop - a different sort of bus stop.  All the busses are going to Eastern European countries and the sidewalk is covered with passengers and their luggage.  There doesn't seem to be any organization or structure to what's going on.  I catch myself staring at everything.  I realize how lucky I am.

Our luck runs out at the restaurant.  Our waiter is a newbie and speaks no English.  Ordering is a communication adventure.  I've had better luck in the remotest parts of China.  Pointing at the menu doesn't help.  It turns out he doesn't read much German either.  I fantasize that he just got off one of the nearby busses and was immediately handed an apron and told to go to work.  To our waiter's credit, he is embarrassed and fetches a waitress with whom we can communicate.  The food is actually quite good and we tip the waiter when we leave for trying.  I hope he shared it with the waitress.

Pam announces she needs to spend some time with e-mails so I grab a seat at a nearby internet place.  Only One Euro per hour. That's cheaper than the Philippines.  I soon find out why.  The place also has phones for International Long Distance calls.  The cacophony of many different languages is almost too loud to think.  The ventilation is non-existent and the aroma of many different bodies with little opportunity to bathe is even more overwhelming.  I take it as long as I can, read a few e-mails, delete the spam and get out of there.   

I decide I owe myself a reward for going above and beyond…so I treat myself to a gelato, a large gelato.  I save a little for Pam who is just finishing up her internet foray.  I watch the latest bad news from Iraq on the BBC and am soon asleep.

Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof

Thursday, July 29, 2004 - Düsseldorf to Frankfurt

The day starts on a low note and never quite recovers. 

When we check out we discover charges in the hundreds of Euros for phone access.  There is a discrepancy between the time and the charges.  Even though, Pam will be reimbursed, I question the accuracy of the charges.  The owner is behind the desk and is extremely helpful.  He tries to call the phone company to straighten things out but they, of course, cannot respond immediately.  This is a problem because Pam and I have a train to catch.  We figure out that Pam most likely was on the internet for more time than showed on the bill so we agree to pay and the owner agrees to reimburse us if it turns out we are over-charged.  The question I cannot answer is, "Why do I trust this man?"  But I do and we roll to the train station.

As we enter the station, I look up at the departure board and cannot find our train number.  I have a Eurail schedule and a printout that agree with each other for a change.  Where am I screwing up?  We check at the information desk and the agent tells us in a very Germanic way, broaching no disagreement, that there is no such train number, even when I show him the schedule.  He gives us the number and platform for a train we can catch in an hour or so that, with a change at the Frankfurt Flughafen train station, will get us to Frankfurt in the early afternoon. 

Appropriate of nothing, I love the word Flughafen or as I imagine it "flight haven."  I also like hauptbahnhof or "Chief Train House."  Sounds like a good American Indian name.

While waiting, I notice the original train number is listed on one of the many bulletin boards meant to help travelers.  It includes a visual description of the train configuration.    Evidently this particular train has been permanently cancelled.  Then I realize our train will be late.  I ask myself, "Is the German train system running a management exchange program with Italy or what?"

The train itself is very comfortable and though we arrive late at the Flughafen Station - there's that word again - we make our connection to the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof.

To facilitate my 5:30 AM departure on Saturday, we stay at a grand old hotel, across from the hauptbahnhof, named The Monopole Hotel - high ceilings, wide hallways and a huge bathtub.  We unpack and rest for a while before going back to the hauptbahnhof. (I love the word but I'm getting tired of typing it.)  We need to buy tickets for the train to Koblenz where we will catch a boat to take us up the Rhine.  I mistakenly think we cannot use our Eurail passes on both the boat and the trains on the same day - a 50 Euro mistake. 

I realize later I asked the agent the wrong questions.  I asked if we could use our Eurail pass on the boat and did we need train tickets to Koblenz.  She answered yes to both questions without pointing out we could also use our Eurail pass for the train on the same day.  Because many Germans speak good English, I often forget to be specific about what I am asking and assume they will provide additional information to fill in the blanks.  Wrong!  This is neither the first nor last time I make this same mistake.

Pam and I are famished by this time and head up Kaiserstrasse, a main street, looking for a sidewalk café that serves salads as well as the usual German fare.  We finally choose an Australian restaurant, the Kakadu.  It's a little weird but we just aren't up for sausage and potatoes.

After lunch we walk through a narrow park on our way to the reconstructed  Opera House and the Main Tower.  We pass the Euro Tower, home of the European Central Bank.  They must be doing something right - the Euro costs $1.24.  The weather is beautiful and the park has its share of joggers, strollers, pram pushers and as in any big city the homeless.

Frankfurt Opera House

The Opera house is most impressive.  You can see pictures of it and other sights in on my Frankfurt photo site.  After wandering the Opera House Square, we spend the next 30 minutes trying to find the Main Tower.  It's a well-known landmark and tourist destination so I can't figure out why we are having such a problem.  I even stoop to asking for directions and we still enter the wrong building.  Finally we find it and take the long elevator ride to the top.  The view is astounding and I take some. 

Some folks are shooting a commercial on the platform but I'm not watching them.  Instead I'm looking at a couple, who are with the commercial shooters, but are oblivious to all but each other.  They are making out with such passion and enthusiasm that I'm afraid they are going to topple over the guard rail and plunge 55 stories to their mutual deaths.  I poke Pam who doesn't always notice such things, being more interested in the view and she ignores them.  I finally give up hoping they'll consummate what they've started and instead focus on the magnificent 360° view. 

After an ear-popping elevator descent, we walk east from the Opera House, down a beautiful tree lined street, Grosse Bockenheimer, nicknamed "Gourmet Street."  We stop for a cappuccino and a beer to watch the pedestrians stroll by.  After our break we go over one street to Goethe Strasse, which is lined with fashion stores.  To me it's not near as interesting as "Gourmet Street."  We walk by Goethe House but decide not to stop but instead to go to the hotel.  Pam must make a phone call and I absolutely must take a nap. 

We have trouble finding a restaurant near our hotel that meets our major requirement, a decent salad menu.  We decide, after walking around for quite a while, to return to the Kakadu.  We sit under the trees, watch the passing crowd which is more interesting in the evening than it was during the day - we aren't too far from the red-light district.   

We are looking forward to tomorrow's Rhine cruise so we call it a night relatively early even for us.  Neither of has any trouble falling asleep.

Rhine Castle

Friday, July 30, 2004 - Koblenz, Rhine Valley, Bacharach, Frankfurt

We are both very excited as we will be taking a boat up the Rhine, today.  Breakfast is interesting.  First, the food comes from down the street at the Hotel Europa.  Second, many of our fellow diners are from Taiwan.  I try my best "Ni hau ma" greeting to no avail.  I don't know if they don't understand me or are just ignoring me. 

Rebuffed at my attempt at cross cultural communication, Pam and I cross the street and board the train for Koblenz.  We are traveling second class since I still didn't realize we could use our First Class Eurail pass.   The train trip is pleasant enough.  Pam is getting off on identifying castles and announcing them even though I don't want to see them until I'm on the river.

When we get to Koblenz, we can't find the TI office because the station is being renovated.  We finally do find it after walking around for 10 minutes and are told the KD Rhine Line boat pier is about a 10 minute walk from the station.  It's a beautiful morning and we enjoy looking at some of the older houses as we move towards the river.

We find the KD ticket office which is staffed by a very jolly lady who is laughing as hard at my attempts to speak German as I am at her attempts to speak English.  She is, however, the first person to tell me the truth about my Eurail Pass, that I could have used it on the train that day.  Oh well, another expensive lesson learned.

Rhein Wein Terraces

We kill the time waiting for the boat, which will be one-half hour late, by having a coke in a nearby garden restaurant.  The woman behind the counter is not only surly but insulting when she yells at Pam to clean up our table when we are getting ready to leave.  Some German's have the skill to still remind us of the Nazi era.  Maybe it's a genetic thing.

The boat has an open deck with just a few umbrellas and it is very sunny and hot.  We find some seats in the shade and sit back as we roll up the Rhine.  I take many photos of castles and the passing scenery.  You can see them on my Rhine River Cruise photo site.  I keep waiting to have fun.  We do enjoy a chuckle at the boat company's attempt at entertainment.  When we pass the huge rock called the Lorelei, a woman in a blonde wig and a dress that most likely would never make it off a thrift shop rack strolls around the deck accompanied by an accordionist from central casting and sings folk songs.  While I am not convulsed, I do enjoy a good laugh at the scene.

As we roll along the trip actually starts to get boring.  A question: why is it that time passes so much faster on a train then it does on a boat or a plane?  Send your speculations to my e mail address.

We decide to eat.  The dining room is overcrowded and understaffed but the food is good, especially the sausages.  At one end of the dining area, a group of passengers are having a roaring good time, liberally lubricated with wine and beer.  They don't seem to be interested in the scenery or the castles and they seem to be enjoying themselves - may be a lesson in there somewhere.

We go back onto the sun deck where we meet a Dutch man who, with his wife, had biked from Switzerland to Koln at an 80 mile a day rate.  He is very thin and she looks anorexic and lizard-like as she suns herself.  The man is a bit of a character.  He speaks excellent English as a result of spending a couple of years at a bible school in Georgia.  He has a curious mind and is eager to answer questions about their bike trip.

It's the Lovely Lorelei

After a while even the conversation with the bicyclist gets boring so Pam and I decide to get off the boat and take the train to Mainz rather than continue the cruise.  We disembark at a little town called Bacharach, named after Bacchus not Bert.  After we locate the train station and learn the schedule we wander around town. It is anything but Bacchanalian.   I'm mostly interested in finding a WC before my bladder bursts but I can't seem to locate a public one and the one restaurant in town is filled to overflowing with dour looking customers.  I decide to relieve myself in the underpass at the train station.  Just as I get started, a train pulls in.  Damn, I'm busted and I can't stop.  Fortunately, it's a freight train so no passengers interrupt me.  Whew!

The train to Mainz arrives.  We sit in the first class section with a family that epitomizes the myth of the "Ugly American" or in their case Americans.  They had been hiking and have their feet on the seats across from them.  They also use seats instead of the floor for their backpacks.  They talk so loud I am learning more about their family relationships than I ever wanted to know.

When we arrive at Mainz we notice that an IC train headed for Frankfurt is late.  Thank goodness for the inefficiency of the German railroad system.  We decided we will pass on exploring Mainz, which I remember as a beautiful little city from attending a fasching celebration 20 years ago.  Hopefully we will get back here someday.

Bacharach, Germany

We notice the family of reputation destroying Americans is getting on the same train so we choose a different car.  The ride is pleasant and scenic.  The conductor fears that we plan to stay on the train past Frankfurt but we assure him we are not planning on doing that.  Evidently they have a lot of seats reserved leaving Frankfurt.  We arrive at the Frankfurt hauptbahnhof about the same time the boat would have delivered us to the docks at Mainz.  We made a good decision.

We decide to eat at the hotel to save time.  My train leaves for Munich at 5:30 AM so I must pack tonight.  The dining room is empty when we sit down.  I go to the desk to see if we can order some food and the clerk says, "of course."  After a few minutes a very rumpled man shows up to take our order.  We order beer and wine and after he serves the beverages, he disappears for about 20 minutes.  Turns out he's the cook as well as the waiter and the busboy too.  Management sent him over from their sister hotel, The Europa, to take care of us.  Fortunately we ordered a light meal or we might have waited a long., long time for our food.  He explains the situation.  The Europa is for tour groups and the Metropole for individual bookings, which explains the crowd at breakfast and the absence of fellow diners at dinner.

As soon as we get back to the room, I start to feel bad about separating from Pam.  I also get into my pre-departure craziness. This condition manifests itself whenever I have an early departure. Truthfully, it often manifests itself when I have any kind of departure.  I can't find items - usually because I've already packed them.  I keep checking my tickets to insure I haven't misread the departure time.  I drive everyone crazy including myself.  I finally retire and try to read myself to sleep.  I doze off until about 2:30 A.M. at which time I awaken wondering if my wake-up call will come through as scheduled.  I finally drop off again for what's left of the night - about an hour.

Art and History in Amsterdam

Amsterdam Royal Palace and Town Hall

Saturday, July 24, 2004 - Bruges to Amsterdam

While checking out we meet an interesting but slightly weird  British couple who keep asking us for recommendations on what to do and then when we give a suggestion, tell us they had already been there or done that: a particularly frustrating and new version of "The Bear Trap" from Eric Berne's Games People Play.

We ride the train to Antwerp and change for Amsterdam - a pleasant and relaxing journey.  I realize what a joy traveling by train can be compared to flying.  Except for very long trips with tight schedules, I believe train travel is the way to go in Europe.

Amsterdam Canal Across from Hotel

Our first experience with the tourist inundated Amsterdam Centraal Train Station happens when I try to make a reservation for some of our upcoming legs.  The wait is at least two and one-half hours.  We decide to try later.  We grab a taxi, driven as are most taxis in Amsterdam, by a Middle Easterner, in this case a Yemeni.  He is not carrying a knife as most of his countrymen in Yemen do but he is definitely not friendly nor is he much help as to things to do in Amsterdam.

The clerks at our hotel, Tulip Inn Amsterdam Centre, are very helpful and efficiently check us in. We get to our room on the fifth floor to find it is even smaller than our Bruges accommodations and at about twice the price.  The "Internet Disconnect" also kicks in and we find that, although they have free internet access in the lobby, if you want to connect from your room, it costs… and costs…and costs.  I had read that rooms in Amsterdam were more expensive than almost anywhere else in Europe but I am shocked at price/size ratio.  We have a delightful view of the canal across the street.  That is if we stand on our tiptoes to look out the window which is set in the roof: so much for web site truthfulness.

I may never get used to the size of European hotel rooms.  Our hotel is rated at three stars but the room is barely large enough for both of us to be in it unless one of us is in bed.  It's almost as bad as our first hotel in Japan.  We stayed in the Ueno prefecture at a so-called "Business Man's Hotel" because it was very reasonable and carried three stars.  Hah!!!!  The bed was situated so that the only way on or off it was via the foot of the bed.  The bathroom was organized so that the only way to sit on the toilet was to situate your knees under the sink and leave the door open.  We learned our lesson in Japan.  It takes us a while to learn our lesson in Europe.

I head for the lobby bar and its free internet access while, after much trouble, Pam hooks up to her company's server.  I meet a Canadian charter plane pilot over a beer.  After a 10 minute conversation, I understand why he most likely didn't fit in with the big airlines.  He has the smartest mouth I've heard in a long time and that includes a lot of smart mouths.  We discuss the Cathay Pacific pilot unrest and it turns out he has some acquaintances that were let go in the brouhaha.  He thinks they were crazy to do it given how much money they were making.  I agree with him while suspecting he would have been in the forefront of such a situation if given the chance.  

Pam joins me and we decide to have dinner at a nearby Swiss restaurant, imaginatively named the Restaurant Suisse.  The food is very good, the staff is friendly and we enjoy ourselves.  Back at the hotel, I watch a CNN special on John Kerry, who I don't know very much about.  Pam is still struggling with her computer connection when I drop off to sleep.

Vondel Park

Sunday, July 25, 2004 - Amsterdam
Our morning to explore Amsterdam turns out to be an early afternoon outing.  First we dawdle over breakfast, which is very good.  Then Pam has a one hour conversation with a colleague.  We finally get going around 11:30 A.M., forgetting that our original plan was to get started early because it's a rainy Sunday and the museums are sure to be packed.  We walk to the Rijksmuseum and note the line is very long.  "Tomorrow," we say.  We go to the Van Gogh Museum where all four lines are very long.  The young man posted to keep order tells us the wait would be at least an hour.  We decide to pass and do this museum tomorrow.  At the rate we are going we'll be doing all the museums in one day.  Frustrated we head for Vondel Park even though it's raining, figuring the park won't be so crowded because of the weather.

Amsterdam Historical Museum

Vondel Park reminds me of Golden Gate Park in San Francisco.  In fact, A lot of Amsterdam reminds me of San Francisco - the street people hanging out everywhere, the public squares full of slightly stoned young people, the trams, the restaurants, the neighborhoods, the harbor, etc., etc. 

We walk around the park enjoying the uncrowded atmosphere.  The only sour note is offered by a street person who keeps following us and trying to give us information we don't want, like the free concert schedule for the rest of the summer.  In spite of the rain, there are people playing football, walking their babies and dogs, which are sometimes hard to separate, jogging or bicycling.  One distressed gentleman is trying to get to his dog which is on the opposite side of a pond from him.  Neither of the parties, canine or human, thinks to use the nearby bridge.  I try to point this out but am ignored by both of them. 

Moving right along, we leave the park and walk through the Leidseplein, a touristy restaurant and small hotel area to Kalverstraat which is even kitschier.  Along the way we visit the floating Flower Market, a very crowded venue.  Lots of tulip bulbs for sale, as you might imagine.

Kalver Straat is a pedestrian only zone.  You don't even have to dodge bicycles in this area.  The street contains, record stores, souvenir shops, franchise restaurants and clothes shops selling every kind of avant-garde outfit you can imagine.   Pam and I stop at a soup and baguette place, which we agree isn't too bad perhaps because we are faint with hunger. 

We walk to Dam Square which houses the National Monument and is surrounded by many architectural wonders including the Royal Palace/Town Hall.  I take some pictures which you can access on my Photo site in the Amsterdam Album.

The square is full of young people smoking and toking, walking and talking, sleeping and eating and just hanging out.  We wander around soaking it all in.  I start to think about visiting one of Amsterdam's famous "Coffee Shops" where marijuana and hashish are sold over the counter.  Pam had earlier expressed some concern about my doing that and the more I thought about it, the less appealing the idea was.  We have so much to see and I'm afraid I'll run out of energy if I get stoned.  We consider visiting Amsterdam's Red Light District, too, but figure that, during the day, it would just be boring and ugly.

In spite of Rick Steves' lukewarm recommendation, we decide to visit the Amsterdam Historical Museum.  We are glad we do.  I learn a lot, not only about Amsterdam, but also about the history of Holland and it's relation to the rest of Europe.  The museum is well designed.  I'm especially impressed with the 17th Century and WW II sections.

The Anne Frank House in 1942

We decide to visit the Anne Frank House.  When we arrive, the line to get in stretches around the block but we decide to tough it out in the rain.  Later we find that the place is open in the evening and is much less crowded.  Nevertheless, the wait is worth the experience even though the Foundation does not allow picture taking.

I find it very difficult to manage my emotions while exploring the house.  I keep asking myself, "How could such horrible things happen?  Why are they still happening?  Why do I feel so powerless to do anything about it?"  I've seen the movie and I've read excerpts from the diary but this tour of the house is far more moving.

Anne Frank's Room

I lose it when I see the videotapes of her father talking about the diary and his daughter.  She was just a young girl yet she was forced to hole up for two years and eventually died in a concentration camp.  I just don't get it!  I also realize how brave, the Dutch people who covered for them were.  I wonder if I would be as brave.  I don't know.

The last exhibit takes the edge off.  It's an interactive presentation about Neo-Nazism and Freedom of Speech. The problem is that it is too abstract and too long.  It becomes boring after about ten minutes so I move on to the bookstore and café.  Pam and I have cappuccinos and I watch the other patrons enjoying themselves.  As I de-compress, I wonder if they, especially the young ones, are touched by what they have seen or are just part of a tour, following a guide book or tagging along with their folks and thinking it is just another museum.  I hope not but I think so.

We walk along the canals to our hotel.  On the way, Pam makes the mistake of walking in a bike path. The bike riders yell at her and one actually tries to intimidate her by steering his bike towards her and veering off at the last instant.   I'm sure I would learn some usable Dutch curses if I knew what they were saying. 

We dine at the Divinder Restaurant, a small continental place on Overtoom Straat - excellent food, attentive service and an Amsterdam-like price but worth it.  We have Irish coffees across the street at an Irish Pub.  Unfortunately, even though we are in the dairy capital of Europe, the coffee comes with canned whipped cream.

Back at the hotel Pam hits the internet.  I get my news fix off CNN.  I fall asleep to the clicking of keyboard keys and the recounting of today's tragedies in Iraq and elsewhere.

Rijks Museum

Monday, July 26, 2004 - Amsterdam

I am 67 years old today.  I don't feel like I thought I would feel when I imagined being in my late sixties, 40 years ago.  I am reasonably healthy, have few financial worries, am active, am mentally as sharp as ever, etc.  So why is it, I'm slightly depressed by the thought of being 67?  I believe it's knowing that I have a limited number of years left to do all the things I could have done when I was younger but didn't because I had plenty of time.  Got that? 

We have planned a full day.  Yesterday we discovered that the desk people at the Tulip, for a small service charge, can sell us tickets to the major museums so we don't have to stand in long lines.  The breakfasts continue to be excellent with lots of variety and fresh fruit.  We're still bummed out about the size of the room but at the rate we are eating breakfast, it will seem even smaller.

Off to the Rijksmuseum we go.  As you may have already guessed there are no lines.  They must have heard we bought tickets in advance and shortened the lines, accordingly.  The museum itself is considerably more interesting than I thought I would be.  It is under renovation so I had curbed my expectations.  There are many Rembrandts, of course, including  Night Watch but also Vermeers, Hals', Steens and numerous others.  We spend almost twice as long as we planned.

Our next stop is the Van Gogh Museum. Is it possible to get too much of Van Gogh?  We come close, here.  Fortunately we also visit the "Edouard Manet and the Sea" traveling exhibit which includes other impressionists like Pissaro, Monet and Renoir and this tempers the "Van Goghness" considerably.  The whole time we are in the museum, I keep hearing Don McLean's "Vincent" (Starry, Starry Night) in my head.  I can't stop it.  The song has taken over my mind.  I get some weird looks and I realize I'm also humming it.  "I gotta get outta here."

Resistance Museum Exhibit

We decide to lunch on the Museum Plein that's set between the two museums before buying an excursion ticket for the The Canal Company boats.  We ride the boat to Centraal Station.  We see hundreds of houseboats tied up along the canals.  We are fascinated by their variety and strangeness.  Evidently, there are very few spaces left for people to live on their boats but a lot of people do. 

At the station, we walk around the area.  We visit St. Nicholaas Church, but pass on the more famous Oude Kerk or Old Church.  We could spend every waking hour visiting tourist-worthy churches in Europe and still miss some of them.  St Nicholaas is showing its age but is still beautiful and worth exploring. 

We take another canal boat, this one going south and west on the canals.  We see a lot of the harbor including the old forts and warehouses which now make up the Maritime Museum.  The boat captain takes a chance, at our urging, and drops us off at an unused dock, saving us about a mile walk to get to where we want to go.  We have to choose between visiting the zoo and the Resistance Museum.  Zoos are everywhere.  We choose the museum. 

I lose myself in the exhibits.  I am depressed and uplifted simultaneously.  We budget an hour and spend two.  The exhibits are well done and educational.  They cover everything from early cooperation to eventual wide spread resistance.  I wish Bush and his minions could see this.  Maybe they would understand the nature of resistance to an invader better . 

At first the German's treated the Dutch as possible collaborators to the extent even, that a volunteer Dutch regiment was formed to fight on the Eastern Front.  The Germans thought the Dutch would be sympathetic.  A political party urging loyalty to the German occupiers, Nederlandse Unie-NU (the Netherlands Union) was established and millions of Dutch paid their dues and joined.  Things started to break down when the Germans started arresting Jews.  Dutch labor leaders called for a successful one day work stoppage.  Events went downhill from there.  I am especially fascinated with the exhibits showing what daily life was like during the occupation and how people hid their resistance activities.

We walk to the nearest canal boat stop through the lovely Jodenbuurt and Plantage area including Hortus Botanicus and Wertheim Park.  We ride the boat back to the Leidseplein stop near our hotel.  What a relaxing way of getting around Amsterdam.  I love it!  We still need to lie down for a short while before meeting my friend from Mattel, Phil Taylor, for dinner.

I'm not sure why but we decide to eat at a nearby Italian spot, Bice Ristorante.  I guess it's because of location, location, location.  The food and wine is O.K. but pricey.  We discuss all kinds of things through dinner from the Holocaust to how he likes living in Holland.   Phil admits he misses the pace of life in Hong Kong but enjoys the lifestyle in The Netherlands especially for the kids.  Phil is a rarity - a human resources executive who is inventive, realistic and likes people.  I believe it is because he was a line manager at one time. 

We get back to the hotel in time to catch the latest bad news on CNN.  Even Pam is too tired to access the internet so we both fall asleep almost instantly after turning off the TV.  The last thing I am aware of is "Starry, Starry Night" still playing in my head.  At least it isn't "Happy Birthday."

Beautiful and Brave Belgium

Thalys Train

Wednesday, July 21, 2004 - Orleans to Bruges, Belgium

We arise early this morning to check out and move on to Belgium.  Breakfast at this hotel is not the greatest, though they do have fresh fruit.  I realize the French are not into breakfasts as the English and Americans are and I was spoiled in England.  They could at least have fresh croissants, though.  Whine, whine.

The train ride to Paris, Gare d'Austerlitz, is quick, slightly over an hour.  We get very confused trying to find a taxi and wait at the drop off point for a while until we figure it out.  The taxi driver we eventually capture can best be described as surly.  My French is poor so I tend to assume I'm not understood but I have to ask him three times before he will acknowledge that he understands where we want to go.  When we get to Gare du Nord, he refuses to accept my €10 note because it has a bank stamp on it.  I catch myself wishing I had a counterfeit note with no bank stamp on it to give him. 

What is it about Parisian taxi drivers?  New York hacks are veritable good-will ambassadors compared to Parisians.  This is only one of many instances of problems I have had with taxis in Paris.  I drove a taxi myself, years ago, so I know it's no bed of roses but I always figured angering the passengers would only make things worse.  C'est la vie!

The train station is chaotic as are most European train stations.  We manage to find a seat at one of the cafés and figure out how to order coffee and rolls.  Pam gets hooked into a long phone conversation with one of her associates in Hong Kong while I try to remind her she is on vacation.  Mobile phones are not always a blessing.  They are often intrusive and annoying.  

We board our Thalys train to Brussels.  Thalys are high-speed inter-city trains that travel in excess of 200 kph.  We find that the €40 we spent for reservations was wasted.  There were plenty of empty seats in first class.  I was told by someone that I should reserve seats in the summer but my experience is that reservations are not necessary except on over-night trains where they are required.  I believe second class is a different story.  Partially, I suspect, because Student Eurail passes are second class only.  Refreshments are served and are complimentary and it is a very comfortable trip.

We arrive at Midi Station in Brussels and I head for the departure board to check the track number for the train we are planning to take to Bruges.  Whoops, no such train number.  I rush to the nearest information booth to find out how I can get to Bruges.  The agent tells me the track number and the time for the next train, about 15 minutes from now, and Pam and I rush to get situated.  Later I figure out how I screwed up.  There are three train stations in Brussels and as Rick Steves points out, the Belgians can't seem to make up their minds which one they want to feature so there are trains going everywhere in Belgium from each station unlike Paris and London where different stations serve different regions.  The train number I had leaves from Central Station not Midi and the internet site I got the information from does not specify the station.  I also found out later that there is an underground shuttle between all three stations so I was unduly worried about being stranded in Brussels.  Nevertheless, I am relieved to be speeding towards Bruges.

At Bruges, when we get off the train, we try to find an elevator rather than trying to wrestle our bags down stairs.  Because she stores her garment bag inside her duffel Pam's bag is as large as a small city and equally as unwieldy going up and down stairs.  We find an elevator that deposits us in a service corridor with no directional signs and about a thousand stored bicycles.  After wandering around for a while, we stumble out a swinging door and find ourselves in the main terminal.  Acting as if we knew where we were going all along, we nonchalantly head for the taxi queue and ask the driver to take us to our hotel, The Grand Oude Burg.

Bruges Bell Tower

No Paris attitude here.  The driver is very helpful and even helps us carry our bags into the hotel lobby.  We check in to find what I am labeling the "Internet Disconnect."  That is, though the hotel says it has internet service, what is meant by that is open to wide and variable interpretation.  In this case, they have wireless access but the guest must purchase a converter and a card that costs €25 for three hours.  At Pam's rate of internet usage we may end up paying more for the internet connection than the room itself.  Additionally frustrating us, no one seems to know exactly how the whole thing works because hardly anyone ever uses the service.  I bite my tongue rather than mention to Pam that most people on holiday don't work full time while vacationing. 

In addition they have a €10 an hour terminal in the lobby which doesn't work very well.  I had hoped to access my e-mail while Pam attacked hers but I could not make the connection to my ISP.  I'm afraid that spam will overwhelm my capacity and any real e-mail messages I get will be returned to sender.  I return to our room to find Pam busily responding to the seeming hundreds of people who communicate with her daily. 

I head for the bar, order a beer, and get into a friendly discussion with the bartender and his friend about Lance Armstrong and the Tour de France which is being shown on the T.V. set in the bar.  Surprising as it may be to non-fans of bicycle racing, Lance is not universally admired, in spite of his miraculous recovery from testicular cancer and having captured five Tour de France titles in a row.  Real fans think, since he only races in the Tour de France, he has an unfair advantage over all the other riders.  I try to explain that he is just doing what most Americans would do, that is go for the main prize while not worrying about all the little prizes.  I use the example of the play-off system in so many sports, both American and European, where there is only one winner and many losers.  They don't buy it but we have fun arguing about it anyway.

Pam shows up and on the bartender's recommendation we go to a nearby Flemish restaurant, Shtilderhuis.  We have delightful dinner.  I try the onion soup and a Flemish rabbit stew which is great.  Afterwards we walk to the market square where there is a large concert going on in honor of Belgium's National Day.  The music, however, is rap, Flemish or French rap, I can't tell which.  After listening and watching for a while, I consider joining the ranks of those who oppose the cultural invasion of Europe by American music.  The scene is weird.  I would have expected folk dancing and national songs not rap.  We leave after a bit and find a quiet corner for a cup of cappuccino before heading to our hotel where Pam can once again feed her e-mail compulsion and I can go to sleep.

Basilica of the Holy Blood, Bruges

Thursday, July 22, 2004 - Bruges
After a great breakfast, we decide to explore Bruges on foot.  This is not as difficult as it may seem since the inner city only covers about one square mile.  We start at the Bell Tower, which is still used to mark the time every quarter hour and is slightly skewed: something I plan to document when I can get far enough away to capture it on film.  Pam and I decide to not climb the 366 steps to the tower's observation area but instead walk down a delightful side street to the municipal square.  You can see pictures of the tower and all the other highlights on my Bruges Photo page.

Bruges City Hall

We visit City Hall which dates back to the 15th century when Bruges was a major trading center and seaport.  The murals are both beautiful and historically interesting.   We next visit the Basilica of the Holy Blood where supposedly Christ’s blood re-liquefies periodically.  While we are there, a ceremony is going on to honor “His Sacrifice.”  I don’t see the blood liquefy, though.  Damn!  It is, nevertheless, a fascinating ceremony taking place in a beautiful church.

After a quick stop at the Tourist Center, we walk to the Groeninge Museum .  This museum is housed in an old restored palace-type residence and is one of the most efficiently organized museums I've visited.  The audio guide is most instructive.  It tells you more than you may have ever wanted to know about each of the paintings.  The collection is obviously focused on early or "Primitive" Flemish artists particularly Jan Van Eyck, but they have a good selection of more modern paintings.  The museum also has a delightful garden.  We take a break under the shade trees.

Our next stop is the Church of Our Lady, which contains Michelangelo's Madonna and the tombs of Charles the Bold and his daughter Mary.  As you can see from the pictures, it is a beautiful church.  Pam has the time and energy to visit the choir but I'm fading fast so we decide to visit the local Half Moon Brewery for a tour.  

The tour is fun but a little disappointing because they no longer brew beer at this location.  There is, however, a lot of historical information to absorb.  It is obvious the Belgians take their beer seriously.  At the end of the tour we are having our complimentary beer when we meet a delightful couple, Mike and Brenda, from Colorado, who have taken a year off to travel around the world.  They quit their jobs, sold their house and took off.  I'm in awe of their adventurous courage.  I doubt I would have done what they were doing when I was their age.  It doesn't seem to bother them, though.  Maybe all the stories of the depression I heard from my parents had more of an effect on me than I'm willing to admit.

Together, the four of us head for the Beguinage.  Now a Benedictine convent, it was at one time a place where religiously inclined women who did not want to be nuns, could live away from the rest of society.  It is certainly a peaceful spot with a beautiful garden surrounded by living quarters and a small chapel.  I am surprised to see a nun wearing a habit.  I rarely see nuns wearing habits, except in the Philippines.  We leave Mike and Brenda practicing their French with a couple they meet and we walk to a nearby park that has a canal running through it.  I'm exhausted but Pam wants to walk much farther than I do.  She takes off and I find a grassy spot next to the canal under a tree where I can contemplate my declining level of fitness.

When Pam returns, we walk back to our hotel.  I'm tempted to take a horse drawn carriage but I resist the temptation and instead we hike back.  As soon as we arrive, Pam checks her e-mails and I hit the bar for a beer and more discussion about Lance Armstrong and the Tour de France. 

An hour later we choose a restaurant on Simon Stevin Square for dinner.  I believe it is actually named the Simon Stevin restaurant.  The outdoor venue is across the street from the restaurant proper.  The food is great but the service is not so good.  I guess if I have to choose between the two, I'll take the food. 

We have an after dinner drink at our hotel and even more discussion about Lance Armstrong before I finally, totally run out of steam, ascend to our room and pass out.

Tyne Cot Cemetery with Cross of Sacrifice

Friday, July 23, 2004 - Ypres and Ypres Salient

This is our day to visit the WW I battlefields in the Ypres Salient.  We walk to the pick-up point for the tour.  Sharon of Quasimodo Tours picks us up in a van.  She is an interesting person: half Flemish and half Aussie but born in Penang, Malaysia when her father, who had joined the Aussie air force was stationed there.  Our tour companions are an Australian couple living in Cambodia, a couple from New Zealand and a very knowledgeable British gentleman.  A most interesting group and we are looking forward to the day. 

Our first stop is the Tyne Cot Cemetery.  It got its name because members of a British regiment from Newcastle thought a cottage in the area reminded them of their homeland on the Tyne River.  It is the largest cemetery in the salient and contains a wall with the names of almost 35,000 British Empire troops who were killed after August 16, 1917 and whose bodies were never identified.  The cemetery includes two German bunkers, one with the Cross of Sacrifice on it.  There are over 30 British Empire cemeteries in this area, consolidated from about four times that number after the war ended.  Pictures of this cemetery and all the other places we see on this tour are on my Ypres photo site.

We visit the New Zealand Memorial at Gravenstafel where many New Zealanders died in the Third Battle of Ypres sometimes called Passchendaele.   Many Kiwis and Aussies, to say nothing of Canadians, Indians, Pakistanis, Africans, and other soldiers from the far reaches of the empire died in this 10 or 15 square mile area.  It was a slaughter house.  I have a great deal of trouble understanding how men could have faced the terrors of not only the German guns but also drowning in the swampy bog, they were fighting in.  The thought of it reminds me of a scene from The Bridge On the River Kwai, when, after the bridge is blown up, the camp doctor wanders down the river bed uttering the words  "Madness, madness, madness." over and over.

We next visit Hellfire Corner which every soldier had to pass on his way to the front and which the Germans had zeroed in on with their artillery.  One of the most interesting facts is that approximately 3 tons of unexploded ammunition is dug up by farmers and others every year.  There is a Belgian Army unit that does nothing but collect this ammo and dispose of it.  There are pick-up points along the roads where the farmers leave the shells to be picked up weekly, I believe.  As we drove around the area we could see shells in the cement containers provided for them.

We stop for lunch at the Hooge Crater Museum.   It is a small but very well done museum with a small cafeteria: well worth the 30 minutes it takes to browse through it.  After lunch we visit Hill 60 where the British spent over 18 months building tunnels in which to place 19 huge mines which would then be detonated just before a planned attack.  The mines were indeed exploded and Hill 60 taken in the Battle of Messines.  We climb up the hill and see that the craters from the explosion are still there as well as German bunkers and other artifacts from 80 years ago.  By this time we are getting confused as to what happened when and so we buy a small study guide to try to fix the chronology in our minds.  It's titled simply YPRES 1914-1918 and was written and self published by a British history teacher, Leslie Coate.  This helps considerably.  I find that Michael Duffy's First World War.com website is also a good source for understanding the chronology of WW I.

We visit an American Memorial near Mt. Kemmel.  Evidently a few American National Guard units were assigned to the Ypres Salient, poor bastards.  Calling Mt. Kemmel a mountain is a definite overstatement but in this area it is the only rise that is over 100 meters above sea level hence the title: mountain.

Menin Gate Memorial, Ypres

In the mid-afternoon we go to Ypres to see the Menin Gate Memorial with its 58,000 names of soldiers whose bodies were never found.  It is also the site, every night, of a ceremony in which at 8:00 P.M. traffic is stopped and buglers from the Ypres Fire Brigade play the Last Post.   While we will not see the "Last Post" ceremony, the Memorial is overwhelming in its size and the events it memorializes.  I have a difficult time sorting out my emotions about a war that happened 80 years ago but was so brutal and useless.  The British man on our tour, points out that WW I and WW II were the European equivalent of the U.S. Civil War with a 20 year cease fire and an outside intervention from the U.S. to end it.  I think that observation makes a lot of sense and helps me see the conflict with a different perspective.

We also explore the town itself and I am really impressed with the care and detail that was brought to rebuilding Ypres after 1918.  We visit a recently uncovered trench just outside Ypres.  The trench and a number of corpses were discovered by an amateur group of archeologists who call themselves "The Diggers." They have done an excellent job of re-building the trench so we can experience a little of what it was like for the Allied soldiers.  

Our last stop is The Essex Farm Cemetery where Lt. Col. John McCrae, a Canadian Doctor worked at a medical dressing station during the Second Battle of Ypres in 1915.   He is best remembered for his poem, "In Flanders Fields," written during the lulls between batches of arriving casualties.  The dugouts he worked in are still preserved.  There are paper and plastic poppies everywhere we visit as they have become the symbol of remembrance of those who died so needlessly in the so-called "Great War."  It's time to head back to Bruges before I become terminally depressed.

I have an interesting conversation with Sharon on the drive back to Bruges.  It looks like she's going to become a partner in Quasimodo.  I suspect she has more than earned it. 

After a short nap, Pam and I head for dinner at the Breydel de Connick Restaurant on Beder Strasse.  This is one of the better known restaurants in Bruges and it deserves every bit of its reputation.  I order the steamed mussels in white wine, cream and onions.  Magnifique!  Pam has the fish soup which is exceptional.  We grab a table at one of the sidewalk cafés on Belfort Square for coffee and a Belgian waffle.  We can't leave Belgium without having had a waffle with strawberries and whipped cream. Dessert is terrific.  Fully sated, we return to our hotel for a great night's sleep, only slightly disturbed by the rumble of our bellies digesting the great food we have eaten.

La Belle France

Eurostar Train

July 18, 2004 - London, Paris and Orleans I am up early and excited about meeting Pam in Paris and also riding the Eurostar for the first time.  I walk to the station in a light rain which actually reminds me I'm still in England.  The Waterloo International Station is a madhouse.  I manage to grab a coffee and a roll while waiting for the check-in lines to shorten.  This is a miscalculation.  The lines only get longer.  It's Sunday morning in the middle of the summer.  I ask myself, "What did you expect?"  I answer, "Not this much of a madhouse." 

I decide to see if I can by-pass the lines by checking in electronically.  Wrong!  I stand in a madhouse of a check-in line.  I go through the madhouse of Immigration. I wait in the madhouse of a waiting area where there are not even close to enough chairs to sit on.  I stand in the madhouse of a line waiting for the boarding call.  Wait; there are two lines depending on whether you are in the front or the back of the train.  I'm in the wrong line.  I change lines.  The boarding doors open.  Both lines merge so I'm now at the end of both lines.  I give up and take a now empty seat.  After a while I get at the end of the line(s) and finally reach my assigned car, board, deposit my luggage on top of everyone else's and find my seat.  It's a single, thanks be to the seat reservation gods.  I need a drink.  This is worse than the average airport but at least I'm on my way.

The ride is very enjoyable with good food, good beer and wine, good service, and the exciting feeling of traveling on land at 250 kilometers per hour in a relatively noiseless, relatively vibration-free atmosphere.  In retrospect, it is better than struggling to get to and from airports and while the hassle is similar, the rewards make it worthwhile.  It's impossible to see what we are passing because we are going so fast.  The only way to observe the scenery is to fix my gaze into the distance.

Gare du Nord, Paris

I notice a nearby couple having all sorts of trouble adjusting their seats and eating their food.  They are immensely overweight and I ponder on how difficult it must be to go through life with such a handicap.  It also affects their behavior in other ways as they find it hard to be civil to the attendants and are constantly drawing attention to themselves.  Obesity may be the last prejudice to fall.  I know that, even though I'm overweight myself, I tend to avoid obese people.

We arrive at Gare du Nord and I must make my way to Gare d'Austerlitz.  But first, I must run a gauntlet of dark hued, apparently dispossessed women with cards in English asking for money.  First, they ask if you speak English, then if you answer, "yes," they shove this card in your face, which I'm sure relates a sad story of fatherless children and political oppression.  I do not have to actually read the card to know the gist of its content.  I say no, three or four times each time a little bit louder.  These are the situations where being "The Voice" is a positive attribute.  I think following the Nancy Reagan advice to, "Just say no" might have worked better.

I retreat to the public toilets which are fee-based depending on what you wish to do.  Washing your hands is free.  Urinating costs €.50.  Dumping is €1.00.  Showering is €5.00.  I take the €.50 option, relieve myself and am washing my hands when one of the "card" ladies enters the toilet area and shoves her card in my face as I'm washing my hands.  I lose it, slightly, and summoning the full power of "The Voice," inform her of my total disinterest in her plight.  In return, I get the dirtiest look I've gotten since I left a small tip at an over-priced under-serviced New York City restaurant.

Now, in my agitated state I must find the entrance to the Metro and figure out how to make my way to Gare du Austerlitz.  I manage to calm down, find the Metro, read the map, make my destination known to the cashier, buy my ticket and struggle with my bags to the loading platform.  The Paris Metro is no more user-friendly than the London Tube for baggage-challenged people like me.  Getting the bags onto the train is even more challenging as the train is quite full and my baggage and I take up a lot of space.  I finally get to the Austerlitz station and struggle up the stairs to the railroad part.  Now I must find Pam.

I head for the departure area and look up at the departure board to find out which track our train is leaving from, when I hear a slightly distressed American woman trying to communicate what she wants to know with a young, female information agent who speaks almost no English.  Yes, it's Pammie.  I rescue her from the situation and after a long hug, point out that our train is posted on the departure board and we can best take care of ourselves by having some wine or beer while we wait.  She enthusiastically agrees and after only a little confusion about which part of the eating area is for those who only wish to drink, we catch up on what's been going on for the both of us.

Pam has just come from the Canary Islands where she was attending a Company meeting for those who achieved their annual goals.  So it was mostly fun and food with a minimum amount of work involved.   I fill her in on my Hadrian's Wall adventure and soon it's train time.

The train to Orleans is not air-conditioned so we ride with the windows open.  It's not terribly hot but every time a train goes by in the opposite direction, the sound of the compressed air makes us both jump about a foot in the air.  No-one ever checks for tickets and we never see a conductor.  On arrival, we head for the TI only to find it's closed on Sunday.  We know our hotel, the Terminus; is across from the train station.  We just don't know which exit.  Naturally we pick the wrong one.   When we do get to the hotel, since it's Sunday, the clerk is very inexperienced and speaks almost no English but we manage to get to our room only to find that Pam can't connect to the Internet.

Place du Matroi, Orleans

Prior to this trip, Pam had made it very clear to me that she wanted to stay in hotels with Internet access, because of her need to check for e-mail messages and I complied by reserving at only those hotels that said they had Internet connections available, either direct or via direct-dial.  What I eventually discovered was that my definition of Internet access and each hotel's definition were often at odds.  In this case the phone input for the computer is very different from the kind of hook-up we are expecting.  I wish I could describe it better but the "French Connection," as I came to call it, requires a flat piece of metal that slides into a slot in the phone.  I take our connection to the desk clerk to see what I can do to get Pam connected and am unsuccessful.  It being Sunday, finding a hardware or phone store is out of the question.  I hang in there and with liberal use of hands and props such as a phone and a computer she finally realizes that we need a connection into the "French Connection."  Being a total sweetheart she unplugs one of her computers and sure enough it's an adapter cord that will allow us to use the modem to access the server so Pam can retrieve her e-mails.  I promise to bring it back in the morning and I return to the room triumphant.  Time for a glass of wine!

While Pam satisfies her e-mail addiction, I drink a couple glasses of white wine.  We then head for dinner. We choose a nearby brasserie, L'Entracte.  We have a superb meal.  I discover on this trip that I and my companions seem to get better food when we pick a restaurant that we see and like rather than choose one recommended by either hotel staff or a guidebook.  I think that European food is generally very good and so it's hard to go wrong.  It's at the crowded popular places I am more likely to be disappointed. 

After dinner, Pam and I walk the streets of Orleans: partially to learn our way around, partially to walk off our dinner but mostly to find tomorrow night's restaurant.  We stroll across Place du Martroi and are charmed by the architecture of the buildings with their wrought iron balconies and arched windows.  Down a side street off the square, we discover what looks like a restaurant row and decide to return tomorrow night and choose one of them for dinner.  Orleans turns out to be much more interesting than I thought it would be. 

We return to our room hoping there is not too much street noise so we can leave the window open.  It's Sunday night so we are fine.  The evening breeze keeps the room cool and we sleep well.

Ste Croix Cathedral, Orleans

Monday, July 19, 2004 – Orleans

We get a late start this morning: partially because we decide to take it easy and partially because Pam hits the internet after a pedestrian breakfast in the hotel dining room.  The desk clerk is one of the most unhelpful hotel people I run into on this whole trip.  When asked for information, he refers me to the TI office, which is closed and when I point this out he gives me the well known Gallic shrug.  I decide I prefer inexperienced clerks like the young woman from last night to a surly experienced clerk like I am confronted with this morning.  I decide to take the high road and ignore his behavior. 

Pam finally shows and we head for the Ste Croix Cathedral.  It is a very beautiful church and has a memorial to the U.S. soldiers who died in France in WWII.  You can see pictures of the church in the Loire Valley Album on my photo site.    Unfortunately we discover that all the tourist offices and many of the sites are closed on Monday as well as Sunday.  We decide to see what we can and then do laundry.  Not very exciting but it fits in with our "take it easy" day.

Hotel Groslet Garden, Orleans

I find that while traveling as a tourist it’s important to take time off from being a tourist.  The temptation to try to see everything can be very powerful and it’s easy to become obsessive about seeing all that the guide books recommend.  One of the things I like about Rick Steves’ books is that he rates the sites based on what he likes and that makes it easier to pick and choose among all the opportunities.  I don’t always agree with him.  It’s kind of like movie reviews.  I have a few reviewers I trust and 90% of the time if they like a movie I like it and if they don’t like a film I usually don’t like it either but once in a while I disagree with them just as they disagree with one another.  So it is with guide books but the two I most depend on Rick Steves and Lonely Planet are usually right on and that allows me to limit my touring commitments.  It’s also good to take a half day off every once in a while and just hang out, do laundry, write postcards, read or just sit at a sidewalk café and people watch.

After the Cathedral we head for the Hotel Groslet, built in the 16th century as a palace for Francois II, it is a strange little place with much historical significance and some beautiful appointments and paintings from the 17th and 18th centuries.  It also has a delightful garden we stroll around in and take pictures, of course.  After the hotel we head for Martroi square and the statue of Jeanne d’Arc.  We also check out Place Generale de Gaulle but it turns out to be “tres ugly.”  Across from the square, we try the Joan of Arc House where she stayed for 10 days during the siege of Orleans in 1429. Pictures of Orleans can be seen in the Orleans Album.  Unfortunately it's closed so we go back to the hotel; grab a quick lunch at the Eucalyptus Brasserie, pack up our dirty clothes and head for the nearest launderette which is about a kilometer from the hotel. 
While waiting for our clothes to wash, I look for a place to enjoy a beer and do find a nearby café that is getting ready to close but whose owners are willing to allow me to have a quick beer while they clean up around me.  After moving the clothes to the drier, I convince Pam to join me at the Cambodian delicatessen down the street and we have some horrible snacks that the owner heats up in the micro-wave.  I think I’ll stick to brasseries from now on.

We return to the hotel and spend the rest of our “day off” reading and napping.  We go out for dinner and I decide to try a pint of a so-called abbey brewed beer, Gimbrel’s.  One of its attractions is that it’s 6% alcohol as opposed to the usual 4.8%.  One of its drawbacks is a very strong sour after-taste.  I think I’ll stick to pilsners and lagers from now on.  We head for the restaurant area we had uncovered the previous evening row and decide to try the Le Brin Restaurant which features mussels.  The French steam their mussels in a wine, cream and onion mixture which at first, I thought would be unappetizing but it is delicious.  I love French mussels.  Unfortunately the rest of the meal is barely average and the house white wine is below average.  We are disappointed.  This is, after all, the Loire Valley. 

We decide to have dessert at a different place preferably, a sidewalk café.  We find a likely spot on the Place du Martroi and order a Tarte Tatin, an incredibly delicious apple concoction.  The coffee and cappuccino are “tourist” quality.  I expected better but I discover the French do not take their coffee as seriously as the Italians do.

We stroll back to our hotel and I read myself to sleep while Pam voraciously attacks her e-mails.  The noise from the downstairs brasserie drifts up through our window and is annoying but doesn’t keep us from sleeping after a while.  Where is Larry’s static machine when I need it?

Chateau Blois

Tuesday, July 20, 2004 - Blois, Chambord and Cherverny

Today is the day we are to visit some of the chateaus in the valley.  We get a little later start than we had planned.  The garbage collectors wake me up at 4:00 AM and although I am able to get back to sleep an hour or so later, I oversleep.  Pam's devotion to the e-mail experience also delays us somewhat.

We take the train to Blois.  I still can't pronounce it correctly but it is anything but "blah."  We walk to the chateau which is slightly uphill from the train station.  The vistas are beautiful.  I take a number of photos which you can see on my photo album page under "Loire Valley."  The chateau is beautifully preserved and has a fascinating history.  I, of course, take more pictures. 

When we complete our tour, we walk through the center of town to the train station.  The town of Blois has configured a number of walks highlighting different aspects of its history and attractions.  Each walk has a different symbol attached to it.  These symbols are inlaid into the cement of the sidewalks so it is easy to follow the correct path.  Because of this, Pam and I make it safely back to the train station without getting lost.  This is where we are to board a municipal bus that visits both the Chambord and Cheverney chateaus.  We like the idea of being dropped off to explore on our own and then re-boarding the same bus to go to the next chateau.  It's better than using scheduled busses or even a "hop on, hop off" tourist bus. 

Chambord is overwhelming: hundreds of rooms, dozens of stair cases, many turrets and walkways and 500 years of history.  It took almost a hundred years just to finish its construction.  In the hour and a half we have, we can barely scratch the surface.  I particularly like the royal apartments of Louis XIV.  The copies of Italian paintings are the least worthwhile attraction in my opinion.  We only get lost three or four times while exploring the place.  The grounds are also beautiful but we have no time to walk them so we just appreciate them from afar as we stand on the chateau walls.

We move next to Cheverney.  If Hollywood created a Chateau, it would most likely look exactly like Cheverney.  It's near perfect.  My Loire Valley photos do a better job of illustrating this than my words can.  Cheverney is still owned by the original family and they have done a magnificent job of maintaining it.  Aside from the main house which is exquisitely furnished, the lawns and gardens are incredible.  The trophy room has hundreds of antler racks hanging from the ceiling and the walls.  The owners keep over a hundred dogs for the hunt which is done European style as opposed to the U.S. style of stalking.  They must get permission every year from the government to take a certain number of deer so that those that are left can survive on the available food.  We are sorry to go when we have to board the bus back to Blois.

The train we take to Orleans is a very local, local.  It stops many times and gives us an opportunity to see small villages and settlements.  We arrive in Orleans very hungry and immediately head for an Alsatian brasserie we had scoped out previously, La Cigogne.  The choice turns out to be a definite improvement over the previous night's venue both in terms of food and service.  I order sausage with choucroute.  Choucroute is sauerkraut that's been rinsed in white wine.  For my palate, it is far more edible than German style sauerkraut.  Pam has a salad as usual and also samples my plate of goodies.  I eat and drink so much, I can't even consider dessert but it's worth it.

I have trouble sleeping because I seem to have picked up an allergy to something in the Loire Valley air.  I think it's the wheat fields that trigger my sneezing, watery eyes and headache.  The customers at the brasserie immediately beneath our open window do not provide a soothing backdrop either.  Pam comes up with an anti-histamine so I at last drop into a drugged slumber.

Tuesday, July 13, 2004 – Hexham, Haltwhistle, Twice-Brewed

The mileage estimate for today’s hike is 11.5 miles so I decide to do my laundry.   I agree to do some of Tom’s, too.  Dave assures me there is a launderette in Hexham.  I grab the bus, laundry bag in hand, only to discover there is no launderette in Hexham.  After asking a lot of questions, I realize the nearest one is in Haltwhistle, which is my day’s destination.  Looks like I’ll be doing laundry this afternoon.  Dave was correct, though, about Internet access at the library so I spend two hours catching up on e-mail and deleting spam. 

I plan to visit Hexham Abbey, the Parish Church of St. Andrew, but for some reason it’s closed from 11:30 AM to 1:30 PM.  I head for the TI office to double check my launderette information.  On the way, I visit the open-air Hexham Market.  The strawberries and tomatoes look fantastic, no hydroponic junk here.  I buy a tomato and eat it as I would eat an apple. It’s juicy and tasty.  I vow to have a bowl of fresh strawberries, first chance I get.

I am very impressed with the lady who helps me in the TI.  After verifying my information, she volunteers to call the local caravan park to see if the owner will let me use his laundry facilities.  In fact every TI, I visit in England, is staffed with people who search for ways to help me.  I do not find the same dedication in either France or Germany.  Maybe it’s a language thing but I suspect it’s more an English cultural value of politeness and helpfulness.  This value does not extend, however, to the caravan park owner and he turns the TI lady’s request down.

On my way back to the Abbey, I pass a small tearoom promising fresh mushroom soup.  It being lunchtime, I stop in and have a discussion with the owner in her kitchen about how she makes her soup.  She uses only fresh mushrooms that she collects herself.  I am so impressed I order a bowl and it is as good a mushroom soup as I have ever had.  I go back to the kitchen to thank her when I notice fresh apple pie.  I order a slice and am once again delighted with the offering.  I wish I could remember the name of the place but I forgot to write it down.

I’m off to the Abbey, walking some very interesting side streets on the way.  You can see pictures of some of these streets as well as the Hexham Market, and the Abbey in my Hexham Album.  The Abbey itself is a bit of a disappointment.  Maybe, because I had to wait two hours to see it, I allowed my expectations get the best of me.  I believe it has some historical significance but its architecture and furnishings are not unique in any way.  I do wonder why it seems that half the churches in this part of England, including this one, are named for Saint Andrew.  I know he's the patron Saint of Scotland so it must be the Scottish influence since we are so close to the England-Scotland border.

Hexham Abbey and Market

I grab the AD122 bus to Haltwhistle.  Upon arriving, I ask around for the location of the launderette, which, I discover, is in plain sight right across from the bus stop.  I missed it because it has no sign outside.  It has no attendant or instructions inside, either.  Nor does it have a soap dispenser or change machine.

I head up the street to find if anyone knows how I can get soap, change and instructions.  At the local newsstand and tobacco shop, I ask a very young lady, who blurts out, “I have no idea. I’ve never done laundry.”  She does suggest I try the Co-op Market down the street.  I locate the laundry soap section and, while checking out, ask the clerk, who is definitely more mature, how I might find someone who knows how to use the launderette.  She tells me that if I can wait until her fellow clerk comes off her break that she can help me.  Sure enough, the new clerk has all the information: not only where I can find the owner, at a nearby hotel, but also how much the machines cost to operate, etc.  I get the small change I need and search for the hotel so I can get instructions.  When I find it, only a couple doors from the launderette, I realize that the hotel owner and the launderette owner are the same person.  At last, I have all the requisites to do my laundry, a launderette, soap, change and instructions.  Of course, it has only taken me most of the day to put this all together and my friends think they have it tough hiking up and down small mountains. 

Since here is no place to sit in the launderette, I am forced to find someplace to have a beer while I’m waiting.  I first stop in a small restaurant that’s just closing for the day.  The owner, a young woman, agrees to serve me a beer while she finishes up her duties.  As we chat, I discover that she is a single mother, running the place by herself with some help from her aged mother.  She can’t afford to hire help so she has to limit the operating hours.  I also discover that her license requires her to serve food with any beer or wine so she’s taking a chance serving me a beer by itself.  I guess this is another example of the complicated licensing laws in England.  I finish my beer, thank her and go back to the launderette to transfer the washed clothes to the dryer.

Now, I must find a place to wait while the clothes dry.  I end up at the Black Bull Pub.  I have a very interesting conversation with two thirty-something young men.  One has a broken arm.  He’s a plasterer and injured himself tumbling off a ladder.  The other guy is a veteran rock climber.  He works part-time to support his obsession.  They both have interesting stories to tell.  They express a strong desire to visit the U.S.  I know many Brits and most Europeans are opposed to the war in Iraq but never once did we run into any kind of political backlash because we were Americans: quite the opposite, actually, with most people throughout Europe expressing a combination of admiration of America and, at worst, disbelief at the mess in Iraq.

After a couple pints, my clothes are very dry.  I do the necessary folding and step across the street to grab the bus for Milecastle Inn .  I am supposed to meet my companions there as we had heard that the food was both interesting and good.  My pub companions warned me that the Inn’s reputation was questionable, because it had recently changed hands.  After arriving, I order a beer from a somewhat dour bartender, when Tom shows up to tell me that plans have changed.  The group has discovered there is a quiz night tonight at the Twice Brewed Pub, so we are going to spend the evening there.

We are staying at the strangely named Saughy Rigg Farm.  Kathi and Brad Dowle, a wonderfully hospitable couple, own it.  When we get to the farm, my roommate, Larry, relates what a tough walk it had been for the three of them.  Evidently the hills were quite steep and the headwind very strong.   To make things worse, the place they were counting on for lunch was closed.  Larry said the only reason he finished the hike was that he had no choice.  Making matters worse, they had to walk at least another mile to get to the Saughy Rigg Farm after they reached the end of the day’s scheduled hike.  It appears, from information on another web site chronicling a hike along Hadrian's Wall, UniBrain Travels, that the actual distance my three friends walked was 13.5 miles not the 11.5 on the Contours information sheet. 

Tom, Larry and Dave also reveal a phenomenon that, I too, run into later in the week.  We label it the “mile and a half half-mile.”  It seems that whenever someone is asked to give an estimate of how far it is to some distant point, the answer is invariably, “about a half-mile.”  This answer is standard no matter how far the distance actually is.  Unless, of course the distance is less than a half-mile, in which case, the response is, "just a short way."  As you can imagine, this can be somewhat disconcerting, if not depressing, for the guys, especially at the end of a very difficult day’s hike.  After telling me this sad story, Larry crashes for an hour or so and I read.  He doesn’t need his static machine to sleep.

Later, we have a delightful evening at the Twice Brewed Pub.  The food is excellent.  I am finding that ordering lamb dishes, chicken or steak pies, or sausage plates almost always guarantee a good meal.  I stay away from steaks, seafood, fried dishes and anything with a French or Italian name.    After dinner, the Dowles join us for the quiz.  With their help, we win the quiz and a prize of £20.00.  We insist that the Dowles accept the money since they have been driving us around all afternoon and evening.  We also have our first experience of so-called “lager louts,” young men who drink beer and ale for effect rather than thirst or taste.  The pub owner handles them very skillfully, though, and there is no real trouble.  If this had been a bar in the U.S., I’m not so sure there wouldn’t have been some violence.

Woodland Nymph Temple, Vindolanda

Wednesday, July 14, 2004 - Once Brewed, Walltown, and Gilsland

The Dowles serve up a fine proper English breakfast.  I have always believed, mostly based on my Hong Kong experience, that such a breakfast included baked beans.  It appears that is not the case in Northern England.  Maybe black pudding is more traditional here.

I notice that the weather looks very threatening and I decide once again to “do” Hadrian’s Wall on the bus, especially after listening to my companions’ stories of the previous day.  I wish my friends Godspeed and climb into Brad’s van for the ride to Vindolanda Fort and Museum. 

Vindolanda is a most interesting site.  It not only has the usual ruins of a Roman fort, it also has a number of exhibits and displays of what life was like in the adjoining village.  The museum is excellent.  The site includes a reproduction of a temple to woodland nymphs, actual Roman tombstones, stone plaques and a restored croft from the sixth century showing how much harder life was after the fall of the Roman Empire.  As usual you will find photos in the Vindolanda and Walltown Album.

I am so entranced, I lose track of the time and am in danger of missing the bus I planned to take.  If I do miss it, I’ll have to wait an hour for the next one.  I hurry as much as my aching tendon and tender knees will allow.  I see the bus and wave my arms at the bus driver who I can see in his side view mirror.  I’m sure we’ve made eye contact and he can see me waving.  I believe this right up to the time he pulls away, leaving me cursing my crippled state.  I decide to walk to the next stop, the Once Brewed Northumberland National Park Centre. 

This turns out to be a serious mistake. I am about a half mile into the two-mile trek when the wind whips up and the rain starts falling in great quantities. I laugh in the face of this as I’ve remembered to bring my umbrella and my Celebrex this time. Unfortunately, the weather laughs back as I realize the wind is so strong that I can’t use my umbrella. Hah! I have my Gore-tex jacket and hood to protect me. What I don’t have is windshield wipers on my glasses so I’m forced to put them in my pocket and struggle on with what’s left of my eyesight. The headwind is so strong that I can’t see much anyway. Then disaster strikes. My left knee buckles. Pain I can handle but it’s difficult to walk on one leg. I hold on to a nearby tree to stay erect and try to figure out what I’m going to do next. I can wait an hour for the next bus. I can wait for my knee to recover, or I can try hitch a ride, something I had tried unsuccessfully the previous Sunday. I decide, instead, to try to wave a car down. Lucky for me, an older couple stops and picks me up for the short ride to the Visitor’s Centre. There are times pity can be a positive emotion.

The Visitor’s Centre is a beautiful little haven from the elements. It contains much information about the flora and fauna of the area and even has free Internet access. There is a couch where I can take the load off my buckled knee and do some exercises I know will alleviate the pain. I grab a Coke Light from the machine and start to feel good again.

I start a conversation with the attendant at the Centre. I ask her what is with the two names “Once Brewed” and “Twice Brewed?” She tells me the story, as she knows it. It appears a contingent of soldiers led by a General Wade was headed for Carlisle from Newcastle to engage Bonnie Prince Charlie.  They stopped at the inn for a pint or two and the general complained the ale wasn’t strong enough, and urged the innkeeper to “brew it again:” hence the name “Twice Brewed.”  The general liked the result so much that he stayed too long at the inn missing Bonnie Prince Charlie.  Wade blamed it on poor road conditions, which helped get the 18th-century Military Road built.  As for Once Brewed, it was at one time a youth hostel.  The sponsor was a tee-totaller named Lady Trevelyan.  In her speech opening the hostel she observed that it was uncomfortably close to the Twice Brewed Inn. “We will serve nothing stronger than tea,” she remarked, “and I hope even that will only be once-brewed!”  The name stuck.

Around noon the rain stops and I take the bus to the Roman Army Museum (Carvoran). This museum, which is administered by the Vindolanda Foundation, is a little kitschy but I love it, nevertheless. It has among other things, a virtual tour of Hadrian’s Wall as it was in the second century. You are actually presented with a bird’s eye view of the wall as seen by a Roman eagle. It also has a recruiting film for the Roman Army. I watch it with a group of eight and nine year old children and they are transfixed.

Walltown Crags

After a late lunch in the very nice museum canteen, I head for theWalltown Crags and Quarry, which are less than a half-mile north of the museum.  These are very well preserved wall ruins along the rugged crags.  The quarry provided stones for the wall.  You can see pictures of the crags and the museum in the Vindolanda and Walltown Album.  I imagine my friends are up on the crags hiking towards Gilsland.  Later I find that they did indeed walk along the crags but not at the same time I was there.

I ride the bus to Gilsland.  I’m not at all sure where our night’s lodging, The Hill on the Wall B & B, is located.  I ask a woman who acts more than a little bit tipsy.  She seems to know the place and gives me excellent directions.  She says it’s a short ways up the road so I know it’s at least a half-mile.  Turns out it’s just about a mile.  I get there before my friends, who again, make a wrong turn at the end of the formal hike and end up walking an extra half-mile or so to get to our place.  I was sure they would report a tough day but they said that once the rain stopped, it was really quite a benign day.

The owner of the place, Dick Packer, is a nice enough chap but he’s bit uptight to be running a B and B.  He reminds me of the radio operator from New Orleans in “Apocalypse, Now.”  Martin Sheen describes him as being wound a little bit tight for Vietnam and then adds, “Hell, he may be wound a little too tight for New Orleans.”  Packer has recently retired from working for a subsidiary of Union Carbide.  The house itself was built in the 15th century and has foot thick walls.  It’s an impressive structure but requires a lot of upkeep.  I suspect the romance of running a B and B is more myth than reality.  He more or less verifies my supposition.

We run into another small glitch.  The bathrooms are described as en suite, which we take to mean in the room but not so.  The bath is across the hall but we are the only ones who can use it.  This still means we have to, at least, put on our pants to visit the bathroom, unless we want to risk terrifying the two women in the next room.   I realize I can hear Larry’s static machine in the hall and suspect our neighbors can hear it too.  I’ve grown used to it and I am sleeping well.  Maybe Larry has a point.

Tom and Dave are staying up the road a ways at the Slack House Farm B & B, another last minute change from Contours.  It sounds like an interesting place.  Everything grown or produced there is organic.  They stop by about 7:00 P.M. and we walk to the pub where we are to eat dinner.  The three of them had stopped there for a quick pint towards the end of their day’s hike and the owner promised us a ride back to our digs.  The place is called The Samson Inn and the food is pretty good.

In the morning, the owner shows up at our room while I’m showering.  I assume he’s complaining about the noise of the static machine.  I couldn’t be more wrong.  As Larry explains he was worried about the extra electricity the thing was using. I feel vindicated in my earlier judgment.  We meet his wife, Elaine, at breakfast and she is also rather tense.  I predict a short career for them as B and B owners.

Birdoswald Manor House

Thursday, July 15, 2004 – Birdoswald, Carlisle, Brampton, and Walton

I’m worried about my knee buckling so I decide to pass on accompanying the guys today and instead will do my usual thing of visiting forts, museums, and castles. 

I walk the mile or so to the Birdoswald Roman Fort and Visitor Centre.  The Visitor Centre is interesting primarily because it’s housed in the ancestral home of  John Clayton, the man acknowledged as being responsible for first recognizing the historical and cultural importance of the wall.  He started some of the archeological uncovering of the forts and towns as well as reconstructing stretches of the wall.

I walk the ruins of the fort and follow the wall to the ruins of a nearby milecastle.   Amazingly, while I am strolling through a farm field in Northern England, I am talking to Pam who is visiting the Canary Islands on my mobile phone, even though, we both have Hong Kong cell phones.  I also exchange text messages with my friend Glenn in Hong Kong.  I may not be intimidated by technology but I can still be amazed by it. 

The vistas from the milecastle are outstanding and I take a number of pictures.  You can see them in the Birdoswald Album on my photo site.  I walk back to the bus stop and grab the trusty AD122 to Carlisle.  On arriving in Carlisle, I first check out the train station and the immediate downtown area.  It is a vibrant interesting place.  I jump back on the bus to visit the Tullie House Museum and Art Gallery.

Carlisle Castle

The museum is interesting but not compelling.  I do learn quite a bit about the lawlessness of the border country for the more than 300 years between the 14th and 17th centuries up to the accession of James I as King of both England and Scotland.  The people who lived in this part of the British Isles were called Reivers and they stole from each other as well as harassing travelers.  Kidnapping was quite common also.  If you lost a spouse or a child, you were "bereaved."

I decide to visit Carlisle Castle and am just in time for one of the daily guided tours.  The tour guide is quite good and I learn more than I ever wanted to about a number of things including what a medieval toilet was like.  Let's just say, you wouldn't want to go swimming in the moat in those days.  The guide also gets into talking about peoples' personal hygiene.  Baths were not popular.  He quotes Queen Victoria who said, "I bathe four times a year and that is quite enough."  You can view my photos in the Carlisle Castle Album.

I have to leave the tour early to catch the last bus to Brampton, which is the nearest sizable village to Walton where we are spending the night.  Brampton is a surprisingly interesting town.  The TI is in an Octagonal building built in 1817 called Moot Hall.  Moot Hall served as a market place for many years and is right in the middle of town.  The Lady in the TI is helpful and directs me to the Nags Head pub for an afternoon refresher.    While there I call Tom to find out what the plan is for the evening.  He informs me Dave is somewhere in Brampton and maybe I can find him.  Tom tells me he took a cab so I go to the cab company and describe Dave.  They recognize him.  After leaving instructions that he should wait for me I go looking for him.  I don't find him so I wait with the taxi drivers who are very entertaining.  Dave finally shows and we head for our night's B & B, Town Head Farm in Walton.

Moot Hall

The guys announce we will be eating at a local pub called The Centurion Inn.  They had stopped there for a late lunch at the end of their walk.  The owner makes his own sausages under the Border County Foods label, so it's pretty clear what we will be eating.  Cumberland sausage, featured in this part of England, is a special kind of English sausage and the more I hear about it, the hungrier I get. 

The pub is another of those truly friendly places where in minutes you feel at home.  The owner, who I only know as Austen, is happy to recommend different versions of his sausage.  Evidently his son had been running the place but had not done well so he had to reassert active management of the place.  We meet a Slovakian couple who are newly arrived as immigrant workers. They don't speak much English but the smiles on their faces indicate how happy they are to be here.  We are not only pleased with the sausage plates, we learn that the cook had made a special apple crumble after hearing from my companions earlier that they wanted apple crumble for dessert.  It was the best crumble we had the whole trip and at least one of us ordered crumble every night. 

We stagger back to our rooms full of beer, sausage and apple crumble.  On the way we see a small church being refurbished into a residence.  Dave, the interrogator, has learned that it will evidently contain two apartments and the person doing the refurbishing expects to double his money in a year or two.  I knew real estate was going crazy in London but I didn't know it was hot up here in Northern England, too.

Lanercost Priory

Friday, July 16, 2004 - Bowness-on-Solway and Carlisle

This is my last chance to walk with the guys but I know I can't do the 11 plus miles scheduled.  We try to work out a way for me to meet them part-way but the scheduling is just too difficult.  I have to make a choice so I decide to visit the priory, which I had noticed during my bus ride yesterday.  It looked fascinating.  Then I plan to take the bus all the way to Bowness-on-Solway which is where the wall ends.  My companions are only walking to Carlisle.  I am disappointed but I must remember I still have six weeks to go before I return to Hong Kong.  I don't want to spend that time as a cripple.

The Lanercost Priory is an incredible place.  The nave is still used as a parish church.  Part of it is in ruins dating from the 12th century.  The Priory, itself, was finally dissolved in 1538 by Henry VIII.  I arrive early.  I suspect my eager B & B host wants to do something with the £5.00 he charged me for the ride.  I don't mention to him that at all the previous stops we made, the owners generally drove us short distances at no charge.
The ruins, a National Heritage Site, are not accessible until 9:00 A.M. so I spend time in the church and on the grounds including an incredible graveyard that takes up the better part of an acre.  At 9:00, I explore the old priory.  Having just finished reading "The DaVinci Code," I am fascinated with the tomb of a Knight Templar.  I take many photos which are in the Lanercost Abbey Album. I also have an interesting conversation with the woman selling tickets and running the book and gift shop.  She's lived on Maui and in Maine and has now come home to take care of her aging mother. 

I catch the next bus to Carlisle.  Once I reach Carlisle, I have an hour to kill before I can get the bus to Bowness on-Solway so I walk around the attractive pedestrian mall in the center of town, visit the TI and the train station to insure I have the correct schedule.

The bus ride to Bowness-on-Solway is interesting but not exciting.  We do have to wait for cows and sheep to cross our one-lane road and pull over for cars coming the other way.  I'm sure my friends are going to be happy to learn they didn't miss much by ending the walk in Carlisle.  When we get there, I go to the nearest pub for a bite to eat.  While I am enjoying my lunch, an older couple who are sitting in the same area and who haven't said a word to one another since I arrived 30 minutes ago, suddenly launch into a spirited conversation that soon turns into an argument.  As far as I can tell, it's over whether some distant relative is alive or dead.  They never settle the issue but at some point just stop arguing, finish their half-pints, say good day to everyone and leave the building.  When the proprietress discovers I'm part of a group walking the Wall, she gives me an official stamped certificate of completion.  I plan to present it to Tommy Terrific tonight at dinner, for all the effort he put in to this adventure. 

After I get back to Carlisle, I spend an hour and a half on the Internet, deleting spam and reading the few messages that are real.  At the Internet place, I am reminded of similar venues in Asia where most of the customers are young men playing "shoot-em-up" video games against one another.  The noise level is horrific.

I escape into the beautiful late afternoon sunshine and walk to our last night's lodging, the Courtfield Guest House.  I run into Tom on the way. He's out looking for Dave.  In case you haven't guessed by now, Dave has a tendency to go his own way both on and off the trail.  I can't really blame him, what with all the Mattel stories the three of us are constantly telling.  I find our room is on the third floor which is a long haul with my 70 pound duffel bag.  It's another en-suite arrangement that isn't en-suite.  The loo is across the hall from our sleeping room. 

We decide to dine at a near-by pub called The Beehive.  It is reminiscent of an English version of T.G.I. Friday's.  I have been threatening to order a pasty since the Newcastle train station so I do just that.  It's not that great but the desserts are terrific.  I make the presentation of the Official Completion Certificate to Tom and he is appropriately humble about his efforts.  After dinner, all I want to do is hit the sack.  The guys want to take a walk, believe it or not.  Before we do anything Tom wants our closing remarks on his video.  We do so next to a beautiful flower bed.  I feel a little bit out of it because I only walked for one day but I sure enjoyed our evenings and our breakfasts.

After the video formalities, I say goodbye to Dave who is catching a 5:00 A.M. train to London. As I return to my room, I feel somewhat sad that I couldn't have shared all of my companions' ups and downs but I also feel good about the time we did spend together and am proud of everyone's ability to finish what they started.

London Interlude

Houses of Parliament

Saturday, July 17, 2004 - Carlisle and London

This is my last day in Northern England.  Not so amazingly, considering how we've been eating, I had a reflux attack last night.  I think it was the rich fresh strawberry dessert, I had after dinner.  Nevertheless it was worth it. 

I say goodbye to Larry and Tom.  Larry's headed for Manchester and his flight back to the U.S.  Tom has an extra day and was going to spend it in Carlisle but at the last minute, they cancelled his room.  Time for his Plan B which I believe is to spend the night in Newcastle.  We agree to consider doing something together next summer.  Larry and Tom take off.  I've got a later train so I relax, shower and re-pack.  Since it is raining, I have the B & B lady call a taxi for me to take to the train station. 

I'm about two hours early for my train so I look for the baggage check place.  No such place in this station.  I can't go too far with my 70 pound duffle and 20 pound backpack so I head for the nearest restaurant, which is Mexican.  Based on a lifelong rule to never order Mexican food outside of Mexico or the American Southwest, I get a Coke Light.  The owners are very friendly and allow me to leave my duffle for an hour or so.  I almost feel guilty but not guilty enough to order a taco.  I check in at the internet place, delete some spam and poof an hour has gone by.

As the train pulls in I look for my car.  I have a seat reservation on the train and it's in car J.  I can't find a car J.  There are plenty of empty seats in first class so I just pick one for the three and one-half hour trip to London.  It's a lovely trip.  Food and drink is complimentary.  The scenery is mostly green and I read and nap all the way to London's Euston Station.  Since the Eurostar to Paris, which I am taking tomorrow, leaves from Waterloo Station, I have made a reservation at the Mad Hatter Hotel, only "four minutes from Waterloo station" to quote their ad on the Internet.  This means I must get to Waterloo Station with my 90 pounds of stuff.  I take the Underground and struggle up and down the user-unfriendly stairs in both stations.

I am lost when I get to Waterloo Station and cannot figure out which exit I should take to get to the Mad Hatter.  Additionally, there is a Waterloo International Station and a Waterloo East Station, all of which are connected to the Waterloo Main Station.  There is no TI booth in the station so I try the South West Trains Information Booth.  In the past I've always had bad luck with railroad company information people who, understandably, only want to give information related to their trains but this guy is great.  He spends 5 minutes with me, gives me a map and explains in great detail how I must go down an elevator, through an underpass, walk by the Imax theatre and lastly go up some stairs to get to the street the hotel is on.  I would have never been able to figure it out on my own.

I start out for the hotel and I soon realize that it is going to take me a lot longer than 5 minutes to reach the Mad Hatter.   Perhaps this is a 30 minute five minutes.  To worsen matters, I develop a blister on my left foot.  What irony, I've been walking in these shoes for over a week and on a short trip from the station to my hotel, I develop a blister.  The Gods must be angry.

I do reach the hotel in a little over 20 minutes.  I am exhausted when I check in.  I treat my blister and take a short rest before going out to explore the neighborhood for a few hours.  After consulting my guru, Rick Steves' guidebook, I decide to walk to "The London Eye."   The relatively new but already famous British Airways sponsored huge Ferris wheel with its 32 fully enclosed capsules.  Unfortunately Rick's assurances of easy access are far too optimistic and it looks to me like a two or three hour wait.  No way!  Next time I'll make reservations on their web site.

Trafalgar Square

Instead I walk across the Thames on the Jubilee Bridge and head for Trafalgar Square.  I'd never seen it before except in photos or films.  When I get there I am slightly overwhelmed, not only with the size of the square and the height of the statue of Lord Nelson but also with the beauty of the surrounding buildings housing many of the Commonwealth Embassies to say nothing of the Admiralty Arch.  It's a photographers dream and I take many pictures, some of which you will find in the London Album on my photo site.  The square is also crowded with people enjoying the late afternoon, climbing on the lions at the base of Nelson's statue, watching the fountains or just hanging out.  It's a great scene and I'm happy I came here instead of riding The London Eye.

I return to my hotel via the Jubilee Bridge and the river walk along the south bank of the Thames.  This area is fascinating also, with its concert halls, theatres, al fresco restaurants plus bike riders, pram pushers, jugglers, artists, other street entertainers and smart-ass beggars.  In spite of my weariness I enjoy every step of the way. 

I decide to eat at the pub in my hotel.  I quickly down a pint of beer, order another along with a steak, ale and mushroom pie, which turns out to be the best meat pie I've had since I arrived in England.  I can hardly keep my eyes open so I retire to my room and fall asleep with an open book on my chest.  It has been a full day.