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. 

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.

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