Friday, November 19, 2010

Flying High

Karen, Hunt (sporting that
devil-may-care smile), Orell, and Tracy









We had dinner last night with our traveling buddies and discussed how great our recent trip was. Orell had created a fabulous and artistic photo book of our time abroad, and she managed to make us all look pretty good, except for the shot of Hunt wearing his white salt mine coveralls which he refused to close properly, giving the impression that his fly was open about 14 inches. I believe this was all part of some cunning plan, though for the life of me I cannot figure it out.

The four of us reminisced about the trip from start to finish, we talked about our experiences getting through customs, we moved on to discuss the new airport security measures, and then we hit upon the real highlight of international travel--unlimited and personalized movie-watching!

I absolutely adore the in-flight entertainment (IFE) available today where passengers can view movies, television shows, and documentaries using their own personal systems. All flights do not have these. Some only offer the cheaper IFE option of looking out the window. But all international flights today provide movies, and the best flights make these available to passengers on their own little screens. That means you can stop your film anytime and head to the galley to get a candy bar or some cookies to enhance your movie-viewing pleasure. Wow! This even beats watching movies at home where your family and friends might complain if you stop the movie to take a walk around the room to stretch your legs.

Our family loves movies. Being fairly weird people, we've never owned a real television capable of showing real television. We just watch movies on various monitors. Well, except in 1999 when we were offered free cable for two weeks when the Texas Rangers were playing in the American League championship series. Boy, did we watch non-stop television those two glorious weeks! Before we knew it the cables were pulled, the Rangers lost, and all we had left were happy memories and 843 cable holes. 

Maybe because we don't have a TV or maybe because we are, indeed, weird, we take our movie-viewing seriously. Lights out and no talking. When the boys were growing up they'd never let their friends talk when they watched movies with us. I mean no talking, not even during the opening credits. When their friends cried, "Musicals melt children's brains!", my kids turned a deaf ear. I'd later hear from the parents about how traumatized their kids were by this behavior--and also by the amount of ice cream we piled into each bowl--but they kept watching movies with us. And our kids never budged.

Being movie-purists, as we fondly call our idiosyncrasy, we can never just "go to a movie." No. It takes precision planning. No weekday afternoons when retirees fill the audience, retirees who have an aversion to whispering. Never on Friday or Saturday nights which are date nights when people try to get to know each other better. (We once sat in front of a couple on their first date who were saying things like "How many sisters do you have?" and "Do you like pizza?" During the movie!) Never on Sunday afternoons which seem to attract loud curly-haired children. Never at premiers or on holiday weekends. You simply cannot keep a theater full of people quiet. We know. We have tried. Once when I was trying to shush a dozen gang members--they certainly looked like gang members--I was called a very bad name and told to shut up. I did. Now I generally choose to watch movies at home where no one ever calls me bad names (except maybe under their breaths.)

Even better than watching movies at home, though, is watching movies 50,000 feet above the ground. No one talks. Food arrives, trash disappears. No sharing the remote control. Film after film after film, all guilt free. Yes, having my own in-flight entertainment is the best. And getting there is pretty fun, too. 

















Thursday, November 11, 2010

With Apologies to the Germans











Driving to Paris I finally did it—I exceeded 100 mph! What a feeling! My need to do this disturbs me some, and I wish I understood it. I fear it has something to do with living with a pig for 2 weeks, but I am not sure.


I miss our little rental car. I really enjoyed driving a standard shift because it made me feel as though I had achieved something by just arriving. And I suppose I had. I also liked driving a red car which matched most of my travel clothes and was easy to find in parking lots. But what I really liked most about that car was the wonderful “D” sticker on the back.



Back in 1969 officials in Europe were finding it harder and harder to determine a car's origin because there were so many languages involved and so many countries involved. After a particularly difficult day when he had to ask in Finnish, Portuguese, and Irish, “No, where is your CAR from?” a border guard threw up his hands in despair and shouted, “Too many languages. Too many countries.” Luckily for him—and us—a United Nations official was nearby and heard his anguish and took this plea for help straight to the the UN General Assembly. An emergency session was held, and, after a heated debate, the UN came up with the idea of adding a sticker to the vehicles with a country code so officials could know, without asking, from whence the vehicle came.

Or something like that.

The Sticker on the Back
Our sticker, which we fondly called The Sticker on the Back, was invaluable because it identified us as Germans, the “D” representing Deutschland. It was not so much that we wanted to be identified as Germans as it was that we didn't want to be known as Americans. Do not get me wrong. I love America and am fiercely patriotic—so much so that I worry that I will tarnish America's reputation while I am abroad.

Once at a West End play in London, as soon as the lights dimmed and the overture began, our family did what every dedicated theatre-going family does: we rushed forward to grab better seats. In this case the prized seats were in the middle of the fifth row and we each had to step across about a dozen pairs of legs to get to them. Thinking quickly, and fearful we'd be discovered to be Americans, I simply whispered my apologies to each person as we passed using my handy Australian accent, “Crikey, mate. Sorry, mate. Cheers, mate.” No doubt I single-handedly prevented an international incident right then and there between us and a few bruised-toe Brits because who can yell at an Australian with that great accent?
Guten Tag. Ich bin ein Deutscher.

Driving last month with our handy “D” on the back, we felt immune to the stares and jeers sent our way in Stresa, Italy, when we accidentally went the wrong direction on a one-way street. And as heinous as this act might seem, at least we didn't mean to do it. You'd have thought, however, that we'd damaged some priceless artifact by the reactions of the other drivers with their frantic arm waving and yelling. Two police officers joined in the mayhem and, I fear, added some name-calling. But guess what? All those people thought they were yelling at Germans! Ha!

Later in Perpignan, France, we took a little too long to walk across a lane in a parking lot, which made a driver mad enough to stop, roll down his car window, and yell at us. I smiled and yelled back, “Bonjour Monsieur,” and toasted him in a friendly way with my McDonald's coffee cup. This made him really mad, and a tirade began which I cannot repeat here, mainly because I didn't understand the French. But I can say this: a happy Frenchman he was not! So, assessing the situation at hand, I dashed for the car and stood by The Sticker on the Back and began speaking German in a loud voice. I truly hated to sacrifice the reputation of Germany to protect the reputation of America, but you sometimes do what you have to do.

I sure miss that “D”.




Monday, November 8, 2010

Welcome to Heaven!

Well, we left Farmville earlier than expected. Our friends had been turned away at the Moroccan port of entry because they were driving an ambulance and foreign ambulances are not allowed in Morocco. What? All those medical supplies, all those blankets, all that clothing would never make it to the mountain Berbers who so desperately needed them. It was really sad and somewhat incomprehensible for all concerned.

So we bid adieu to Petunia, Lucy, Loupy, Sally, Mega, and Astrilla. I didn't even bother saying goodbye to the cats because, for one thing, they are cats. For another, they are so feral as to not even be named at Farmville, so I couldn't really say goodbye, could I? (Please do not judge someone until you have walked in their blue wellies.) The problem with leaving early from the farm was that Hunt was still doing work in the area. So many internment camps, so little time, etc., etc. So we packed our bags and moved our headquarters a few miles away to the city of Prades. And entered heaven.

Getting to heaven was somewhat tricky. We had a true Robert Frost moment as we sat poring over the map. Drive due west on the fairly straight and oft-traveled road or turn south and catch that cute little squiggly thing, the one “bent in the undergrowth”? Well, it wasn't bent from undergrowth, it was bent because it went over the Pyrenees, hugging the sides of the mountains in its desperate attempt to avoid sliding into the chasms below. We chose the road less taken. I rode on the death-side of the car, closest to eternity, and every time Hunt saw a beautiful tree or crag or waterfall or bug or whatever, he'd say, "Hey look at that," and turn the wheel slightly in the direction he was looking! It was a hair-raising, nail-biting, hyper-ventilating drive, though admittedly beautiful with all the colorful fall trees and tiny villages. And I am glad we survived so I could post a few pictures.

Goodbye civilization
Imagine crossing these by foot

DEATH staring up at me


The leaves were just beginning to turn
The pinnacle of our treacherous
winding mountain road














Hunt said something about how fabulous and exhilarating the drive was, and I replied with something about ripping a certain someone's heart out. But it was so long ago, I hardly remember. No matter. The important thing is that we arrived safely in Prades: Heaven in France.

We checked immediately into our B&B and were delighted at how charming and welcoming it was.




Angela and some of her paintings




Our proprietress, Angela, hailed from England, which was a wonderful thing because, one, her English was better than mine, and two, she brewed delicious tea which she served us straight away. (PG Tips, no less!) And she was friendly and very funny.  

Her house was decorated in antiques, lavish colors, and her own marvelous paintings.






Tea was served by the fire
in the front sitting room
Our very own chaise
lounge in our beautiful red room



View to the back garden
(and the Pyrenees)
from our room
Our bathroom had a 7' tub
and shower with
a view of Mount Canigou

Angela suggested a restaurant, and we went for a celebratory meal, Hunt celebrating his recent finds at the Rivesaltes internment camp site and me celebrating a pig-free evening. And what a meal it was!

Salad with melted goat's cheese atop
grilled eggplant, tomatoes, and red bell peppers
Grilled mussels
I regret that this sea bass had but one life to give for my supper
Hunt's grilled octopus and other interesting things
Our Floating Island had baked meringue 'floating' in vanilla custard and was garnished with toasted almonds, caramel sauce, and a cookie



Prades, France.
Welcome to heaven!








Friday, November 5, 2010

Viva la France!

You know those people at the airport who are lucky enough to snag those comfy chairs? Well, that's me right now. Sipping a Starbucks latte.

We woke up at the crack of dawn to drive to Charles de Gaulle (CDG) and get the car turned in, knowing we had an ordeal ahead of us. The last time we turned in a car at CDG we were also on a sabbatical trip, that time with the boys. It was crazy, and not crazy fun. We simply couldn't find the turn-in location. It was about 5 am with few people to ask, but we did ask two police officers and a taxi driver. We finally arrived after over an hour of searching, and as Hunt tussled with luggage and boys, my conversation with the agent went something like this:
Me: We need to turn in our car.
He: (yelling in English) Speak French!
Me: I'm sorry. I do not speak French. We need to turn in our car.
He: (yelling in English) Speak French!
Me: There is no need to be angry. We just want to turn in the car.
He: (yelling in English) I am not angry!
Me: Well, there is no need to yell.
He: (really yelling now) I am not yelling!

And so it went.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Farmville

One of the onerous chores we have here in Farmville is hauling water to the pasture for the horses. And by onerous I mean difficult and time-consuming. Water is heavy and, by definition, wet. So I'll add messy to the onerous bit.

We haul water about every two days. We fill two 5-gallon buckets with tadpole-laden rain water from the swimming pool. They are heavy, and when filled, it takes two of us to carry them. So we lug them to the car, drive to the gate, open it, drive through the gate, close the gate, drive to a second gate, repeat the open-drive-close-gate-shuffle, and finally arrive at an old bathtub on the edge of the pasture. No happy horses greet us. They simply glance across the pasture with their aloof “we are French and you are not” looks.

After carefully emptying the buckets into the tub we return from whence we came, stow the buckets, and breathe a sigh of relief that we have at least 48 hours before we have to repeat this song and dance.

Yesterday just before dusk Hunt encountered a hunter walking across our pasture. I guess this man felt guilty about trespassing, so he stopped to chat about the “pretty horses.” This was a red flag to Hunt indicating that this man wasn't from around these parts or from the countryside at all, because, whatever virtues our horses do have, beauty isn't one of them. But the man did have a shotgun, so Hunt didn't question his intentions. (And, truth be told, Hunt was having a hard time understanding the man's rapid-fire French, and he might have actually been telling Hunt that he thought Hunt was pretty and reminded him of a horse. We will never know.)

The problem really was the man's dog. While Hunt and the hunter chatted, this rather large and furry animal took the opportunity to jump into the bathtub we had just filled with water. In an instant the water disappeared into his fur, much like disappearing into a sponge. He then jumped out and shook himself violently, sending that precious commodity everywhere but the tub. It all happened so quickly, and there was nothing to be done except to haul more water....

I am a little tired of the hunters. They get out early each day after consuming several shots of brandy (we've been told) or other bracing liquid, and begin firing their guns at who-knows-what. Our dogs react by beginning a harmonious baying session, first one, then the other two joining in until they reach such a feverish level of excitement that Hunt or I must get out of bed to calm them. The hardest part—besides rushing into a freezing-cold room—is to execute this maneuver quickly enough so that no dogs are able to slip into our bedroom before our return. And as sorry as we are that they are frightened by the gunshots and just want some human company, we need our sleep to face the rigors of Farmville and cannot stay up chatting with them about their hopes and dreams.

Farmville. Last night when I mixed the pig's potato flakes with water, I was rather haphazard about it. I admit I should have added more water. But I simply do not care for the pig. There. I have said it. I have tried to become friends. But she remains stoic in her resolve to hate me and all things American. I do not understand it. To her I say this, “You are ugly. And you eat like a pig, which, considering the circumstances, should not be held against you, I suppose.”

Well, dry potato flakes and pigs apparently do not mix well, and after sampling a little in her piggish—dare I say hoggish—fashion, she began a horrendous-sounding series of coughs and gasps for air. She stumbled away from her food and bumped into bushes and clanged into objects. I was really scared and screamed for Hunt to come and help. He came running, and we watched helplessly as she coughed and gasped another two minutes, and I assured him I would NOT give CPR to any pig ever, but could he? He remained silent, probably thinking about how big a hole he'd have to dig to hide such a thing.

There was nothing I could do for her. She would either make it or not, and my presence wouldn't matter at all. So I ran away.

Well, this morning, I am relieved to report, the pig appeared, ready for her breakfast. And not only did I add plenty of water to her potato flakes (making a sort of potato soup), but I included a moldy tangerine and some limp celery as well. I may be inept at this farming business, but never let it be said that I am heartless.




Wednesday, October 27, 2010

These French!

Ever since my blog readership in Russia has increased, so has the amount of smutty emails arriving hourly in my email box. Very disturbing. People want me buy strange medicines I never knew existed. And why are people in Russia reading a travel blog about a French pig anyway?

I discovered the STATS key on the blog, and I can hardly do anything but watch it and report the results to Hunt.
Karen: I have a reader from Denmark!....Hey, 62 pages were read this week in Russia!...But right now no one is reading anything at all!
Hunt: Karen, it is 4:00 in the morning.
Karen: It's not 4:00 in Russia!

But it is strange about those Russians.


I called the airline yesterday to try to change our return flight from Paris to Barcelona, because this French stike is still going on, and gasoline is still hard to find. But the hard-hearted employee at the so-called “help” desk told me to FORGET IT, or words to that effect. I promised to name our first-born after him and he quipped, “Your date of birth is listed right here.” So I offered the first grandchild. No go.

It looks like we'll be flying from Paris if we fly at all. Apparently no international flights have been cancelled. Planes just depart from Paris empty because all of their would-be passengers who have abandoned their cars in the long lines at Parisian service stations and rolled those suitcases along the highways just cannot run fast enough. I am not making this up. I have seen newsclips.

One-fourth of the service stations are closed in France and 30% of the stations around Paris are closed due to strikers. And why? Because the French government wants to reform the pension by increasing the retirement age all the way to 62. Why that is a whole 2 years higher than it is now! The nerve.

I am particularly moved by the number of high school-aged strikers I have seen on the news. I remember how worried I was in high school about getting old and not knowing how I would make ends meet a mere 50 years hence. My friends and I would gather together after the football game on Friday nights and sit around drinking our vanilla-cokes lamenting, “What will become of us?” My heart goes out to these sensitive French kids who are so upset they are burning down their schools!

While our son was studying abroad in France for a semester we were regularly surprised how often he was on break. “I thought you had a two-week vacation two weeks ago.” “We did. But these French need plenty of time off to plan their next strike.”

These French.


Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Eavesdropping 101

My husband and I attract eavesdroppers. I simply cannot explain it. It never happens when I am out with girlfriends and seldom happens when we are out with other couples or our children. But almost always—perhaps 95% of the time—when my husband and I are out together someone's eavesdropping radar engages, and they listen. We've had people reposition their chairs, cross their arms, cock their heads in our direction, and settle in for the long-run.

But why? We are not saying anything!

When this happens in America, we'll often switch to German, but that has its drawbacks. My side of the conversation is laced with “What did you say?” and “Come again?” In Europe, we cannot switch to anything.

Monday, October 25, 2010

A Lesson in Patriotism


A Child's History of Catalonia 
(With Apologies to the Historian in the Family)
Catalonian Flag


Once upon a time there was a wonderful country called Catalonia which lay between Spain and France along the Mediterranean coast. It included the beautiful Pyrenees Mountains and the great Mount Canigou which is said to possess magical powers. Catalonia had a very cool red and yellow striped flag and was fiercely independent, sort of like Texas. But unlike Texas, Catalonia was settled by Greeks and Romans!

Unfortunately for the Catalonians, great empires grew on either side, France to the North and Spain to the South. These two empires fought and fought and did not care what happened to beautiful and small Catalonia. Spain and France simply gobbled her up.

Mount Canigou
Catalonians officially became Spanish or French, but they felt like neither. They felt they were still Catalonians. Both France and Spain tried to force the Catalonians to forget their ancestry. “Stop speaking that language!” But the Catalonians refused. “Stop singing those songs!” But the Catalonians refused. “Stop dancing that dance!” Still, the Catalonians refused, even though doing these things often resulted in their punishment and death. The Catalonians looked up at Mount Canigou and remembered their past and prayed for their future.

Franco
Then in 1975 a very bad and mean dictator named Francisco Franco died, and the Catalonians rejoiced! “We can now speak our own language!” they cried. “We can now sing our own songs!” they cried. “We can keep dancing our special dance!” And from that day until this, when Catalonians gather together, they dance their special Catalonian dance called The Sardana. And this helps them remember that they are a great and noble people with a rich and marvelous history.



The Sardana

Every Sunday afternoon in Barcelona is a celebration of Catalonian history and independence. After Sunday mass the locals gather in front of the cathedral and, accompanied by live music, they dance The Sardana. And they dance. And they dance. It is a wondrous sight to behold.

The Sardana is danced in a circle facing inwards with the dancers holding hands. As new dancers arrive, they greet each other, stow their belongings inside the circle, and join the circle of dancers. The circle simply grows as people join. Most of the dancers appear elderly though there are participants of every age. Many know each other and greet each other warmly. This ritual is clearly a social affair as well as a statement of independence.

WE ARE CATALONIANS! 
 WE WILL DANCE OUR DANCE! 
DO NOT THINK OF STOPPING US! 


We watched the dancers for about 30 minutes. The circle grew and grew and then other circles were formed, some of which seemed quite proficient while others weren't as so. I watched closely. As far as I could tell there were three distinct parts to The Sardana. The first one seemed easy enough. The second one, too, seemed danceable. And the third part, well, it didn't last too long so maybe I could muddle through. I was so nervous. I didn't want to ruin their celebration, but I also didn't want to miss an opportunity like this. And in some odd way I thought I might be letting Rick Steves down if I didn't try it. (Rick Steves is my travel guru.) So I took a deep breath and, with heart wildly thumping, I tapped a lady on the shoulder to ask for admittance into the circle.



Then I did it! I danced The Sardana in Barcelona. I wasn't “perfect” but I made it through. At one point I looked up to the spire of the cathedral and thought, “Can I really be doing this?” And I really was! What an absolute thrill!


I did it!

After that dance and before the next, the lady to my right began giving me tips in a mixture of Catalonian and French. She was so nice, but I understood so little. When we began dancing again, a man in his 70's decided to join the circle on my left, and he began instructing me in English. He counted aloud and, unfortunately, OFF BEAT, and everyone within earshot hollered at him to stop talking. It was hilarious! After the dance he asked where I was from. When I told him America, he threw out his arms and bellowed, “Florida!” and he hugged me!

What an occasion. What a memory. And what a beautiful way to tell the world how proud you are to be Catalonian. We Texans could learn a thing or two.



Sunday, October 24, 2010

Animal Farm

We are in Southern France, ensconced in a lovely villa not far from the Pyrenees Mountains. From one window we can see the Mediterranean Sea, from another, Mount Canigou and its snow-topped peaks. It is lovely in the sunshine, unbelievably lovely.

We are housesitting for friends who acquired a used ambulance, filled it with clothing, blankets, and medical supplies, and departed for the mountains of Moracco where they will deliver supplies and goodwill from village to village. They've left us in charge of their hearth and home...and their pets.

Our days are now centered around these creatures, some I really like and some I tolerate. None are bad sorts. I just am a dog person and can't quite warm up to pigs. But I get ahead of myself.

The daily instructions are easy: Lead the horses to the pasture. Feed the pig. Feed the seven feral cats. Feed the three German/Belgian Shepherd dogs. Walk the dogs. Lead the horses to the barn. Feed the horses. Feed the pig. Feed the seven feral cats.

What I didn't expect were the complexities involved: The cats' food has to be softened because the kittens are so small. The dogs need to walk in the neighboring vineyard so they can enjoy eating the remaining grapes. The pig eats nearly any leftovers, and if you do not have leftovers for her, you must shop for leftovers. The horses prefer their feed softened and their hay a mixture of dry and damp. The pig enjoys a sprinkling of the horses' feed atop her leftovers in the evenings. The horses expect an apple before supper.

So here I am in beautiful Southern France, basking in the sunshine, and playing European Farm Lady.

And feeling mighty sporty in my blue wellies!




Step 1:  Halters On

        
          Step 2:  Lead Horses to Pasture


Step 3:  Celebrate Completion of Step 2
(Don't Forget to Look at Mountains!)
Step 4:  Put Horse Feed in
Bucket For Evening Feeding

Step 5:  Add Water to Bucket
To Soften Feed

Step 6:  Call Pig






Step 7:  Feed Pig But
DO NOT
Watch Her Eat!


Step 8: Bond With Pig (Avoid Expressions
Like "Fatty Face" and "Cloven Hoof Mama"
Which She Hates)




Step 10:  Call Dogs for Walk
(Step 9 is Feed Cats, But
Does Anyone Really Care?)
Step 11:  Avoid Placing Self
Between Grapes and Canine Jaws










Step 12: Off With the Wellies,
On With the Shoes
Step 13: Buy Leftovers for Pig
(Wear Disguise To Avoid Arrest
Because What Sane Person Would Buy Potato
Flakes in FRANCE???)




Saturday, October 23, 2010

Protecting the Children



I have failed at blogging in two ways. First, I am told, a blog page should be a neutral color. That seems intrinsically wrong, though perhaps not quite sinful. I don't know. But certainly wrong. Second, a blogger, I am told, must post regularly. But if you stay up late doing cool stuff to write posts about and fall asleep immediately upon returning home without writing said posts, what then? Are you bad? Or just an abject failure? I think the latter. Either way, it gives me pause.
Book cover
I have been neglecting my blog lately for one simple reason: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. What a gem of a book!

I gave Hunt a copy for Christmas last year, and he loved it and urged me to bring it along on this trip. I am so thankful that he did. If you have not yet read it, please
1. Do not continue reading this post.
And
2. Turn your computer off and go find a copy immediately.

___________

Isn't it absolutely charming? I adore the characters. They remind me of Jane Austen's characters though not so fleshed out and not so extreme. But oh, so dear. If only I could sit and enjoy tea with Isola my life would be complete!

I have thought so much through the years about World War II and its effects on Europe and Europeans. Perhaps this comes from marrying a historian, perhaps it is just a subject that picques my interest. I don't know. I do know that Americans like to think about the War beginning in '41 when we entered the fray. We like to focus on Normandy and the Bulge and VE-Day. You know, those good parts when America donned her white hat and showed everyone what was what.

But there were few good parts for the Europeans.

Anyone who has read about the camps, the battles, the bombings knows that all Europeans lost something precious: their lives, their loved ones, their property, their dignity, their innocence. Something. Or all. It was a tragedy on such an enormous scale, that I find it impossible to comprehend.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society offers a glimpse into what it must have been like for parents trying to protect their children during wartime. Keep them nearby and in possible danger or send them into the unknown and out of harm's way to live without family for years? What kind of choice is that? Parents should never be forced to make such decisions.

Eben Ramsey writes, “My grandson, Eli, was evacuated to England when he was seven. He is home now—twelve years old, and tall—but I will never forgive the Germans for making me miss his growing-up years.”

No, I will never comprehend the loss.





Friday, October 22, 2010

So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen....



Orell & Tracy


Well, we've had to bid adieu to our friends, Orell and Tracy, and continue on our travels alone. We had a sad farewell in Barcelona, primarily because we've had such fun adventures together, but also because they have been so enthusiastic about all things European. They were willing to do and try nearly anything.


Orell has been my friend since we both survived old Mrs. Sharp's second grade class. I was in her wedding, she in mine. (Yes, her bridesmaids' dresses were hideous, and she says the same about mine, but that simply isn't true! Mine were lovely, floral affairs with square necklines, bows at the waist, and tiers of fabric in the skirt! What could possibly be hideous about that?)

Orell and Tracy found themselves childless for a semester—their youngest is studying in Nicaragua—so we invited them to travel with us, and they did, from Salzburg to Barcelona. This was their first trip to Europe.  

A typical day began with coffee and a perusal of the preceeding day's pictures. After 2 to 3 cups, Hunt would bid us adieu and head out to try and make sense of internment camps. Having no specific schedule, Orell, Tracy, and I would finally rouse ourselves around 10:00, shower, dress, and head to town. There we would search for a better pretzel than our last, and search for the best gelato in that particular city. And take countless pictures. And visit a museum or two. And shop a lot. Hunt would catch up with us about 5:00, and then we'd resume the coffee drinking and walking. Weekends and evenings we spent taking day trips, going to concerts, trying new foods, and, often, getting lost.


More Research

First Döner
Driving in Europe is not as easy as one might think, or perhaps it just isn't easy for us (in spite of the fact that Hunt and I have driven in Europe for nearly 30 years.) The signs are so difficult to follow because--besides being in a foreign language--they sometimes make little sense. A location called one thing for 100 kilometers will suddenly be listed as another thing with no warning. Our dear friend Bernice, who has driven countless hours in France and speaks French fluently, laments that she, too, gets lost when she drives here. We follow her excellent advice and write a list of the towns between our departing point and our destination and hope against hope that one of the towns will be listed at each turn. For example, in driving from Houston to Dallas, I would list: Houston--Spring--Conroe--Willis--Huntsville--Centerville--Buffalo--Fairfield--Corsicanna--Ennis--Ferris--Dallas! This might seem unnecessary because the signs would probably say Dallas all along the way. But no! Not here! Here the locals make driving a challenge and make each turn an adventure! Whatever the case, following the signs is always memorable.

Tracy liked to ride shotgun in our little rental car, and navigation generally fell to him. Orell and I helped out from the backseat with quips like, “That's a one-way street!” and “I don't recognize anything.” We renamed our Munich neighborhood “Brigadoon” because it seemed to exist only if we believed. (And often believing wasn't quite enough to find it!)

We counted tunnels (and drove through 146 in one day from the Italian Lake District to the French Riviera!) We rented bikes. We drank gallons of coffee. We listened to street musicians. And we laughed a lot.

I miss them.