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.

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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.