our travels

99 Nights

2007-12-10T05:37:00.000-08:00

Well, this is it. One more night in Europe and we're out of here. Right now we're in snowy Leysin, Switzerland returning Gertrude, and are about to catch the train to Geneva for a night in an actual motel before checking in to the airport at 5 am (the airport's closed over night or we'd sleep there.) Yes, that's right. The days of sleeping in 'ol Gerdie are over. I believe we slept 99 consecutive nights in her, "An impressive award winning performance," says our former employer and rightful owner of Gertrude, Tim Sloman. The last night we woke up north of Aosta, Italy under a thick blanket of snow. "Oh, that's right. We're in the Alps," we remembered. The pass we intended driving was closed, so we ended up taking the Monte Blanc Tunnel and driving the long way around Lake Geneva through France. Oh yeah, and we got a speeding ticket (our first one, and yes, they confiscated our passports and forced us into driving to the next town to pull out cash at an ATM). It's been an adventure. I suppose we'll post at least one more blog to give this whole thing a bit of closure. Maybe a list of travel tips, or top destinations, best cities to live in. That sort of thing. Until then, thanks so much for journeying along with us through Our Travels. It's been a great trip - and I expect will become even greater when it's over. In the word's of Lin Yutang, "No one realizes how beautiful it is to travel until he comes home and rests his head on his old, familiar pillow."

Merry Christmas, everyone! We look forward to sharing the holidays with you.

Love,

Kate and Phil

Venice

2007-12-07T07:51:00.000-08:00

Venice is an absolute dream - the quintessence of romance. Of course Casanova's City of Water has that reputation, but we weren't prepared for the swift efficacy of it's seduction. Truman Capote once said "Venice is like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go," and that about sums it up. The excess of visual treats are difficult to digest: glittering canals, enchanting cobblestone allies (absolutely no bikes, cars or scooters), velvet cushioned gondolas, Gothic churches with interiors made of gold, swinging with garnet chandeliers, Murano glass shops twinkling in the sun, and the list goes on. The result is to stumble around a bit giddy and lightheaded, not knowing where to go next or when to stop taking pictures of boats. Yes, even in December it was marvelous. We lucked out by finding free parking outside Venice on the mainland (did you know the city is built upon 117 tiny islands about a mile offshore?) and then took the bus in to the city center. In the course of the day we took a boat down the Grand Canal, visited three fantastic churches, bought a little painting off a street artist, and had a lovely carbonara spaghetti dinner. Oh, and my camera battery didn't die until five minutes AFTER sun set, which means I was able to snap this river shot from the Rialto Bridge. Nice, huh?

A Day in the Life of Us

2007-12-03T08:36:00.000-08:00

As our journey winds down and nears it's inevitable, much anticipated end, it occurs to me that in a week I won't be blogging anymore - and all those should-post-those-soon entries rattling around in my brain will be utterly obsolete. Not that I mind. I can't write about everything that strikes my fancy, and even if I could, I'm not remotely that ambitious. I'd much rather muster my efforts towards one last illuminating post.

I don't think I'll write about a landmark, or notable Italian customs, or even some wild brow-raising story about escaping drunk Slovakian truck drivers in the night. I'll save those for dinner parties, graveyard tea sessions, or maybe a bored hair dresser. No, instead I think I'll just write about the downtime - our life in between destinations. It's certainly not the glamorous aspect of our trip, but it's the vast majority of it, and - hard as it is at times - probably what I'll look back on with most fondness.

All mornings begin the same - us, cuddled in sweatshirts under a heap of linen and goose down in the back of Gertrude, waking, blinking in the morning light. It's really cozy in our fort of blankets and curtains and always an effort to leave, especially if it's raining.

And besides, it's a real pain to get up - an absolute dreaded routine of finding clothes to wear, folding up the bed, transferring bags to the back seat, cleaning up the front (taking out the garbage bag, wiping down the dash, etc.), washing our faces with baby wipes, combing our hair, you know, that kind of thing. Although I have to say, this whole transformation from night creatures into respectable citizens is much easier now that we stay at toll road service areas (I prefer that name to truck stops) every night. Almost all these service areas are run by Autogrill, an intereuro chain restaurant that also offers large public bathrooms, showers, a gift shop, gas station, well lit parking lots and 24 hour service. Oh yeah, and in Italy they boast a fantastic sandwich/coffee bar. So, most mornings, after freshening up in the restrooms, we grab a cappuccino and hot panini before hitting the road.

A lot of times, if we're not hunting down a specific destination (such as a landmark, laundry mat or Internet cafe), we'll take the first interstate exit and meander along the rural highways, enjoying the small villages and soaking in the country landscape.

Since entering Italy, we've adopted the habit of taking an hour walk everyday. Sometimes we do this in cities, or along the beach, but a lot of the time we just pull off on a country road and tromp along side naked vineyards and farmhouses. There are always people tinkering in their yards - raking leaves, burning brush piles, hanging out laundry or working on their car. It's peaceful to be near them, to feel the gentle hum of their homes.

Next, we drop by a supermarket on the outskirts of a town (an every-other-daily ritual). We prefer the big flashy ones that play Christmas music and give out cheese samples - a great atmosphere for stocking up on water, clementines and mixed nuts, our usual purchases. This is also where we plan and buy ingredients for "the Meal," a special early dinner that we cook for ourselves, and enjoy every two days or so.

It's hard to cook more than that. For one thing, it's less expensive to survive on cheap pizza and paninis - and much more efficient. Preparing our own meals takes a lot of time. We must buy the ingredients, find a location (ideally with a picnic table), unload our kitchen stuff from the car top, cook, eat and cleanup - an operation that demands clear skies and plenty of daylight. Even so, the Meal has become one of our favorite pastimes, and we've created some fabulous dishes. Pasta concoctions are naturally a favorite, and easy to shop for in Italy. I'm throwing in a snapshot of our latest pesto masterpiece - fettuccine with grilled chicken and tomatoes.

Of course it's impossible to give you a minute by minute play of an "average day" because they're all pretty different now that I think about it. We spend a lot of time in cafes reading and planning travel itineraries for upcoming cities. And almost every night we try and find a downtown to walk around in. 5pm and Italy comes alive. It's just wonderful. Twinkle lights snap on, shops open, and the well-dressed populace pour into the cobblestone streets to see and be seen. It's very lively and festive. People of all ages laughing, talking, smoking, slinging back espressos, and buying euro-fifty pizza slices from street vendors. We gleefully dive in and jostle around in the crisp night air - for a brief moment, belonging.

Eventually the cold and ever-looming threat of a parking ticket drive us back to Gertrude, and we chug away in search of an Autogrill, ready to call it a day.

And, that's it. That's our life, really. Us traveling Europe in a car. The little scenes that replay and make the days go by.

Anti-Traffic

2007-12-03T06:13:00.000-08:00

Italians drive like they eat. Every thing's on the table. There are no un-expressed feelings. When a cashier is apathetic towards your presence it is an unabashed Grammy winning communicative debut. When talking on a cell phone they make up with one hand all the waving they usually do with two, so that if you knew Italian sign language you could still follow along. But it's really un-needed because most conversations can be clearly heard at about a block and a half. There's a word for passive-aggressive people over here in Italy. They're called tourists.

"Wow. You're driving in Rome?" our tour guide asked me. "How is that? I just don't think I could be aggressive enough." I'd never thought of this and it took me off guard. I had to think about it for a second. And honestly, it's a lot of fun. It's so active and involved.

On Tyler's Google discussion board Joel posted a topic about "anti-traffic." It's an idea, or way of driving really, that helps prevent and ease bottle necks and traffic jams on the freeway. It's a really selfless way to drive for the benefit of the whole. But somewhere along the road here in Italy it's become a running joke between Kate and I. So that every time I cut somebody off or participate in a good stretch of curb driving or whatever some comment about it is invariably chuckled at. Like, "Let's try a little ant-traffic," or "How'd ya like that anti-traffic."

But before you group me up with the jerk who cut you off the other day, let me shine the light of context on my dark deeds. After that you can write me off.

When you drive in Italy you are choosing to engage in an ongoing, nationwide battle of chicken. This cultural phenomena was brought home to me one day while sitting at a stop sign. I sat and watched the cars flow by in front of me, turning onto my road. And I got to wondering, "wow, How am I going to get out of here? There really should be a light." But then I noticed their octagonal sign. They had a stop sign just like me. Then I realized, "It's a four-way stop." But the traffic was so heavy from one direction they were able to monopolize the intersection. My options at this point were clear, starve to death here or jump out in the middle and see what happens. I chose the latter. It went off smooth without a hitch or honk. "They were all just taking advantage of you," Kate marveled as we drove away. But that's just how driving is done here.

This rule of chicken applies to people interacting with cars as well. While waiting at an impossible crosswalk in Rome we watched and followed an older Italian man. He demonstrated the correct way to use a crosswalk in Italy. He put his head down and his hand up as if stopping the cars. And then, like Moses parting the waters, marched through four lanes of traffic. Do or do not. There is no try.

When merging during a traffic jam in Rome if you're not willing to put your car on the line, you're not going to be allowed on the road. This puts us at a bit of an advantage because, A. one more dent will be lost in the myriad, and B. (sorry Tim) it's not my car. On some sections of freeway in Rome they don't even have lines. Lanes form as they'll fit and then Vespas and Ducatis work through the moving maze of cars.

Have you ever thought about how a three or four lane round-about is supposed to work? The outside lane of the round-about is the coveted lane. So everyone piles up in the right hand lane leading up to the round-about. Because, theoretically, you're supposed to take the lane of the round-about that matches your lane, I think, right? So if you're in the left of three lanes you're supposed to cut across the outside two lanes of the round-about and take your place in the middle lane. The reason the outside lane is so attractive is because you can exit unhindered. But if you're in an inside lane you have to cut through the outside lanes to exit. I don't even know if this is legal.

"Officer, I looked to see if it was clear and then merged into the center lane, then I merged into the outside lane, and only then did I exit. I'm telling you I did not exit from the center lane."
"Did you signal fifty feet before each lane change?"
"Did I what? I didn't flip anybody off. We're talking about this round-about, right?"
"Forget it."

And ironically, most round-abouts have interesting distractions in the middle of them; like iron-sculpted-human-dragonflys, or other cool stuff like that. So that, for my veiwing pleasure I can admire the city's art installation as I frantically check my blind spots.

In theory, the three lane round-about is planned chaos. But in practice, the left lane is a good time. It's like Skateworld for adults.

It's nice to take little bits of each culture and incorporate them into your life back home. But my traffic record is finally almost clear. It's been easier to keep clean over seas. So, I guess as fun as it is to drive over here, I'm going to do my best to leave anti-traffic in Italy.

We Continue to Rome

2007-11-30T13:30:00.000-08:00

Our AAA travel guide alluded to the paradoxical nature of Rome when it warned: "It is an overwhelming city in every way, with splendors and frustrations in equal measure." But we were not prepared for the severity or multitude of its contrasts.

There was the weather for example. Cloudy with a slight chance of freezing rain. And believe me, a dark wash of November chill is an incongruous backdrop for sunbaked ruins and cyprus trees. I was mildly disappointed to see that Romans wear coats and beanies, not togas.

And there's the shocking contrast of antiquity engulfed by cutting edge technology - a common sight in Euroland, but significantly bolstered by the simple fact that the ruins here are 1000 years older than everywhere else. A roundabout circles the Colosseum, gigantic wide screens are parked outside of St. Peter's Basilica, and the Micky D arches glow over Saturn's temple remains.

We also experienced extreme changes of pace. In the streets everything goes screaming by in an onslaught of motion, noise and color, all garish and smelly in its haste. And then suddenly, we'd step inside one of the many cathedrals or museums and a heavy hush would hit us in the gut, and we'd proceed on tiptoes, whispering in the shadows and breathing in slow gulps of candle smoke and prayers. We could have heard our watches ticking, but even they had stopped to listen.

And there was something else, too. I'd call it extreme wealth and poverty, because there was lots of that, like beggars in mud puddles sitting outside of designer shops. The silvery light from the windows bouncing off their naked deformities, making their head tumors glow with Christmas cheer, like lumpy candles, like stars of Bethlehem. But, it was more than that. More than just a money thing...

...I wish you could have walked through St. Peter's Basilica with us. This is the Vatican's main attraction, the domed magnificence of Pope's gone by. It's a palace really, carved out of marble by the masters, and can only be described with superlatives: it's the biggest, loftiest, most majestic, opulent structure I've ever set foot in, and so overloaded with spiritual symbolism that you can almost feel your soul detach and hover like a halo as you drift through the halflight, gazing like a Saint at all the Saints. What I'm trying to say is, the spiritual realm becomes dominant reality inside the Basilica. You loose your body.

Now, please exit the Vatican, walk three blocks North, locate the metro sign near the pizza vendor and walk back down to Earth, into it's very belly, where humanity stands sweating and shifting on urine-stained concrete. Nervous, we wait. There are no spirit's here. Just bodies crammed too close to other bodies. The Red Line's late, and we wince, and shift and bare our teeth. We suck in the stale air and lick the grime from our lips, preparing to fight for a seat.

Philip and I were sitting there on the train one morning, trying to blot out the banshee shriek of steel on steel while planning a day of sightseeing, when two girls got on. Street girls, maybe 20 years old. Young, small, with dirty finger nails and missing teeth and - of all things - extremely pregnant, in a gross kind of way. Their bellies poked out from under their shrunken sweaters, and the elastic of their underpants showed. I guess the worst thing was their demeanour - so flagrant and base. They talked loud and brassy, hawking out laughs in the face of stares. "Wonder what kind of insurance plan they have," Philip whispered. "Probably just have their babies right here on the subway." "Romanian gypsies," I said. "Bet they grew up under the bridge." Phil nods. He was already thinking that. Last night, on our walk back to our car, we had seen them, mostly adults, one small child, huddled over a flame in the canal ditch. The child was just standing there still and calm, gazing deep into the fire. Trying to escape the cold. Trying to escape.... Yeah.

So we went to Rome and saw the Vatican, and a gypsy camp, the Sistine Chapel, and Bernini's Trevi Fountain. We took a tour through the Foro Romano and Palatino (ancient Rome's city center of civic buildings and temples, plus a palace and aristocratic housing districts - all recently unearthed in the last century). And there was the Pantheon and Colosseum, the pizza shop we took refuge in during a particularly ugly downpour, and our autistic tour guide, Chad, with whom we shared a bottle of wine.

But it doesn't end there, folks. All roads might lead to Rome, but thankfully they all lead out, too. Three days of assaulting contrast proved to be quite enough. We can only process so much. And besides, with only a few days of wandering left we decided to get a move on and wander. My precise current location: Aconda, Italy on the coast of the Aegean sea. The Sega continues

Orvieto: A City on a Hill

2007-11-30T12:56:00.000-08:00

We've passed through an inordinate number of cities on hills on our drive down to Rome. One of our favorites was Orvieto, a quaint village dating back to preRoman times, situated on an ominous butte of volcanic tuff and overlooking lovely Umbrian countryside:

Serendipity

2007-11-30T10:18:00.000-08:00

Many things in life are impossible to find directly. They're by-products, results of unknown causes. They're being in the right spot at the right time. They're putting yourself in the way of something great. They're the joining of elbow grease, time, and chance to create something that could never be planned or scheduled. Like a great photograph, or catching a fish, planning the perfect date, or like finding and exploring underground ruins untouched by tourism - which brings us to today's topic.

Perhaps you've heard of Arezzo, the capital of the province of Arezzo? I know you people are out there. I once met a border guard in Arizona who asked, "Isn't Scappose close to Warren?" But I am not such a person and drove into Arezzo with few preconceived ideas. OK, I didn't know a single thing. We were hoping to post a blog and take a little walk to stretch our legs. We live in a car you know.

Our walk was pretty unplanned, it's our style. We just parked in town and followed what looked nice. As we went up a hill the cobblestone streets became more and more narrow. Sometimes a church square would open up at the end of an alley, like a meadow in the city. The first church was pretty cool, the second was massive. Pretty soon it's dawning on us that this is a destination place for many people.

Above the last church is a sprawling park with nice views and kids playing. As we continued we came upon an old gate opening up into an underground passage way. We hesitated a second and then decided to try it. It was a large corridor that led us up into another section of the park. The corridor continued like an underground castle, but was securely blocked by on old iron lattice.

The top part of the park had amazing views of the city, with walls dropping off on all sides. The whole thing was kind of a tweaked out star shape. As we walked the perimeter we saw another path sloping down, different than the one we came up. Curious, we headed toward it. My heart held onto its hope even as I saw the bricks filling in the arched doorway.

As I got closer to make sure it was totally blocked I found that someone had already done my work for me. There was a large hole smashed out in jagged lines, big enough to duck into the darkness. Kate wasn't sure about this. But seriously, when was the last time you came across real, official, underground old castle barracks built into the keep, un-marked, un-mapped, un-restored?

The question was not, "to go or not to go." The question was, "Why the heck didn't I bring the flashlight?" We were taking a stroll through downtown in the middle of the day. It's hard to know when these things will strike. But as they say, chance favors only the prepared walker.

I stood in the darkness letting my eyes adjust and listening. I didn't really want to meet a fellow squatter, so I yelled a little, imagining that perhaps he didn't want to meet me either.

The place was in ruins :) and it was hard to make out what was what. I've noticed that all the ruins we've visited are always a little filled in. Doors are short, windows start on the floor and go up to your waist, that sort of thing.

Rooms led to more rooms and we saw lots of garbage, stone and darkness. We used the flash on the camera to get a quick preview of dark rooms. Normally this is the kind of exploration I'd like to systematically exhaust, but as it continued to wind we heard people talking. My suspicion is that the new city was backed right up against the old wall and that some random little restaurant used some of these back rooms for storage or something. Maybe the poor shanties of the town found a place of refuge here? Regardless of who was back there, we didn't want to try and explain ourselves. So we tip-toed back through the crumbling halls and rooms and back out into the blinding sunshine.

Overall, it was a pretty good stroll through the town. The moral of the story - disregard this last bit if you're one of the those smug people who feel insulted by this sort of didactic digression - is that it's good to carry a Mag-light on afternoon walks. (p.s. "It could be used as a weapon.")

-Philip

The Best of Firenze

2007-11-23T09:32:00.000-08:00

Or at least, we wanted to see the best of city, but the capitol of Tuscany proved a bit elusive yesterday. We had so many high hopes, including seeing lots of Renaissance sculpture, taking scads of street scene photos and making the most of Thanksgiving away from home by enjoying a lovely little dinner in some exquisite hole-in-the-wall Italian joint.

Things went askew right off. The day broke drizzly and gray and it took two hours of crunching through urban gridlock to find parking, the expensive downtown kind, but there was nothing else. We made it into the Galleria di Accademia only to find that (after paying the entrance fee), aside from Michelangelo's David and unfinished Slaves, all the other sculpture displays were closed for the day. Oh well, we said, lets go take some photos. Less than two blocks outside the museum, the camera battery died. Back to the parking garage we went to sit in Gerdie and charge the battery. We hit the city streets at dusk and had less than 45 minutes of light. The real bummer was dinner. We had found the perfect place with a perfect menu, but we had a couple hours to kill before it opened. No big deal, we took a walk and thought we'd enjoy a couple rounds of hot drinks at this dive pizza/coffee bar we found. It was super casual, no menus or anything, we just ordered and chatted a while. Big mistake. The tab came to 27 dollars. Oh, that's right. Florence is a tourist town. So much for dinner. We hit the road and had Thanksgiving at the Autogrill with some truckdrivers.

Yeah, so it was a tough day, but not completely void of things to be thankful for. The streets were really lovely with rain,(we found one haunted with accordian melodies) and the sweetest old (very old) American lady wished us a happy Thanksgiving while we were admiring the David. She and her husband toddled away holding hands to admire a painting in the next room. "Look, Phil," I said, "They're friends." "Yep," he said. "Hey, do you want to be my friend?" "Um, sure," I said. "That sounds pretty good."

Here are a few of the wet street scenes we managed to capture:

A Piece of Pisa

2007-11-23T08:18:00.000-08:00

Mix together 7 bells, 14,500 tons of Carraca marble, 934 years, unstable subsoil, and what do you get? Another UNESCO World Heritage Site! This one's leaning a bit (the top's 15 feet off kilter), but don't worry folks, thanks to this handsome Yank in blue argyle, the tower's not scheduled to collapse for another 300 years. Actually, the continued existence of the Tower of Pisa does owe quite a lot to the US of A, being that a US army sergeant choose not to bomb it to smithereens upon finding out the Nazis were using it as an observation post in WWII. He could of, you know. And then where would we have gone? Tourists need destinations. Solid places where we can go and buy souvenirs made in China sold by Kenyans. Places we can go to take pictures. And eat ethnic cuisine. Like pizza. Crispy wheat crust, artichoke chunks, kalamata olives, tomato basil sauce and buffalo mozzarella. Squisito!

Crossing Into Italy

2007-11-18T08:11:00.000-08:00

Here's a few photos from the last few days.

Traveling through Stories

2007-11-18T07:38:00.000-08:00

So we've been on a trail, or at least that's what the map says with it's lemon yellow dots beeping out a line along the French coastline, almost imperceptible beneath the bright crosshatch of modern highways. The key says its the Via Domitia, an old Roman thoroughfare that ran from Rome to Spain, and back in it's hay day (over 2000 years ago) was replete with bridges, gravel and milestones, not to mention a string of roadside cities - many of which still bare architectural witness to that age. I guess I never really considered Rome's occupation of France. In my mind all that happened further East. Greece, Turkey, Syria- you know, Bibile country. But France? Sure enough, we stopped in Nimes a couple days ago to post blogs and eat crepes from a street vendor, and low-and-behold a Roman colosseum reposed in solemn splendor at the center of town. The next morning we checked out Pont du Gard - a lofty bit of aqueduct that once carried drinking water to the city 50 kilometers away. I'll throw in a photo so you can appreciate my adjective choice. Yes, a Roman aqueduct is lofty - not just because of it's magnificent engineering, but because it connects me to people that lived 2000 years ago in a very tangible way. Standing up there next to those archways built of stones the size of Gertrude, I could suddenly see the men, struggling under the weight of construction. Who were they' Slaves? Backs naked and sweating in the sun. How did they do it? Ropes? Leverage?' Elephants? 'Maybe the wind was blowing like this. Maybe their fingers were numb with cold, chapped, bleeding. They were probably standing right here, touching this very stone. Did they have a lunch break? What did they eat? What did they talk about?

It's a common indulgence of the imagination, I suppose. Finding stories amongst the cobwebs of the past - and almost impossible to refrain from when standing in some ancient European monastery, fortress battlement or twisting village ally. One of our favorite past times while exploring a ruin is to drum up the possible fire lit conversations, desperate prayers, kisses, acts of betrayal, births, and murder that have taken place within these crumbling walls. How many noble women lived and died haunting the corridors of this castle? A rustle of silk around the corner, a tapping of shoes down the hall, coughing on fire smoke, shivering in the cold. Were they sad and anxious when their ironclad husbands went crusading, or relieved? And then there's their last screams at childbirth leaping up and joining the other ghosts that swim these channels of stone.

These stories are fun, and I think to an extent, necessary for the thoughtful traveler of historical places. But even better than connecting with these stories in time, is connecting with those in space:

I've heard it said that most people live their lives within a two mile radius of their homes. It's probably more like 30 miles these days, but just imagine all the virtual circles spotting the globe - lives that intersect and form communities - active and alive but fairly stationary. As travelers living in a line (strangely resembling a highway) we have the joy of slicing through these life spheres, and if we keep our eyes open and pay attention, we experience a delightful cross-section of real-life stories in progress.

Sometimes it's just the realization that somebody commutes this little stretch of highway everyday, they know every turn, every round-about. They replay conversations at work and dream of next weekend with the family. This is the back drop of their life, and here we are stepping out on that stage for just a moment. This knowledge lends a certain specialness to the smallest of events. I feel privileged to bump up against these stories, and even from time to time make a small debut: a hello, a smile, maybe ask for directions.

Of course the best is when you actually stumble upon a "scene." Like when we walked into a patisserie in a mountain village and caught an eager young man bashfully flirting with the pretty shop girl. He was clearly shattered by our sudden apperarence. They exchange glances, smiles and then out he goes with his baguette. "Bet he finds reasons to buy one of those at least once a day," Phil chuckles.

And then there's the polite big-eyed boy in a soccer uniform who agreed to take our picture by a leafy canal in Nimes. We were still there when his grandmother wooshed up in her SUV, both of them smiling happily as he climbed up in the front seat. Or the girl my age in a wheel chair being treated to lunch in a small trendy joint by her friend.

But not all the stories have love.

We came across a man beating his teenage son in a dark street in Spain. He was kicking him on the ground and yelling. And yesterday morning, an ill-kept older man, maybe 70, walked up to us in the gas station parking lot and asked if we had jumper-cables. We didn't, so Philip ended up pushing his car to life. "Looks like he lives in his car, too," Phil announced later. "There were a few dirty blankets in there, and he smelled bad. I'm guessing that's all he's got."

I think that's the saddest story. Ending up alone.

- Kate

French Impressions

2007-11-18T07:15:00.000-08:00

The French are a queer folk. From the croissant to the high heel, they love all things fine and delicate.

And yes, I'm fully aware of the transgression I'm making; waltzing into a culture for a couple weeks, driving around visiting a few sights, and then saying their culture is such & such. But, it is also the outsider who has fresh eyes and is aware of distinctions and differences on a surface level. And being that this is a blog and a perfectly legitimate place to rave on about things I know nothing of, I think it permissible to talk about my impressions of the French, and whatever else I fancy throwing in here.

Where was I? Oh yes, the French being a queer folk. I suppose that is their stereotype and nothing new. But, the French are also nice. This may not come as a shock to some but it was news to me. Don't the French think Jesus spoke French (when we all know it was English). And how dare you come to my planet without learning our language and all that?

But it is not this way. We've had multiple people do their best to communicate with us using the little English they know (which is loads more French than I do) even when there's been nothing in it for them. And not one person has been deliberately snotty about the language thing.

Granted, people are people everywhere and there's always exceptions, but if you don't mind, I'd like to stick to the task at hand here, stereotyping.

Along the nice lines, they're also the most friendly and personable culture we've come across. In a little village up in the North Kate and I were doing some laundry and took a walk while it was washing. As we were passing a lady I kind of looked up and smiled and she smiled and said, "Bon Jour." I just about fell off my rocker. I've been initiating hello's since we left Leysin, mostly unsuccessfully. This was the first unsolicited, random hello on our trip. And it really made my day. In Czech the old ladies would sooner kick you in the balls than say hello. But I suppose I'd be continually angry if I had to live with Czech food too.

This was the first of many friendly village Bon Jours the locals walk around saying. Some days I think I could just stand inside a Patisserie all day long, smiling and saying "Bon Jour" as people came in and "Ou Vua" as they left.

I guess food is a stereotype that got the nail on the head. There's a reason French food is eaten the world over. The French eat well. And I don't mean well in the American sense of quantity, I mean well in the French sense of quality.

Everything over here is sample size, but what is taken in volume is given back in texture and taste. A little baby piece of chocolate at the chocolate shop will be over a dollar, but it'll knock your lights out.

All foreign food is weird. Your own food is weird if you could just step back and be objective about it for a second. But French food is weird; goats cheese and broccoli in a flaky pastry, caviar, tar tare (not the sauce, the raw meat with capers and things, eaten on crackers or whatever), quiche, blue cheese, need I say more after that last one. But I love Roquefort, weird as it is. And I like most French foods, especially their pastries. Their palate is so odd, trying and mixing things I'd never think of, but so delicate and refined too.

Yes, I said refined. The French do border on pretentious, but they can't help it. They really do just like nice, delicate, little frilly things. Did I mention that their large grocery stores, when you can find one, have a whole isle devoted to scotch, cognac, and whisky, complex things, delicate and full of subtlety, with the pop of a nail gun.

And these things are all nice, but it's the small, enchanting French villages that really charm me into loving the country. They're almost invariably old and rundown, with plaster falling off walls in random patches. The city planning neglected to consider the invention and domination of the automobile, so all the roads are narrow and tight. Most medium sized cities just block the downtown off and call it a walking district and they're cute and ingenious. Montpelier was my favorite till we went to Nimes the next day, which will probably be replaced by Cannes and then Nice respectively.

But the smaller villages usually let you wedge your car down any street you foolishly deem feasible. What's nice about these villages is what's nice about French film, the texture. There's no neon, there's no stainless steel, or pristine marble, there's no colored, poured and stamped cement, there's not a smooth, straight, or square line in the place. It's all a million degrees of natural light gray. A mixed media collage project centuries in the making, a new variety of brick for everyone laid, a new plaster for each wall, a new design for each wrought iron balcony guard, but all in the same spirit.

By law each village must have more flower shops than anything else (utilitarians, I guess); hair salons and pastry shops coming in a close second. Cell phones have not caught on and what is this Internet you speak of?

I believe that wine and art are the countries only source of income. Oh ya, tourism - the official language of Paris is Japanese and English. But outside of a major city French is all there ever was, and rugby's all that. And even though it's a little run down, it's clean and beautiful, right down to the graffiti.

- Philip

13th Century Technology

2007-11-14T08:18:00.001-08:00

On Monday the 12th we went to Carcassonne, home of a medieval citadel. Up on a hill above the French city stands one of the finest examples of 13th century technology. This was the era of stone canon balls, public floggings, and coldness.

Coldness? Oh yes, let me assure you, although the history books may devote pithy little to the topic, it was most definitely an era of coldness. We stood on one of the towers looking off towards the blue horizon as wind whipped around us unhindered, pressing icy fingers against our skin through multiple layers of high-tech 21st century clothing. "Have you happened to notice the cold wind from the North?" our little plastic audio guides asked us in British accent. Notice? It's freezing up here. How did these people survive? Later that day I saw a little propane heater for sale at a gas station for 20 bucks. (You're just supposed to think about that.)

The whole place was built to keep people out. A tall brick wall with towers around the whole city, a dry moat around the castle in the city, a curved wall with a gated entrance to keep rowdy peasants off the draw bridge, once across the drawbridge double iron gates that slide down from rooms above - separate rooms to make treachery among the soldiers difficult - and hundreds of slits to shoot crossbows from, in every direction.

I couldn't help but scheme about how I would've seiged the castle, but really, one by-plane would've done some damage. One Sherman tank could turn this UNESCO-World-Heritage-Sight-of-Medieval-Defenses into a rock quarry in about an hour.

We've transformed ourselves into vagabonds to see some of the world, but our daily lives are filled with more comfort than the nobility of this era. I love our car's heater. It's a beautiful thing. You can burn yourself up in there on the coldest of days.

I don't relate to the lives of these people, even a little bit. I can't hardly imagine their daily lives, when a nicely shaped rock is cutting edge, when revolutionizing technology like the cotton gin is 100's of years off. How do you survive without Old Navy? Over here you go to H&M. Back in the day? You refine your home-ec skills, I guess.

The advances in daily comforts that have come to pass in the last 150 years or so separate us from centuries of history of relatively similar lifestyles. Or so I imagine. But I had more than my fill of the historical wind. And was happy to walk back into the halogen lit, magically warm gift shop and plunk fifty cents into a big square machine in exchange for a coffee, quick and hot. How does it work? It's easy. You put money in and it gives you coffee. I just told you. (and you're just supposed to think about that.)

- Philip

Road to Carcassonne

2007-11-14T06:27:00.000-08:00

I wrote a brief email to Mama the other day updating her as to our whereabouts and goings on, and I thought I'd just cut and paste in here, so as to save on time and preserve sanity. These French keyboards are all scrambled up and backwards - nearly impossible to wrestle a blog out them, really.

Oh yes, and we have pictures! I didn't want to tell you we got another camera until we actually got some photos out of it. I was afraid it'd get nabbed again. But, viola! Here it is, and more importantly, some pictures documenting this last segment of our road trip:

Hi Mama,

I'm missing you too. We've just got one more month to go, and then we'll be home and doing who knows what. Life is full of interesting situations and I guess being stuck on vacation is one of them. Our momentum's picking up a little. We decided to drive inland to visit an ancient fortified city in Carcassonne. I guess I should probably write a blog about it. It was spectacular. But freezing. The wind is so cold. We took a bunch of little country roads through the mountains and Mom, I made the most amazing mutton stew. You can buy little "soup" packs in the produce section of most grocery stores in Europe for about 5 dollars. This one had carrots, celery, turnips, green onion, gold onion, sprigs of sage and a bay leaf. I also bought some mutton chop things, potatoes, tomatoes and chicken bullion. It was so good. I made enough to last for two days. Anyways, I thought you'd be proud of me. We've been breaking our rule though, about not eating in the car. Of course we cook outside, but, its just too biting cold to stay out there comfortably.

Here we are planning our backcountry route from Montpellier to Carcassonne:

We saw lots of gorgeous scenery...

...and some quaint villages, too.

We even came across a little street market in the village Olargeus. We bought apples and hot mulled wine.

In the car:

Our destination, Carcassonne Castle:

There's a Divinity That Shapes Our Ends

2007-11-09T11:23:00.000-08:00

We drove back into France the other day, and but for one small exception, we've been loving it.

Imagine powder blue skies and rolling hills of crinkly-dry vineyards and poplar trees. Everything's bright and crisp and sprinkled with a good dose of cayenne, curry and cloves. All blended together with severe gusts of wind. There's lots of sun though, the silver slanty kind that pokes you in the eye from 2 pm on.

We bought a little am/fm radio and have been enjoying the local stations. Last night we stayed up late listening to French love songs, and made Irish cream lattes on our little portable stove. It was nice. France is nice...

...and its hard to put your finger on what exactly makes it so delightful. In many ways the country villages could be considered quite drab - pain-fronted buildings in varying shades of beige and pigeon-poo gray. They're always half dead and house only a handful of shops, and those are anything but practical. You want a grocery store or gas station? Sorry, but there's a lovely flower shop just around the corner, and a chocolaterie and a patisserie too where you can buy a fresh-baked baguette.

That's what we did today. We stopped in a little village to buy a baguette and discovered a little sidewalk market where they were selling rotisserie chicken and roasted potatoes. It's hard to pass something like that up on a blustery day. Surprisingly they served up our half of a hen in a paper bag, juice and all, and that's how we ate it, vagabond style, with our beanies on.

Yes, today was fat and saturated with photo potential. And so was our trip through Cape Creus. We wandered out to this lonely bit of coastline before leaving Spain, and discovered a wasteland of rocky crags and deserted hillsides. There's not much left these days, the wild goats are gone, as are vineyards that once thrived there. Apparently the vine plague phylloxera wiped out the native grapes over a century ago, and now there's only dirt. Dirt and the tiny-stone terraces crumbling like a million backbones of a million hillsides. Of course the bleached white sea towns are still there, although I guess the waters are pretty much fished out. Fish or no fish, there were plenty of sea faring locals with their gold skin, silver hair and chunky sweaters. Oh and pipes, and coffee. There's where we saw them, smoking in the local cafes as they read the morning paper. I even have pictures. Okay, I even HAD pictures.

And that brings me to the "one small exception" I mentioned earlier. Our new camera was pick-pocketed a couple days ago, along with a full card. We hadn't got a single photo off of it. We were walking on the boardwalk of one of these small sea towns, and when I reached for my camera to take another picture, it was gone. Just like that. This can't happen, I kept on saying. It just can't happen. Not again.

But it did.

Have you ever read Hamlet? Towards the end of the tragedy he gets weary and reconciles himself to fate. "Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting / that would not let me sleep," he tells his friend Horatio. But tell me, what's the use? For "there's a divinity that shapes our ends / Rough-hew them how we will."

After this last camera snatching I feel like I, too, am entering Act 5. I'm tired of fighting, tired of loosing sleep, tired of rough-hewing my photograph-Europe dream into existence. Is this the cue to give up?

It's hard to know, really.

By the way, we found a ruin up on a hill overlooking the majority of Cape Creus and miles and miles of shimmering sea. There were actually two ruins, one was the old monastery of Sant Pere de Rodes (where archaeologists discovered a coffer of 15th century gold coins in the late 80's) and the other was a castle type thing, where apparently the nobles kept watch for pirates. It was quite nice standing up there in the dilapidated tower; squinting at the horizon for a glimpse of scull and crossbones.

On the Beach

2007-11-01T10:52:00.000-07:00

It´s a strange thing to watch your fortune rise to glorious heights and then suddenly fall, leaving you standing there on the beach, stunned and bereft, watching it all fade away. (Watercolor by Debbie Homewood)

That´s how Steinbeck´s The Pearl ends: Kino and Juana, side by side, looking out at the sea as their pearl slowly sinks to the bottom. Their house is burnt. Their fishing boat ruined. Their baby dead. They have nothing left. Nothing except each other and a steely look in their eyes - something like despair and determination. It´s hard to know which.

And that´s how Kate and Phil´s international photojournalism dream ended too, with them standing at the edge of the Mediterranean, suddenly stripped of their two worldly possessions and speechless.

I suppose it´s not much to speak of, a Powerbook, a Canon Rebel and a photo legacy of our road trip through Europe. Most people our age have houses and jobs and families. But still, it´s what we had, and it´s what was taken.

We´ve been on that beach a week now. Each day we move a little closer to Barcelona. But mostly we just sit there in the sand, shewing away flies in the lukewarm heat and staring. Everything´s so desaturated. Like in Paul Simon´s song, the sky is yellow and the grass is gray. Or it would be if there was any.

¨Well, I guess that was our earthly treasure,¨ Phil said, breaking the surface with a skipping stone. ¨I didn´t even know I had any.¨

¨Yeah, I guess it was,¨ I said. ¨A theif sure broke in and stole it.¨

And for the millionth time the scene is replaying in my mind, the breaking glass, me screaming, the leering face outside my window. That´s where I pause it. When I can look into the face and demand he drop everything - when I can scream and cry and plead with the hideous face, and then when all it does is leer back, I hit play again and shoot his hand off as he´s running back to his car. This time it´s him screaming and his window shattering. This time I wake up the next morning and my cameras still there and all the photographs, safely filed by country in iphoto, patiently waiting to be inserted into my next Blurb book.

¨Okay, how many skips can I get from this little jobber?¨ Phil asks, holding up an almost perfectly sphere chunk of limestone.

¨Um, two.¨

¨Oh ye of little faith!¨ he cries and lobs it into the surf. Plop. We laugh. ¨It was the wave. Hey, can I have some of that?¨

¨Nope.¨ Phil lunges for my mostly peeled (store-bought) mandarin . ¨Ahh! Philip, stop it! You´re getting sand on it!¨

¨You have heard it said, woman, don´t resist an evil man!¨

¨You´re not evil. GET OFF!¨

¨If someone asks for your orange, give him also the rest of your chocolate bar! Hmm. That´s good.¨

¨Oh Philip, seriously.¨

We sit their chuckling, eating the last of our picnic goodies. The truth is, we´ve been having a little trouble with the Sermon on the Mount. It used to be one of our favorite scriptures, but anymore we don´t know what to do with it.

We didn´t resist the evil man, but we wish we had. And we don´t have earthly treasure anymore. But we sure wish we did.

I find myself asking Why, a lot, when I´m staring out at the blueness and sail boats.

Philip nuzzles my cheek and begins to serenade me with fine Garfunkel gusto:

¨...I do it for your love...¨

Spain: An Update

2007-10-27T08:41:00.000-07:00

Note: This is the blog I wrote approximately four hours before we got robbed on the night of the 23rd. I´ve re-written it from memory and surprised myself in producing an exact copy. Of course I don´t have the photographs (there were ten), but in light of the following events, it´s an interesting read, especially since I unknowingly describe the scene of the crime, make light of theft, and give a good (painful) idea of how much the camera and computer played a part in our lives. (The paintings are by Alan Post.)

Spain is California on the coastlines and Nevada in middle - plus castles.

Our trek down to Madrid felt like a bona fide road trip, full of arid blue skies, dusty expanses and a strip of blacktop that disappears somewhere between the last refreshing beverage stop and the odometer clicking over to 7000 Ks.

Our trek from Madrid to Valencia was pretty much a replay, except we hit more palm trees and didn´t stop at Laguardia - an ancient streetless city that sits on top a hill overlooking red-tinted vineyards and a haze of a horizon. I say streetless because they were more like hallways weaving between pre-Gothic buildings. I say pre-Gothic because I´m not sure what style came before, but believe me, they´re from before.

The sun has trouble slipping into these hallways, and when we stepped inside the ISO setting went from 100 to 400 - we just stood there blinking in the cool dark shadows trying to comprehend how a place like this could exist in the 21st century.

Come to find out, the town is full of wineries, all of which brew and store their famed Rioja vintages in cavernous cellars beneath the city - an attraction that evidently draws sufficient tourism. In fact, we could have taken an underground tour in Spanish at 5:30 or 7 for 12 euros, but declined the cultural opportunity in favor of a hot meal. We ordered lamb and potatoes - the first real restaurant dinner since embarking on our journey and an excellent choice. There were cloth napkins, Nora Jones, balsamic reductions, an Antoinio Banderes-esque waiter, and everything. Morale skyrocketed. (Phil adds: the bank account plummeted).

Madrid passed in a blur of riding the metro, eating kabobs, buying English books, downing Starbucks coffee, relaxing in the city park, touring a museum and - the reason for our visit - attending a bullfight at Madrid´s La Ventas Plaza del Torros. This is Phil´s blogging territory so I´ll stop there. Okay, I´ll just add this: When I walked away from the ring I was speechless. I knew I had witnessed something truly extraordinary - extraordinarily beautiful or hideous, I wasn´t sure which. And I´m still not. Regardless, I was spell bound by the ghastly death dance and was left secretly wanting more.

Right now we´re just sitting here in a parking lot near the beach of Pucol. Phil´s reading, I´m clearly typing and Gertrude´s idling away, breathing life into my laptop. Rain blew in a couple hours ago and is smearing lamplight across the windshield.

The plan is to wake up early and watch the sun rise over the Gulf of Valencia. But it´s looking a little doubtful. Not the sun rising, of course. It always seems to manage. What I´m doubting is whether we´ll be able to see it in this drizzle.

Okay, I should probably go upload the photos for this blog.

Anytime now Phil´s going to look over and say, ¨Well, Babe, what do you think? And I´ll say, ¨Yeah, let´s do it.¨ Which translates, It´s time to get out, stretch, find an appropriate tree, brush our teeth, wash our faces and hands with baby wipes, transfer all the bags from the backseat to the front, put the backseats down, fold down the mattress, arrange our pillows and blankets, tuck our flip flops into the side door pockets (for quick access) and then crawl into bed while simultaneously changing into jamas, adjusting the curtains, checking to see if the flashlight and water bottle are within reach, and making sure we know where the car keys are should we need them come middle of the night (we´ve had to change locations a couple of times due to safety reasons).

Or more likely Phil will turn and say, ¨Well, Babe, what do you think?¨and I´ll say, ¨Yes, but first let me read you my blog and then you HAVE TO check out the photos you took of me stealing mandarins in the orchard today. I just uploaded them and they´re super funny.¨

And that will probably lead to a discussion on the ethics of taking just a couple mandarins from an overproducing orchard, a topic we´ve been haunted throughout the day - usually when we´re snacking on the juicy fruit or wishing we were. The deal is, we´re currently surrounded by unfenced fields of ripe oranges, and they fit into our limited diet and budget so perfectly. I suppose our justifications may be legitimate, but I still hold that we´re stealing (Philip doesn´t) - we might as well call it what it is, right?

Maybe it´s one of those mixed up things like bullfighting. Not entirely pure but oh-so thrilling. Don´t get me wrong, that´s not WHY I crept into the orchard (we were in desperate need of some Vitamin C supplement) but I have to admit it was kind of exhilarating rushing into the fragrant grove, frantic for deep shades of orange, deftly plucking the fruit, filling my tee-shirt and then bounding back, breathless. I felt like Peter Rabbit, ears perked and ever-ready for an attacking Mr. McGregor. He never got me thanks to my chill get-away driver, who, unbeknowst to me, snapped a few incriminating photographs. I´ll be sure to include them with my blog.

Speaking of which, hopefully I can post this and my Basque blog tomorrow morning, but no promises. The Internet´s an awfully elusive commodity around here. The EU should seriously consider going wireless. They´d attract Westfalia-van fulls of travel bloggers from around the world and if nothing else, boost truck-stop sales.

I´d write more, but truck-stops deserve their own blog.

Peace Out,

Kate

Sunday in Madrid

2007-10-27T08:10:00.000-07:00

I knew very little about bullfighting when Kate and I decided it would be a fun and exciting cultural event. I read enough on the internet to know that they were still going on every Sunday in Madrid.

We bought tickets on Saturday morning. That afternoon in and English bookstore I discovered Hemingway's book on bullfighting, "Death in the Afternoon." I´d read enough by Sunday afternoon to induce the feeling I used to get in Jr. High before we ran the mile in Gym class. I´d try to rationally convince my ready adrenaline that it really wasn't a race. And I knew it wasn't my fight, but as we rode the metro to the Ventas de Torros, I couldn´t shake that pre-fight feeling.

I read about what things were supposed to look like, what would happen, could happen, what wasn´t supposed to happen. I learned Spanish words for different aspects of the bullfight. But the color and movement of the whole spectacle was so much more vibrant than my imagination.

The first bull pranced into the empty ring with the energy and confidence of an ADD six-year old on a sugar high. A banderillo, a helper to the matador, stepped out from behind a boarded barricade. The bull head up and alert caught sight of him immediately. There was no provocation, no yelling, no waving of cape. The man was silent and almost sneaky as he slipped out of his hiding spot.

But the bull, all meat and horn, tore a straight line in the sand for the man. He was so happy to have something to charge that he overdid it a bit. And as the man jumped back behind his home-base the bull rammed a horn through the ring barrier, splintering a white stripe off along the grain.

I was a little shocked. I don´t know what I expected. I´ve never been around bulls much. But this animal, this whole idea and event was insane. And this was only the first 30 seconds, of the first of three rounds, of the first of six bulls.

As I watched our first bull I didn´t know how to respond. We watched him transition from his initial giddy confidence to the final round. The matador would turn his back on the bull just a few feet away to face the crowd after a few suertes. The crowd cheered as the bull stood lost, behind the matador, panting, bleeding, and looking around confused. He had been steadily beaten, strung along, given just enough confidence to make it to his inevitable end. The end is a small red hilt protruding from between his shoulder blades.

My heart went out to the first bull, and I didn´t know how to process the whole thing. The second bull received half my heart and the third none at all. By the fourth bull I was "amening" the Spaniard I sat next to as he swore at the bull´s cowardice.

How did this happen to me, you ask me. I was seduced, my dear friends, and though I cannot explain or justify why, like a valiant bull I shall be brave in facing my known and inevitable failure and try anyways.

The possibility of the bullfight rests on the bull´s bravery. But the glory and the seduction of the bullfight rests on the matador. The good matador is every bit as much of a ballerina as he is a killer. Bullfighting is not a sport like bull riding. There are no points awarded, no clear wins or objectives to accomplish. Bullfighting is an artistic presentation. It is a dance between beast and boy with the great beyond a wrong step away.

I´ve heard that one of the difficulties of dancing is to not just perform the proper moves elegantly, but to make it appear easy and natural, even enjoyable. This is complicated by the danger involved in bullfighting. But as I watched it began to look so easy and natural that I forgot the danger, until someone was tossed into the air or painted red.

We saw several people thrown and gored only to leap back up in defiance. One guy had his pants, and mind you these are not baggy jeans, had his pants ripped right off. Although from what I´ve read, many bullfighters never leap back up from their wounds.

Perhaps the only thing that surpasses a matadors bravery is his arrogance. De doesn´t just kill the bull, he dominates it and defies it´s strength and power. He is out to prove, with haughty elegance, that he is the man who can play with, dance with, and break the bull as he wills. And in the end, in what is called the moment of truth, to lead the bull´s head down with the red cloth, as he leans over the horns so slide the whole sword blade in between the shoulders. If the bull does not follow the cloth it is his greatest opportunity to put a horn in the man´s chest.

Six bulls is really a pretty good amount. Any less and you´d leave hungry, any more and you´d feel like a glutton, overstuffed on emotion and blood. After the sixth bull was drug through the sand out of the ring something dropped in my chest and I realized that I´d been holding my breath for the last two hours. I stood up and walked from the cement coliseum in a daze.

And where do I land no the ethics of this whole business, you ask. I was going to avoid that little topic altogether. But since you ask so directly I´ll tell you.

I don´t think it appeals to all people, but as for myself I found it disturbing but also beautiful. Death is disturbing and we don´t often see it or think about it. But I would rather be a bull in Madrid than a steer in McDonald´s. I don´t watch sports much, but I could see myself attending these things on a regular basis if I lived around them.

And why have you not talked of the technicalities of the whole show? What´s the muleta, the estoque, suertes, banderillos, picadors, and all that jazz? Five boring pages all got the ax. But if you´re dying to know "Death in the Afternoon" is quite the ride.

PS: Kate shot two gigs of great photos at the bullfight, but the ones seen here have been pilfered from the Internet.

Recovery

2007-10-26T09:57:00.000-07:00

Well, it´s been a pretty tough couple of days, but it´s been nice reading your encouraging notes. At first all we wanted to do was come home. We felt utterly defeated. But, being that we can´t afford to come home even more than we can´t afford to stay, and because we don´t want the ladrones to steal more than they have already, we´re going to stick it out and make the most of our situation. Whilst experiencing spurts of anger, sadness, numbness and denial, we´ve gone through the motions of recovery - got our window fixed, posted reward posters all over town, got a good nights sleep last night (which in and of itself is a miracle - believe me, its freaky sleeping in the car after someone busts in), and today we bought a little digital camera. It´s going to be a lot more difficult and expensive to get pictures on the blog (we´ll have to find a digital camera shop to burn the card on cds and then take them to a cyber cafe) but we´re going to make it work. It´s nice sharing our trip with you guys. It´s been a really rewarding aspect of our travels, and it means a lot that you all follow along.

Thanks for your support, and for praying. It´s making a difference.

Oh yeah, and we´re both rewriting the most recent blogs we lost. We´ll try and post those as soon as possible.

All is lost

2007-10-24T04:16:00.000-07:00

We were robbed last night. Don´t worry we´re okay. But sometime around 4:30 am a group of guys decided to prey on our car. Thankfully only one of them left their car with a crow bar and smashed out the front window. That´s what I woke up to, glass breaking and me screaming. He was fast. He took the bag that just happened to have both our camera and computer in it (so weird - we never do that). I looked out the window just in time to see him jump into a volkswagon rabbit with the rest of the hooligans and drive away. Just like that. They took everything. One night of us being sloppy, thats all it took. We stayed up really late writing and completing blogs. We had three great ones ready for you. Of course what really hurts, are the photos. 3000, maybe more. Of our dream trip to Europe. I don´t mean to get melodramatic on you. Its just that, well, I can´t explain what they took. Its just too much to think about right now. Anyways, I guess I just wanted to tell you. We´ve just been drifting around in a daze. We didn´t get much sleep, and spent most of the morning in the police office. The first thing the cop on duty said was, todo es perdido, all is lost. No hope of recovery. Philip said, maybe a miracle. There are no miracles here, he said.
we´ll try and post soon. adios for now.

The Bay of Biscay

2007-10-16T03:42:00.000-07:00

We woke to October sun. You know, the low-angle orange kind. It sliced through our curtains and filled our eyes.

Then we sat, fuzzy haired, swinging our legs over the look-out wall and staring out at the Bay of Biscay. Little fishing boats bobbed out there. Even a canoe.

It was Sunday morning, our first one in Spain.

Or, Basque Country, as the locals call it.

Now, what I want to share with you is really more of a description than a story - not a serious of events, as much as a fusion of color and smell and – what, a new rhythm, I guess, a new cultural beat that caught us a bit off guard.

The sun is actually warm here, the roads narrow and curved, and every village has a harbor, neat and sparkling at the foot of its buildings.

Ancient stones mix with shades of cobalt, ochre and vermillion stretch into the sky, and out every window hangs yesterday’s wash –languidly wagging in the morning breeze.

Today, the winding streets were full of people going to and fro, all holding baguettes wrapped in the Sunday paper.

This made us hungry. Suddenly, Gertrude kicked into stealth mode and turned down a steep road that wound deep into the village in search of a bakery.

I just can’t get over how quaint it was. We happened to drive by just as mass was beginning, and there went the happy little congregation, filing past the town beggar as they filled up the chapel.

I seriously felt like I was on a movie set.

Our road eventually got too narrow, and Phil had to do some fancy clutch work backing Gerdy out of the cobblestone alley.

We eventually found our bakery, and guess who was there? The town beggar! He was grumpily counting out his pennies and bantering with the shop girl. They clearly knew each other. He bought a beer.

We spent the day on the beach along with the rest of the village populace. It was beautiful out. We swam, and lulled, talked and explored some rocky bluffs at the end of the beach.

Eventually we made dinner - Phil’s specialty: scrambled eggs and country potatoes. We made it right there in the parking lot and watched the sun go down.

Actually, now we’re just a few yards away in a beachside café. It’s late, almost ten, and the only other people in here are four old ladies gambling behind us (they’re rolling dice and absolutely shrieking at each other - I can’t decide if they’re angry or just excited) and a quiet couple playing a board game in the corner. And earlier there were two couples playing cards together. Since when do people play games at cafes? I think it’s great. And perhaps distinctly Basque. It just occurred to me that the Basque museum we visited in Bayonne said something about a “cultural penchant for table games.” I even snapped a photo of one of their paintings. I’ll be sure to include it.

P.s.

It’s now Tuesday, and I’m finally posting this blog. We’ve continued to hang out at the beach in Lekeitio, and have greatly enjoyed “basquing” in this beautiful land. Below are a few photos I thought you’d enjoy. - Kate

Philip boiling his potatoes. ¨This is the pre-fry stage,¨ he says. ¨And the secret to a fabulous meal.¨

Kate dying her hair a deep shade of violet at the beachside waterfacet.

And here are couple ¨people¨ photos I managed to take. It´s funny, people are my favorite subject, and yet, they´re almost impossible to snap casually. It´s as though, to caputure the beauty of humanity you must in the moment be inhumane and point and shoot regardless of how they feel. It´s hard to do. And my excuse for not having more local characters in our blog. Boats are easier.

Bordeaux, Wine Country

2007-10-12T04:03:00.000-07:00

Yesterday found us whizzing through Bordeaux countryside, golden vineyards swept by, lit by October sun. Black grapes dripped to the ground, a crisp wind blew the smells of harvest and we could practically taste the history and tradition entrenching the little farms and villages as we passed. We were on a mission:

Wee Fee (that’s French for WiFi). Yes, my friends. That’s how desperate we were for internet. In the heart of wine country and all we could think about was posting our expiring blogs. France is not exactly “wired.”

Upon entering Lagon, we made for the tourist info joint and quickly learned that they “don’t have an internet cafe yet, but very very soon. Perhaps in just a couple weeks.” That’s when we asked about the vineyards. A better question. Within twenty minutes were driving up to Chateau Roquetaillade La Grange, a family run vineyard in the Bordeaux district of Graves.

Before I turn this blog over to Phil, I just want to say, this little detour was a fantastic decision. We were met by the sister (she has three brothers) of the operation, and her warmth and hospitality was overwhelming. There she was taking time out of her busy day (they’re right in the middle of harvest) to give a free tour of the family wine legacy, and she was absolutely glowing (Notice her smile in the photo of me tasting?).

Well, through our guides broken English we learned a little bi8t about their wine. Their vineyard is in the Grave part of the Bordeaux region. Bordeaux is famous the world over for their wines. Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon both come from this area. They produce re, white, and some liqueurs.

The custom (law?) of the land is to mix a variety of grapes to get the best tasting wine. Their red wine is a blend of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Cabernet Franc. The white is also a blend but I didn’t catch all the French names. It’s interesting that the red wine is fermented before the grapes are crushed, while the white wine is fermented afterwards.

The blend of grape percentages is different each year. And our guide told us that each year there is a serious and silent sampling of the wines to determine that vintages blend. The three brothers sit down and taste together, take note, discuss their opinions, and determine the blend. “This is not my department,” she informed us, “I do the office.”

As Kate mentioned, it was harvest time, but there were only a handful of people working on very modern, high tech farming equipment. The grapes are harvested early in the morning when they’re still cool by a large machine that rolls over the vines and shakes the berries free. By the time we arrived they had already finished for the day and were washing down their machines. One of the brothers said hi to us on his way out to taste/determine which fields would be harvested the next morning.

At the end of our tour, we were given a tasting of the wine, which we both found to our liking.

Normandy Beach

2007-10-12T03:54:00.000-07:00

A couple days ago Kate and I drove up to Normandy, France. We visited a museum, a US cemetery, and walked along Omaha Beach.

As we waked along the sand we tried to imagine what D-day may have looked like there. And in my mind I saw barbed wire and steel jacks. I saw planes flying in formation. I saw boats and destroyers crowding the horizon. I saw men wet with frothy red sea water struggling with equipment and vehicles. Machineguns and mortars poka-dotted jeep doors and uniforms and made small splashes of sand and water. And everywhere was the white noise of war.

But when I looked around again it was just a giant empty stretch of sand. All sign of battle has been washed away. A monument is the only conformation that this is indeed the spot written about in the history books.

I imagine that this was one of those things in life that is never processed, never digested. I wonder if it felt real to the people who lived it. It’s so unfathomable to me.

I remember being frustrated with the D-day scene in ‘Saving Private Ryan’ because it was just so much random and unconnected violence. You don’t know anybody or why they died. All you see is lots of carnage and chaos until the shock fades to numbness. From the personal accounts we read at the museum, the movie is understated in its chaos and random violence.

After the beach we went to a US cemetery. A silent heaviness had been cultivated in us from the museum and the beach. And it became almost overwhelming upon entering the cemetery. I love America and her ideals, but rarely am I filled with this sense of pride and belonging.

We are always traveling and dealing with foreign cultures, languages, and historic monuments. But it was a new experience for me to visit a historic monument that was mine. Not just my people, language and cultural history, but my ideals and beliefs. Just seeing, “The United States of America” stamped into the side of a piece of cement made me so proud of the human institution I was born into.

The conscious and deliberate sacrifice America made for justice and liberty in WWII is silencing. I can’t help but consider what was bought with this war. The greatness of our ideals is confirmed by the fact that there is an appropriate time to plant a victory garden and send the boys off to die.

And die they did. There were acres of white marble crosses adorning the clean cut grass. Thousands of stories, of unique smiles and laughs cut short, boxed up and sent on to their next adventure.

As we drove away questions stirred up by the day rattled around in my brain. I wasn’t there when God formed the depths. I didn’t watch as he told the sea, “here and no further.” I am not his councilor. I can bring no claim against him for the beautiful world he fashioned. But I can’t help but wonder why humans are equipped with the ability to ask questions that deserve answers entirely beyond us.

Paris, France 2007

2007-10-12T03:14:00.000-07:00

Or as they say, La Ville-lumière, the City of Light

Perhaps to really do Paris well, to really tackle all facets of this spectacular city with style, tact and a fair amount of flair – you’d learn French, brush up on art history, pack a black Louis Vuitton wardrobe, and arrive with a fat bank account.

None of which we did or had.

That means no ballets, no historical tour, no filet mignon on a dinner boat accompanied by accordion music, no Moulin Rouge, no luxury suite in the Hotel de Crillon, no Avenue Montaigne shopping, no Chanel parfume, etc.

Indeed, our approach to Sweet Pari was a litte, uh, what’s the word I’m looking for? Bohemian?

We arrived on a Friday morning, driving our sexy green Opel Astra decked out in curtains and a cartop carrier and succeeded in finding free parking on the outskirts of the town at the end of the Metro line.

Please take a moment and appreciate our skill and navigating genius.

It’s not the easiest thing to drive into a foreign city and find what you’re looking for. But, thanks to a burst of unprecedented foresight, we bought a detailed map and a couple espressos at a gas station down the road and had a serious planning session before attempting the world capitol.

Our fantastic park job (on-the-curb parking at the edge of a city park) allowed us to stay two days and one night in Paris absolutely free! Of course we had to get a couple day passes for the Metro – a nominal fee we were happy pay considering the circumstances.
Our time in Paris passed by in a happy blur of cafes, museums and lots of walking. We spent the vast majority of our first day in the Lourve, soaking in as much art and history as possible (I was drawn to the sculpture and Phil the Egyptian displays). The museum is housed in the former royal palace constructed in the 16th century – and is in and of itself a masterpeice. The vaulted ceilings, painted murals, marble pillars, ornate wood carvings – it just goes on and on forever, and took our breath away.

Outside the Lourve is the Champs-Élysées, a manicured public garden promenade full of wild flowers, sculptures, shade trees and placid duck ponds. Due to the park’s centrality and the lovely weather, it is here that we ended up eating the majority of our meals. Both days we pre-bought croissants at a bakery early in the morning, and packed a picnic of sorts. It was very pleasant to have a place to relax and rejuvenate amidst the hustle and bustle of sight-seeing.

On the second day, we fit quite a lot in – the Notre Dame cathedral, the Museum d’Orsay, the Eiffel Tower and an artistic “installment” consisting of flame, thousands of clay plant pots, torn up jeans, wax, a crane and an army of strange wire contraptions – an event we just happened to walk in on. All the people and fire mixed with the excitement quickly took on a “kill the Beast!” mobbish quality, and I couldn’t help imagining it was the French revolution all over again – this was the square where the guillotine once stood after all. Shivers crept up my spine. Talk about history coming alive.

There’s really too much to talk about. I was quite touched by the Joan of Arc statue inside Notre Dame. After successfully leading the French troops against England in 1429, she was captured a year later and burned at the stake, convicted of being a “heretic and a witch.” And she wasn’t even 20 years old!

The Museum d’Orsay is where the masterpieces of the Impressionists are showcased, and we sadly only had two hours to peruse before closing. Nonetheless, we had time to pour over the works of Monet, Degas, Renoir, Van Gogh, Pissarro and Cézanne, to name a few. I also discovered a couple new artists, such as Eugene Carriere, a new favorite of mine. I’m including a photo of his mother and child piece – such a common subject and yet beautifully done. There’s such a poignant softness in his work.

One of my favorite things about Paris was just walking down the streets, holding Philip’s hand and sharing it with him. Maybe we didn’t have the clothes or money to do Paris “right,” but we had each other. And come to think of it, maybe that’s all we needed. True Love is certainly a prerequisite for enjoying any city – Paris not withstanding.

Not to get mushy on you all, but a kiss in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, with the ghost of accordion in the background, and the words of the late Parisian drama, Moulin Rouge, whispering in my brain, “the greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return,” made Paris perfect.

Perfect.

Strasbourg's Cathedral of Our Lady

2007-10-03T08:51:00.000-07:00

Strasbourg has had about a million different name variations through the years. The present rendition is a mix of French and German. (Strasse – German for street, and Bourg – French for fortification or something) This seems appropriate in that it’s been passed back and forth between different ruling parties for years.

Strasbourg was home to Johannes Gutenberg for a while, as well as to the first printed newspaper in 1605. The city remained neutral during The Thirty Years War. It was a protestant/Lutheran city, but as seems to be the norm over here, was permanently reclaimed by The Holy Roman Empire. As it turns out over 60% of the French are baptized Catholic.

Strasbourg has many fine examples of ancient architecture, but few stand out like the Gothic cathedral we visited. It was similar to the one in Prague, except that this one was fully furnished with all the statues and was finished. It’s amazing what can be built with indulgences. (Sarcastic, but true.)

I remember a guide showing us a castle in Northern Italy and she pointed out the Gargoyles. These were put on corners of rooftops, and other key places to scare off evil spirits. It struck me as so superstitious, but is was nothing compared to Strasbourg’s cathedral of Our Lady (Notre-Dame).

There are literally 100’s of gargoyles and statues carved out of sandstone. It’s dripping with mythical mid-evil monsters. And it’s overwhelming, ominous and awe-inspiring.

Entering the cathedral is to be enveloped in a foreboding spiritual realm. There was a choir rehearsing inside, filling the massive room with moody minor melodies. Carved rock stretched up frighteningly high. Sunshine was filtered through acres of stained glass, socializing their society with superstition and scripture. Candles could be bought and placed alongside the many other twinkling little prayers. It was warm outside, but we both pulled out sweaters before long. The pulpit was innately carved and spiraled up to represent the voice of authority and heaven.

It is written, It is better to go to a house of mourning than to a house of feasting, for death is the destiny of every man; the living should take this to heart.

In this cathedral there is no sanctuary from death or the uncertain fears of an unseen reality. There is a famous astrological clock, which incorporates apostles, zodiac signs, angels, planets, and many other symbols. It also reminds the people of death, as different characters representing different stages of life pass in front of death.

We took these things to heart as best we could, but were happy to pass back outside into the warm, un-tinted, sunshine.

Kate’s Perspective:

After Philip wrote his writeup on the cathedral and before I read it, he asked me what my impressions had been. My response was something like,

“Well, as you know I was having a tough day and was pretty emotionally spent by the time we got into Strasbourg. I guess the hot sun, dirty streets and noise of the city were wearing on me, because as soon as I stepped into the church I felt myself relax and breath deeper. I loved how cool and dark it was, and how reverent. God’s power and majesty was imminent, and I just sat there and let the choir voices rush over me and comfort me. And I wasn’t the only one – when I walked down the aisle, I saw several people just sitting there with their eyes closed, letting the songs wash over them… Yeah, I really liked it. I left the Cathedral feeling refreshed and a bit more hopeful.”

Funny how interpretations of the same event can differ.

The Black Forest

2007-10-03T07:55:00.000-07:00

Preface:
To accompany our journey through the Black Forest, we bought a volume of Grimm’s fairy tales (most of which are set here) and have been reading selections as we travel. The following is a true account of our adventures in Southwestern Germany, told in the voice of the Grimm brothers.

Once upon a time, a young king and his beautiful queen set out on a daring quest into the Black Forest to learn what they did not know. Mounted on Gertrude the Green, a dragon to be reckoned with, the good king and queen entered the enchanted darkness of the forest and soon came upon a woodcutter’s cottage.

“Let us stop here, wife, and see if this honest peasant has anything to teach us. He is after all a local.”

“Your common sense is invaluable, husband. Yes, let’s ask him.”

The king and queen dismounted their dragon and soon found themselves sitting at the woodcutters table and enjoying a bowl of pumpkin soup, for the woodcutter was a kind soul and very happy to feed weary travelers.

“Honest peasant, we have ventured into the Black Forest to learn what we do not know,” explained the king. “Can you help us in our quest?”

“You will need this,” answered the good-hearted woodcutter. He set before them a map of the forest. “Now listen, you must seek out Black Forest cake. It is the most delicious of foods, and not to be missed. One taste and you’ll surely learn what you do not know. Oh yes, and beware of the forest, for it is full wild beasts and evil enchantments.”

“Thank you, honest peasant, you have been most kind,” exclaimed the king and queen. Taking the map, they continued on their journey.

Now, the map was no ordinary map and in no time it had lead the king and queen to a deserted castle deep within the heart of the forest. So deep, that even Gertrude the Green could not follow. After climbing for sometime, they reached the foot of the ruins and were met by a small boy with sad eyes.

“Who goes there!” demanded the king.

“It is I, Wiki, the ghost of Hohenshramberg. This is my family’s castle built in 1457. It would have been mine, but for the wicked Konrad Wiederhold, the famous trial lawyer of Hohentwiel, who captured it. I watched it burn on January 10, 1689. If I could not have it in life, than I will surely haunt it in death. For this is my inheritance.”

“Oh, I see,” replied the king. “Well, we are searching for Black Forest cake, for we want to learn what we do not know, and besides we are very hungry.”

“There’s no Black Forest cake here,” replied the ghost, “but I know a very nice Turk in the nearby village who can fix a mean doner kabab for only 3 Euros.”

With that, the king and queen set off back down the mountain to where they’d left their dragon, and together they enjoyed a good meal of doner kababs in the nearby village.

The next day, the magical map drew the king and queen into the strange Swabian countryside that borders the Black Forest. Before they could stop to wonder where they were going, they saw the most fantastic castle they had ever seen atop a high mountain. Once again, they left their dragon behind and climbed to the base of the fortress. At the first gate, a thin woman with sad eyes emerged.

“Who goes there!” demanded the queen.

“It is I, Pe, the ghost of Hohenzollern. This is my family’s castle, first built in the 11th century. In 1634 it fell to Swedish troops after 9 months of siege. We starved to death, you see. We could not fight any longer. Thankfully our bloodline survived, and our offspring have recently rebuilt our stronghold. Do not be frightened. This is a castle of the living. Christenings, weddings and parties take place all the time. I’m just here as a reminder.”

“Oh, I see,” replied the queen. “Well, we are searching for Black Forest cake, for we want to learn what we do not know, and besides we are very hungry.”

“There’s no Black Forest cake here,” replied the ghost, but I hear you can get a very tasty doner kabab from the Turks in the nearby village for only 3 Euros.”

The king and queen thanked the ghost, found the good Turk, and once again enjoyed a cheap meal of doner kababs.

On the third day, which happened to be a Sunday, a reverent silence fell upon the Black Forest.

“Today is the day I will learn something I do no know,” the king said.

“Yes, today is the day,” agreed his good wife.

Hour after hour they traveled, waiting to see where the map would take them, watching for signs of Black Forest Cake, but the day passed without event.

Exhausted, the king and queen decided to rest in the next clearing they came to. A beautiful song was playing through the tops of the trees, and it made them want to sleep. But before they could find a place to rest, they glimpsed a most magnificent ruin.

“Could it be another castle?” asked the king.

“No husband, look at the map. It is saying we are on holy ground. Surely this is an old monastery, and that enchanted voice is none other than the Virgin Mary and her angles beckoning us to come.”

Together they walked to the ruin, and were met by a fat monk with sad eyes.

“Who goes there?” demanding the king and queen. But they did not shout this time, they only whispered, because even kings and queens must respect the silence of Nature and God.

“It is I, Dia, the ghost of Allerheiligen, a monastery dating back to 1192. I was a happy monk, just going about God’s business, but then in 1802, Margrave Karl Friedrich of Baden dissolved the abbey in the course of secularisation, and took all its possessions. Two years later it was struck by lightening and burned to the ground. Only this remains. So, why are you here?

“We want to learn what we do not know,” replied the king and queen.

“Then here are two things: First, guard your steps when you go the house of God. Go near to listen, do not be quick with your mouth, do not by hasty in your heart. God is in heaven and you are on earth, therefore, stand in awe and be quiet.”

“And the second thing: Who can straighten what God has made crooked? When times are good, be happy; but when times are bad, consider: God has made the one as well as the other.”

“Is there anything else you seek?” asked the monk.

“Yes, we also seek a doner kabab,” said the king, “For we are weary with hunger and can think of nothing else.”

“There is a good Turk in the next village. Go and he will feed you for under 3 euros.”

Happily, the king and queen set off, and devoured a good meal of doner kababs. With their minds full of things to think about, they left the Black Forest the very next day.

But, on their journey home, a black raven came to them and said, “You fools, you fools, you forgot your cake! Now you will surely die hungry - hungry for knowledge and hungry for food, you fools!”

Angry, the king shot the raven with an arrow, and it fell to the ground. Then they took the raven, who was actually a witch, and boiled her in oil with poisonous snakes and then burnt her to death.

The king and queen left the forest knowing things they had not known before, and lived happily ever after.

Oktoberfest, Munich

2007-09-25T08:33:00.000-07:00

Germany is a patchwork quilt of separate cultural pieces, requiring decision. After some deliberation, as Kate mentioned, we were off to the Southeastern most district, Bavaria.

All cities tend to cross-pollinate their cultures, but out in rural areas its possible to find areas full of distinction. Our plan was to experience one of these rural places during a harvest festival. But upon entering Bavaria we quickly learned that we had missed all the small festivals and that only the grand finale in Munich was left. So off we went.

We lucked out and found an information joint on the outskirts of town where we acquired a city map, learned a little about the customs of the Oktoberfest, how to park for free, and how to use the public transit.

It was hard to know what to expect, but I think in our minds we imagined booths with vegetables and pumpkins for sale, grass and trees, and all things fall-ish, and something about a beer garden. We knew a lot of people came for this, but it’s hard to picture.

As we got closer to the center of the city we saw more and more people in traditional dress; lots of men in Lederhosen (leather pants) and women in a variety of Bavarian dresses. But upon entering the ‘Theresienwiese’ (paved fair grounds in the middle of Munich) we were surprised to find it was more of a carnival. There were all sorts of rides, and cheap game booths and the occasional haunted house. The wide walkways were crowded with natives dressed up in their traditional garb. There were cute little families, strollers, kids, teenagers and couples of all ages. It really just seemed like a really large carnival, that is, until we wondered into a large tent.

When I say a large tent, think of seating for 8,000 people, a stage in the middle for a large band, balconies circling the edges of the tent, and additional seating outside. There are 14 of these tents found throughout the fair – and everyone of them is jam-packed with beer-flushed, foot-tapping, folk-song-bellowing people (the majority of which are Bavarian locals, although supposedly 15% of the crowd come from abroad).

Only breweries based in Munich are allowed to run these tents, and all of them feature a specially brewed Oktoberfest beer, stronger in taste and alcohol content. We happened to wander into a tent around two in the afternoon to find the party well on its way. Every table overflowed with giant glass steins - a full liter, that’s 33.3 ounces – apparently the only size served (last year the fair sold 6.1 million of these).

Needless to say, it was a little more crowded and noisy than we were thinking for lunch, so we passed on fighting for a seat and found a nice park.

We walked back through a little later in the evening and realized that the two o’clock scene was mild. Most of the occupants in the tents were now standing in their chairs and sang with the bands while cheerily holding aloft huge mugs of glass and liquid. Barmaids scurried about, hauling inconceivable amounts of beer, sometimes what seemed like 12 full mugs. Tall and intimidating groups of security men walked through the crowds to deal out justice to offending drunkards. It appeared that each tent hired its own security in addition to the gangs of police that roamed the walkways.

I saw one poor bloke bent over in hand-cuffs being briskly escorted off the premises by about six officers, one of whom was doing his best to pull the kid’s ear off. He was highly motivated to keep up the pace. I took note and minded my manners. (This sort of determent works on me.)

It was a fascinating thing to witness. Over all, it looked as though most people were enjoying each other and having a good time, but in such a foreign environment. Being that we didn’t speak the language or fit in culturally, we were happy to gawk a little, snap a few pictures, mutter exclamations of wonderment and then retreat to a hushed beer garden on the outskirts of the fair to enjoy a local Bavarian band with a handful of other peace-and-quiet-lovers.

- Philip

Consider the Lilies

2007-09-25T08:24:00.000-07:00

A week has passed since we last posted on our way out of Czech Republic, and looking back, the days sort of slur together in one cold, wind-ripped collage of barren-landscape flying by, truckstop showers, Pennymart suppers, and the ever-increasing drone and rattle of Gertrude as she stubbornly tackles the autobahn.

Okay. Actually, this description only refers to the first half of the week. We drove out of Prague headed for Karlsbad and then planned to hit Berlin, Amsterdam, Brussels and Paris respectively. But somewhere in there, about fifteen minutes before entering Berlin, we pulled over, had a good long chat, and made a U turn.

Of course a lot of variables contributed to this decision. The most significant of which was, our current route was bypassing the most appealing aspects of Germany, such as Bavaria (during Oktoberfest season), the Black Forest and the fairytale castles of Rhineland. The other reason? We were cold.

When I say cold, I mean that bitter bleak kind that gnaws at your bones and your spirit till all you can hear in your head is the mechanical march of Nazi boots against pavement. That’s what I thought of driving out there in no-man’s land, watching the windmills cut the sky as we zoomed passed. I thought of Hitler and the Cold War and all the depressing museums that awaited us in Berlin.

And I pouted. I was mad at how cold I was. I hated how the wind tore at everything whenever we stopped to cook something. I’d sit their in the passenger seat watching Philip wrestle with our camp stove, frying us things, making a meal happen through sheer determination.

It all started with Karlsbad. The bad weather and my bad mood, I mean. We pulled into the destination spa town in Western Czech with our standard 32$ allotted for the day, and the result was pretty demoralizing. I had heard there were hot springs, and I was so excited to go soak for a few hours but it just didn’t work out that way.

Sure enough there’re hot springs, around ten or fifteen, different temperatures and mineral compositions, and you’re supposed to go to a local, pricy spring-water guru/doctor and he’ll prescribe a “drinking prescription” depending on your health needs. Down town there’re all these people walking around with mugs, dutifully sipping at the steaming waters from different fountains.

And then there’re the spas. You know, the typical get your herbal bath, mud mask and massage here, kind of joint. All of it expensive. All of it heavenly. Philip said I could go anyways. I said, I’m tempted but I’d rather spend the money on some new shoes, ‘cause my feet are freezing in these flip-flops. We dropped by Bata on our way out, but couldn’t afford anything there either. I cried.

I knew we had chosen - I had chosen - this road trip over other things. Everything comes at a price, and the price for roaming Europe is living out of a car and not indulging in spa treatments or designer shoes.

This probably seems like a no brainier to most of you, but the reality of it hadn’t really hit me ‘till then.

That night we were reading Fahrenheit 451 (have any of you read it before? How on earth did it become a classic? Wow, it’s bad) and it started quoting the phrase “Consider the lilies of the field.” The line got stuck in our heads so we looked the rest of it up. It goes something like this:

Consider the lilies of the field, for they neither toil nor spin and yet even Solomon in all his splendor is not clothed as beautifully as these. And they’re just flowers - weeds that dry up and blow away. How much more does God care about you? How much better will you be dressed? Don’t worry, for your Father in heaven knows you need cute clothes, and occasional indulgences such herbal baths and lattes, but they shouldn’t be your focus. There’s a lot more to life. Seek first the Kingdom of heaven and you may enjoy those things from time to time, but never stop seeking.

Okay, enough paraphrasing. The whole point is, sometimes it’s hard not to worry about what we’ll wear and what we’ll eat, where we’ll shower or eat. It’s hard to trust. It’s hard knowing how to seek “the kingdom.” But together, we’re trying.

Oh yes, and our decision to travel back down south has proved brilliant. Sun, rolling hills, turning leaves, it’s beautiful. No more wind or wasteland. We’re currently in the Bavarian capital of Munich, Oktoberfesting it up. Philip reports. (See the next post.)

-Kate

Czech Cuisine

2007-09-18T10:14:00.000-07:00

Immediately after crossing the border, Phil and I made a bee line for Czech cafes, enamored by the inexpensive entrees and curious as to what culinary delights this new land had to offer.

This practice was soon abandoned.

For one, we couldn’t read the menu to save our lives. And two, every blind stab resulted in a bland, deep-fried disappointment served with a side of mayo. Needless to say, we gave up Czech cuisine and resumed cooking for ourselves.

However, it did not escape our attention that every restaurant, café and truck stop we ventured in was full of locals inhaling what appeared to be a plate full of bread bits and gravy.

Assured by several Czechs that houskavé knedliky and maso was indeed traditional fare and a gourmet experience not to be passed up, we decided to brave the café once again before leaving this fine country.

Context:
A small truckstop in Western Czech, a morning’s drive from Prague. It’s raining.

Hunger Level:
Famished.

Meal:
Houskavé knedliky and maso – Sourdough bread dumplings served with a tomato based sauce and stew meat.

Philip’s Commentary While Eating:
“This is sure rainy-day food, isn’t it? I can’t imagine eating this in the summer. But, wow. It’s great right now. I can sure imagine eating this kinda thing in a castle back in the day, can’t you?”

Kate’s Verdict:
“I’m never one for soggy bread, but the stew is sensational – fantastic blend of garden tomato and beef steak. There’s something very comforting about hot broth on a cold day – like I’m back in Grandma’s kitchen listening to the Mills Brothers.”

Prague's Pious: a history

2007-09-18T09:59:00.000-07:00

Prague has a fascinating religious history, which I’m going to highlight here. According to what Kate and I remember from out tour guide, the first people in Bohemia, the Czech area, were Celts. The Germans moved in and kicked them out, and then somewhere along the line, Slavs from Siberia, now the majority, settled in with the Germans. There must have been a mix-mash of religions going on at the time, but one thing’s for sure, they were numbered among the Pagan nations.

According to legend, Princess Libuse, founder of Prague, prophesied that the Jewish people would seek sanctuary in her city and that her great grandson must receive and protect them, as they would bring prosperity to the land. This came to pass around 870 AD, adding yet one more religion to the mix.

The first and most famous Christian is Good King St. Wenceslas, from the Christmas carol. He was baptized into the Catholic Church sometime before 900 AD. Because of this his brother assassinated him, which the Church took as a valid reason to saint him, thus St. Wenceslas.

Another famous Czech Christian is Jan Hus, whose writings greatly influenced Martin Luther and other later reformers. Jan Hus was burnt at the stake in 1415 by the Catholic Church for heresy, (aka, sola fide and whatnot). But his teachings flourished in Czech, and for the next hundred years the people had some amount of religious freedom.

Then, the Catholic authorities (the Hapsburgs, based in Vienna) looking to gain a little more control, starting revoking some privileges. As a subtle counter movement the Protestants threw the Catholic representatives from the town hall windows, initiating The Thirty Years War, a war between Catholics and Protestants.

The Hapsburgs, also subtle, marched in from Vienna and publicly beheaded 26 protestant protesters in the town square. They converted Hus’ old Gothic church into a Catholic church, which it remains to this day. Ironically, a statue of him faces this church, while across the square sits and old Baroque Catholic church that has since been made Protestant. There are also 26 white crosses inlaid into the cobblestone to represent the martyrs.

The Hapsburgs then took away all religious freedom, forcing all to be Catholic. They perverted the cool Gothic architecture with Baroque facades because this was the Catholic architecture of the day. On the main bridge in town they raised 31 statues of saints so that the “new Catholic converts” could practice their Saint worship daily with the various required crossings, mumblings and prayers as they passed by.

Later (I’m not sure of the date), one of the many Jews living in town was given the punishment of making a golden sign in Hebrew to be affixed to the crucifix of Christ on the bridge. The sign in Hebrew says, “Holy, Holy is the Lord of Hosts.” In recent times, our tour guide told us a vandal ripped it off in the night and it was later found in the river. A new one was made and put up. Rather a potent sign for the Jews, I imagine.

When the Natzis marched in to Czech as the “Reich Protectors,” religion took a turn for the worse. Jews bit the dust and pretty much everything was shut down. After WWII, the churches were left open under Soviet rule. Anyone was free to attend, but the Secret Police would come to their house at night to threaten and beat believers. Needless to say, public attendance declined.

Sadly today, according to Wikipedia, “The Czech Republic, along with Estonia, has one of the most non-religious populations in the European Union. According to the 2001 census, 59% of the country is agnostic, atheist, non-believer or no-organized believer, 26.8% Roman Catholic and 2.5% Protestant. According to a 2005 Eurobarometer poll, 30% of Czech respondents do not believe in God, spirit, or life forces. 50% believe in some sort of spirit or life force, and only 19% believe in God, the lowest rate of EU countries after Estonia with 16%.”

Prague: A Photo Essay

2007-09-18T09:01:00.000-07:00

Parking in Prague

2007-09-18T08:12:00.000-07:00

In a laundry mat in Vienna we met a New Yorker from India, who warned us of getting ripped off by the taxi drivers. Well, come to find out they’re not the only ones to be making a crooked buck off the tourism.

Parking is always an issue in cities and rules and difficulties vary greatly from one metropolis to another. In Vienna we parked in one spot, on a crowded and preppy little street, from noon till midnight. We didn’t pay a dime and we didn’t have the scent of an incident. In fact, ticket type people and police were nowhere to be found.

Prague, on the other hand, was a different story from the start. The place was crawling with official looking gun-toters, and even before parking we saw several drivers in deep and philosophical discussion with these rational folks.

When we drive into a big city like this, it’s important to get your hands on a map. Free ones can be found at any self-respecting hotel or a city information booth, the latter of which can be tricky to find, but have loads of info on the city.

Kate had already waltzed into a hotel and commandeered a map for us, which we were using to get to a city info booth. So when we got close all we had to do was park and quickly run out, get info we needed, and return within the hour.

We parked in front of a busy café and Kate had the foresight to ask a waiter about the parking. The waiter said only fifteen minutes, to which Kate asked, “Yes, but what if we go over?” To which the waiter responded, “Oh, very dangerous, the police will take your car.”

That was persuasion enough to try our luck somewhere else. So, we went back into the mesh of people and cars to find a safe, inconspicuous spot. Well, in the wonderings I innocently followed a car onto a road with a tramline with lots of people on the sides waiting for various trains. This didn’t phase me much, because in many places trams and cars share the road, both in Europe and at home.

As I came out of this road onto the next I was happy to find an officer of the law directing traffic. So I went to the right as instructed and carried on. I heard a screeching whistle behind me and, in my mirror, saw an infuriated and smartly dressed little man adamantly gesturing to a spot on the side of the road. “oh,” I thought, “that ‘to the right’ signal must have been a ‘pull over you rich foreigner’ signal.” So, I backed up and parked.

The little guy came to my window and said, “Deutch?”
“No.”
“English?”
“Yes.”
“Passports and car documentation.”

At this point I remembered the advice the director of our summer school gave us: “Always give them what they ask for, but never give them what they want.” So, I whispered to Kate, “Just the passports.” And as Kate dug around to get them, I turned back to the officer.

My question, “Have I done something wrong?” met with a blank stare. So I kicked into ESL teacher and kept it simple. “Problem? What Problem?” I asked with my hands up in question. To which he seriously responded, “Yes, problem. For walking path, not for car. Big problem. Maximum penalty 2000 crowns. You 1000 crowns.”

This last bit made me think of bartering in border towns in Mexico. “Normal price 20$, Rainy day special for you, mister, I give it to you for 10$.” Not on your life, I thought to myself. 1000 crowns is 50 bucks, and that’s way over our bribe budget, especially in Czech, even if it is Prague.

I gave him the passports, which he studied, then he studied us, then the passports again. “America?” he wisely deduced.
“Yes, sir.”
“Mister, 1000 crowns”
“Sir, there was no sign. I followed another car onto the road.”
“Out of car.”

I got out and he pointed to a sign (only visible going the other way) and sure enough, I guess the sign probably meant only for trams and pedestrians.

“For walking, not for cars. 1000 crowns.”
“Sir, I cannot, I’m sorry. There was no sign. I followed another car. I saw others driving on it. I’m just trying to park. I can’t pay that.”

We both stood in the street looking at each other. The whole thing seemed a little fishy to me. There was no ticket being written, just a demand for money. I thought, if this is legit he’ll stay firm and bring in reinforcement, if it’s not, a little time and a bit of a scene will send us on our way.

He looked at the passport again and said, “Documentation of car.” This is bad. The names don’t match and this could be more explaining and leverage against us. In a flash of desperation, I resorted to diversion tactics.

“Sir, parking? Is there parking close?” I asked, looking innocently confused.
“Documentation of car!” he said quickly with much authority. Swing and a miss.

OK, whatever, I handed the registration over. He studied it, then studied our passports, then opened both and studied some more, eyeing me occasionally. A few feet away in the blazing sunlight I could plainly make out the mismatching names, “Philip Kangas” on the one and “Tim Sloman” on the other.

“Mister, 1000 crowns” he said.
“Sir, I can not. It was my first time. It won’t happen again.”
“This is not United States. This is Czech. In Czech we do not drive on the walking path. 1000 crowns.”
“I know, sir. There was no sign. I’m just trying to park.”

He starts flipping through my passport, and I think some human interaction might help. So I point out a visa from Korea and say, “English teacher.” He looks up and says, “Student?” And I say, “English teacher,” again. In my vanity, I imagine this helps my cause because Czech is an up and coming participant in world affairs and English teachers are a needed commodity that aren’t paid well.

He looks at it a little more, folds it shut and hands me both passports and registration, then turns his back on me and walks away. I take this as left over communist sign language for, “Get outa here before I change my mind,” which we did with little delay.

Later that day we saw others flagged down in the same trap by the same cops. I saw my particular friend twice while walking the streets and avoided him both times. We also saw a poor unfortunate car being towed away as a police officer oversaw the operation, snapping pictures on a little digital camera.

We ended up parking in a garage under a hotel, which I normally hate doing. But, as we walked through the city, watching all the police scuttle about like tourism parasites, the peace of mind we bought was worth every Czech Crown.

-Philip

Czech: An Interview with the Next Generation

2007-09-18T04:54:00.000-07:00

We couldn’t help but notice the sour faces and blatantly rude manners of the Slavs. Within the first few hours of crossing the Czech border we had characterized them all as Cranky Commies. Which, I don’t think is too far off. As our Prague walking tour guide put it, “if you were oppressed by the Soviets all your life, you’d be pissed off too. …it’s going to take a new generation to change our attitude.” A statement that beautifully reinforced our experience at Camp Bitov. Out of a dull landscape of hardened faces, and even harder spirits, bounced a bright, fresh-faced boy named Vîtéslav into our lives. Working as the camp host for the summer, he greeted us in friendly English and quickly set about reconstructing our Czech stereotypes.

One evening, over an assortment of Czech beverages at the camp “Restaurace” (the best being hot fruit tea with sugar), we conducted an informal interview of sorts. In our readings-up about Czech, we came across the Velvet Revolution – a non-violent overthrow of Communism and the subsequent split of Czechoslovakia in 1989 (Slovakia is still Commuist). Here is a bit of our conversation. Keep in mind, this is rural Czech. Picture farmlands and “highways” that more closely resemble potholed driveways leading to nowhere and beyond.

Us: So Vîtéslav , are you from around here?

Vîtéslav:Yes, I was born in a village about ten kilometers from here.

How long have you worked here?

This is my second summer as camp host. It’s very nice. But it doesn’t pay very well. Before, I sold fruit in different villages for a summer job. This was great because I got to see lots of places, but it paid even worse. Camp Bitov is the better job. My sisters worked with me this summer, but they had to go back to school.

So you’re out of school?

Yes. I graduated with high marks from gymnasium in May. I will be going to University in Cesky Budejovice to become a teacher. That is what I want to be. You should go to Cesky Budejovice and the castle that’s nearby. It’s the home of Budweiser beer. Do you know Budweiser?

Yes. Of course.

Yes, well. It comes from Cesky Budejovice. It’s a very wonderful city, but I must warn you, there are too many people. But not as many people as in Prague.

You don’t care for cities?

I prefer the country. I don’t like lots of people. But I must live in something bigger than my village. I hate how small our village is. I can’t go on a walk with a girl without five women calling my mother to ask about my girlfriend…

…So am I the first Czech man you have ever met?

Offically, yes.

Wow. It is such an honor. You must know you are the first Americans to stay at this camp. When you told me you were from the United States I was very surprised.

Really, why?

Because I thought all American girls are very fat because of all the hamburgers they eat. But, then I see you. Very pretty. Not fat at all. And you’re American? Wow. It’s such a surprise. I thought you would cook hamburgers. I was so surprised that you didn’t eat prepared dinners. You know, from plastic. I was watching for plastic containers but I didn’t see any. But what I found so amazing was how long it took you to eat breakfast. Two hours!!

We didn’t eat for two hours!

Yes, you did. I watched you. Two hours you sit there, eating your bread, eating your fruit, making more coffee. Two hours, I swear! I ate my breakfast in five minutes.

(We chuckle, the waitress brings drinks, and we change topics.)

So is there a place to do laundry here? Like a washing machine or something?

Oh yes. I can give you key. Do you wish do it tonight?

Oh no, tomorrow’s fine. Is there a dryer too?

A dryer?

You know, a machine that dries the clothes?

Oh, actually in Czech we just hang them up to dry. We don’t have dryers.

Really? No one has a dryer?

Well, my mom does. She just got one a couple of years ago. But she will never use it. She says its’ much better to use fresh air. Even in winter she will hang them out. It’s just what we do here.

So it’s okay to hang our clothes up in the campsite? It won’t be ugly?

Ugly? Um, oh no, the weather is supposed to be fine.

No, we mean, will it look ugly? Will the owner be frustrated at how ugly our camp looks?

(laughs) Of course not. I’m telling you. Everyone hangs out there clothes. In my village everyone knows exactly what clothes you have. Even down to your socks. “Hey what happened to your pair of brown socks.” People say things like this.

(Another lull. We change topics)

…So do you remember the Velvet Revolution in 1989?

Um, not really. I was only two years old.

Do you parents remember? Do they ever talk about it?

They only say a little. It was a very bad time. Very bad.

Were they happy about the Revolution? Were they glad Communism died?

Oh yes! Of course! We couldn’t leave our country. We were trapped here. In 1989, for the first time people could travel beyond the boarder. It was amazing. Everyone wanted to leave and see the world.

Besides being able to travel, how did life change for you parents?

Well, they started a grocery store in our village. Before that, everything was run by the Communists. Nobody could have a business. So, it was very exciting for them.

How about the Slovak Rebublic? Are they still trapped in their country?

Slovak? Oh, we don’t like those people. They refuse to change. They like the old system. They hate how we’re copying America.

What do mean, copying America? You mean, copying our style of government? Our constitution?

No, I mean, TV, music, culture. They think we’re betraying our culture. Actually, Czechs in the East think this too. They want to be more like Russia. It’s a big problem. But our new government is a problem too. We don’t have a president like you. No one is in charge. George Bush says something and it gets done. Our Prime minister doesn’t have any power. Parliament must vote on everything and if its fifty fifty (it’s always fifty fifty) nothing gets done. It’s real problem.

Well, you’ve come so far since 1989. I’m sure you’re very proud.

Oh yes, Czech is a wonderful country. I really hope you enjoy your time here.

Camping Bitov

2007-09-15T08:04:00.000-07:00

A night in a cornfield. We wake to the sound of a tractor and in seconds we’re driving away. Phil squinting through the steamy windows, me still in bed, cuddled and watching the grey sky zip by through the windows. This is the morning after Vienna. This is us, driving towards the border.

I mention these details because it sets the stage for this new world, Czech Republic. There is a haze, fine dust floating in sunlight, giving the appearance of sepiatone, almost. A glaze of old gold, coating this land. That scene in North by Northwest, Cary Grant standing in the cornfield as the crop-duster approaches.

Anyways, so here we are, rolling into the Czech Republic, a sixteen year old country still haunted by the ghosts of Communism. Haunted by more than that, actually. Talk about history. Znojmo, the first town we came to is built of grand renaissance style buldings, complete with carvings and statues and neglected courtyards – all of it decaying and silently screaming of a golden age gone by. You can practically feel the cobwebs drooping over streets and faces alike.

But there’s color too. Clotheslines and Ferris wheels, Honda accords, lots of kids, hotpink penthouse signs and the plastic flowers of Catholic shrines. I guess they’re trying to make it work.

One thing’s for sure, Czech is cheap. And we really scored on a campsite. For two days we’ve been basking in the autumn sun on the shores of Dyje River, at a place called Camp Bitov. After a few days of rain and city, this campground has been a paradise. Hot showers, free WIFI, a friendly camp host (he speaks English!), and lots of trees and crisp Fall air. I’ll let Phil take it from here.

So, you wonder how we found said Camp Bitov. Well, we stopped at this grimy gas station right across the border, where people were, shall we say, less than bubbly, and bought a map because we didn’t have one. Well, on this map were symbols that indicated ruins, according to the legend key. Next to one of these ruins was a campsite, and we thought, what the heck, let’s try it out. As serendipity can plan like no other, we ended up with a campsite that is only rivaled in glory by the nearby ruins.

I went with small expectations, a few rocks, an old foundation, and things like that. I was in for a surprise. The castle ruins were set atop a hill in a U in the river and was an old sprawling giant of brick and stone. Adding to the intrigue of the adventure was the fact that it’s untouched for the most part by tourism. There’s no guide, no plastic swords for sale, no one to sue if you kill yourself, no information booth, just walls and locked iron gates that need… navigating.

We looked it up on the Internet the night before we went, because we could, and read up on it a little. It’s called Cornstejn and was built by the Lichtenburk family sometime in the 14th century. “Cornstejn was destroyed in the 15th century by the Czech ruler King George of Podebrady, who defeated the Lichtenburks for rebelling against his rule” (www.radio.cz/en/article/70165). The dissension, among other things, was about The Holy Roman Church and the reformation, or pre-reformation movements. Czech is home of the illustrious cooked goose, Jan Hus, to whose teachings Podebrady was a subscriber. As such he was having some issues with the Holy Roman Empire, and the Lichtenburks, so I imagine, thought they’d try their luck at gaining the Pope’s favor and with its support replace Podebrady as the fully orthodox extension of Rome and the authority in the area. Well, they gambled and lost. Podebrady marched in and squashed the dissenters and the castle, leaving it in ruins for the last 500 years or so.

We read that some work had been done on it recently. And I saw that sections of the cement had the texture of First World War cement and then we found a stamp in it that read 1879. But it’s pretty easy to distinguish from the new and the old. And most of it’s old, and dangerous to climb because it crumbles under you.

Only a few rooms were intact and were mostly under the cool ground. In some places it’s very easy to see where different levels of the castle would have been, and some are still intact, but for the most part it feels like the castle used to be much deeper into the ground, but earth has filled it in so that the floors are always a little high.

In two places we found deep pits, once fallen in, impossible to climb out of. Maybe they were cisterns, maybe temporary holding cells, certainly dangerous for the local explorer. Anyways, I could write on and on. It was a good time and I loved it.

Okay, it’s me, Kate, again. I just wanted to briefly write about this morning before we pack up and drive away from Bitov and from internet access.

Philip mentioned the Lichtenburk family that once ruled this land. They had another castle, a bigger more central one, a little further down river built in the 11th century. Unlike Cornstejn, Bitov castle was never completely destroyed or abandoned, and has been lived in by various nobility up until 1945. The last owner, Baron George Haas, was an eccentric animal lover, and converted the castle into a private zoo, employing over 40 professional caretakers and their families (who lived in the castle as well) including a taxidermist.

So imagine us walking up to the castle this morning. It’s misty, and though the forested hillside is lovely, and eeriness settles as we near the fortress walls. We can hear a strange wailing coming from the castle. Is it an organ? A distant train? The tortured ghosts of animals? As it turn’s out they’re black metal contraptions lining the roof of the castle intended to catch the wind and drone. I asked our tour guide about them. She said they were early 19th century additions. “For romance,” she said, “For romance atmosphere.”

To the haunted moan and drone of the rooftop, we walked around the cold damp castle. Room after room was filled with stuffed animals – stuffed real animals. Mostly birds and dogs. Lots of dogs, frozen and dull, laying about a great hall. I could feel the bristles and growls. The medieval angst of centuries gone by.

A Night in Vienna

2007-09-13T04:53:00.000-07:00

Our day in Vienna came to a delightful close at the Kursalon, a Renaissance era opera house in the center of the city. Beneath dripping chandeliers and a towering cathedral ceiling, we sat mesmerized, drinking in the sparkling melodies of the Waltz King, Johann Strauss, and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart performed by the Salonorchester Alt Wien, “one of the best known interpreters of Viennese classical music.” The performance included several operatic duets and ballet. I was enchanted. Philip was, quote, “looking forward to a local beer.”

He did not have to wait long. Before driving off towards the Czech sunset (okay, fine, it was midnight) we dropped by a local pub to experience traditional Austrian cuisine. The menu: wiener schnitzel and Ottakringer (a Viennese micro-brew). The schnitzel, a breaded pork steak sautéd in butter and herbs, was served with fat potato wedges and lemon slices. The verdict? Phil says, “It was a tasty experience and a great end to the night but I probably won’t miss it. Kate says, “A mild though pleasant surprise. I was expecting a greasy sausage or something.” The beer was deemed crisp and refreshing, albeit thin. “Not as hoppy as I like,” proclaims Phil.

Streets of Vienna

2007-09-13T04:42:00.000-07:00

Roadtripping Austria

2007-09-12T08:32:00.000-07:00

We’ve been driving through Austria five days now, and have dropped by Innsbruck, Saltzburg, Linz and now Vienna on our sojourn through the “Land of the Sound of Music” (more like the sound of rain and heavy traffic). And while we’ve had plenty of unique adventures, several scenes keep replaying themselves and I thought perhaps you’d like a sneak peek at this day-to-day drama within Gertrude the Sexy Beast (a.k.a. our camper car).

Scene 1: “Learning German” Philip at the wheel, Kate at the map.

P: There’s a Wankdorf coming up.
K: I know. Stay left. The right lane’s an Ausfahrt, it will shoot us out the wrong way. Oh wait, I’m wrong. That sign says Zentrum. Go left, go left. Ausfahrt!
P: I can’t Ausfahrt, it’s an Einbahn!
K: Oh. right. Umm…

Okay, I promise we’re not saying anything inappropriate. These are actual German words that we’ve incorporated into our daily lives (meaning, Y in the road, exit, city center and one way, respectively). When we first started driving in German speaking regions I was absolutely horrified at all the obscene sounding road signs. Aren’t they amazing? It got kind of funny though, and even now I have fun yelling out whatever I see on billboards/signs etc. in my best Third Reich voice. It’s very helpful. Phil can attest.

Seriously, there’s nothing like a good German word to totally break my rose-tinted glasses and leave me staring at a Europe that will never make it on a postcard. Take the word Vienna, for example. That beautiful city all dreamers and travelers yearn to experience at sunset. Well, here, in Vienna, they call their city Wien, and anything Viennese is, duh, Wiener. How’s that for charm. I’m still in denial. As is, thankfully, the rest of the world. “Wiener waits for you” just doesn’t have the same ring to it. Good call, Billy Joel.

Scene 2: “Dinner” Philip and Kate squint through a rain-drenched window as they crawl through a reststop.

K: I can’t see a picnic table, can you?
P: Yeah, what’s that under the tree?
K: Oh, yeah. You’re right. Well, that looks pretty nice. It’s private, anyway.”
P: Now, how-about running water.
K: There’s that little brick building.
P: Yeah. What’s the chance it’s not an outhouse.
K: I sure miss the Swiss reststops.
P: I know. Well, we have a little water left. A bottle an a half maybe. Is that enough to boil noodles?
K: Yeah, but cleaning up will be a pain.

They sit there staring at rain and table, pondering their predicament.

P: Hey, I think it toned down a little.
K: Okay. I’ll fold the seats down and make the bed while you start the water boiling.
P: ‘kay. Here goes.

It’s been tricky living on a budget out of the car in the rain. Funny things become important. We’re always looking for picnic tables and running water. And where you can take hot showers for cheap. Yesterday, we took (stole?) free ones at a campground, but they’re also available at train-stations, swimming pools and truck stops. We’ve also learned that nice hotels are a source of good city info (they have maps and good English) as well as wireless (although we have yet to try that one out). Laundromats are hard to come by, although we finally found one yesterday and sadly spent most of the afternoon there, watching rain smear down the windows and thinking it’s a shame to spend Vienna this way. However, today’s turning out much better. Philip and I are taking turns blogging (at Starbucks) and photographing the city. We’re going to post the best of our Vienna photo-essays soon, so stay-tuned. Oh yes, and tonight we have tickets to a Mozart concert (this is his hometown.)

I’d also like to add that, even though Austria’s Thomas Kincade landscape has turned a bit muddy, we’re really loving it. This. Our roadtrip. Our adventure’s together. There’re so many wonderful moments too. Like grabbing a sandwhich and coffee and walking down some cold grey street, holding hands, watching people and pigeons pass by. Singing to itunes as we blast down the Autobahn. Snuggling up in our “fort” of curtains and covers at night and reading books by flashlight. Planning for the next day. Buying fresh bread at bakeries. Posing for potential blog photos. These are all scenes that keep replaying too, and they’re wonderful.

- Kate

First off I must start with some sort of explanation. If you happened to read Kate’s blog, then you know that presently I’m in Vienna, but that I’m also in Starbucks, writing. There’s some sort of justification for this out there somewhere. It comes by way of our lifestyle. We live in a car, and like most cars, it doesn’t have a living room. But this particular shop, other than being a small taste of home, doesn’t care how many hours you log in their couches.

Well, I thought that today I would try and write a little about the practicalities of the gypsy life on the road that we lead. Our camper car is an Opel Astra wagon thing with a Thule (900? I think) car top carrier. Most of our worldly goods, the ones not in the Brains barn, are in our car top carrier.

The other day we were driving a small country road, Hwy 1 to be exact, outside of Linz a little ways. It was going to get dark soon and we wanted to find a nice spot to settle down for the night, a process that usually takes a couple hours if dinner is included, which I was hoping to include.

Cornfields, that will probably be ripe in about a month, come and go on both sides of the road, and after awhile I choose a small road to the right and pull off. To my surprise there’s a row of residential houses tucked in behind a field, so I take another right onto an even more desolate road. This happens to be a park, which looks promising at first with a little pond and some green grass, but there are too many people milling about to feel comfortable really spreading out, so we move on. After a dead end, we find a road that goes through the middle of two cornfields, under a railroad, and then wrap around another cornfield and open up in a little grassy field away from everything. I remembered seeing some sign that I interpreted as a walking park, but it looked deserted now. So, we parked Gertrude and set about doing something about dinner.

We really hadn’t planned out dinner very well, but I thought we could do something with the tail ends of our groceries. We had a little Gruyere cheese, part of a loaf of bread, three eggs, some salami (or other tasty, yet weirdly named cured meat), two tomatoes, a little butter, and half a bottle of wine (among other things); oh yes, and to my surprise and delight, we also had two potatoes (already boiled) and part of an onion left over. The perfect combination for a grilled cheese masterpiece, I thought, with some fried potatoes on the side.

So, there we were with our stuff spread out and about in the grass preparing our dinner, doing our best to look completely like vagabond riffraff, and my suspicions of the walking path were confirmed as two elderly couples emerged from the wood to cross our little grassy glen. They pleasantly said gruss gott (“God’s day”) or some other consonant dominated phrase and walked on. Other than that we had the place to ourselves, and were gone, without visible trace, by eleven or so the next morning.

Next up is the beautiful city of Salzburg. We rolled in on a Sunday and most the place was closed except the more touristy areas with the accompanying tourists. It’s difficult to drive in unknown cities when it’s raining, with signs in foreign languages, and your own curtains multiplying your blind spots, but as it was Sunday, parking was easy and free. I hate paying for parking and avoid paying for it at all costs, that is at all non-fiscal costs.

Salzburg is full off coble stone streets, little shops, old churches, and an ancient fortress. After we had been walking around for a while, up on this high hill in the distance this castle thing loomed over the city daring any to challenge its rightful place as the secluded seat of sinister and secular sovereignty. It was situated on a steep knoll in the center of a vast valley, with walls as high as forty feet. As soon as I saw it I was drawn toward it and wanted to get up into it. A prospect, I found out, many come to Salzburg just to do.

After lunch, we started up the switch-backed stairs to the epiphany of rock and stone. Stairs tuned into a coble stone street and we passed through three different guard towers on the way up, the last of which cost us each seven euros to get through. The inside was larger than the outside. It could house a virtual city within the various layers of wall.

We took an audio tour of part of the castle and found out that the place was built over a process of nine hundred years, always being remodeled and upgraded, due to one threat or another (mainly the peasants and the Turks). It was started in 900 AD on some previous Roman fort, whose architecture is still plain to see in some places, and finished in the 1800s. It was mainly funded by some nearby salt mines, and ruled through the years by various archbishops of the holy roman church, which still claims 49% of Austrian adherents. The quarters housing the bishops were lavish and rich, and only one among the various pleasure houses they occupied around the area. It’s impossible not to imagine goateed old savages swooshing around in long robes and capes ordaining torture for one, death for another, etc.

The dungeon, which we were not allowed in, thankfully, was amazing. I think of a dungeon of being under the castle with a regular door and whatnot. No. Imagine a small tower with a little wood pulley system and a trap door with a steel grate that they lower you into. The only way in or out was nineteen feet up this two-foot hole. Yes, once entered death is imminent.

Anyways, I loved it, even in the rain, and walked around singing, “Every town, has its ups and downs, and sometimes the ups outnumber the downs, but not in Nottingham…” OK, gotta run, Kate’s back and itching to post what I have.

- Philip

Rural Austria

2007-09-10T04:25:00.000-07:00

We woke up out of Lofer, Austria this morning to rain and drizzly light. Sunday morning, creeping like a nun, we snuck through the sleepy streets in search of a bakery. The ski village dripped quiet and peaceful, and it wasn’t till we reached the end of town (a total of six blocks) that we saw lights on and a couple of cars parked. Something was open. Well, almost. The door was locked, but a cheery cook let us in and in a matter of moments we were sipping coffee (actually mine was a cappuccino with plenty of foam) in the quaintest little dining room ever. Apparently, the establishment was an inn, and we had caught her just as she was waking. Only a couple of lights were on and the kitchen radio was playing a local oldies station and the innkeeper, dressed in traditional Austrian garb, was having her coffee and reading the paper at a nearby table. Half awake ourselves, the whole event took on a sweet dream-like quality – it was an ethereal moment epitomizing rural Austrian hospitality (a notion significantly reinforced when our coffee was served with a free helping of home-made bread, butter and honey).

You see, we had a hunch that Austria might be low-key and friendly like that. At first, the country didn’t seem to differ from Switzerland in the slightest. Towering mountains, green foothills, quaint villages, gentle-faced cattle, telecabines, shuttered chalets with geraniums glowing from the windowboxes – all of this is the same. And yet, upon closer inspection, Austria is decidedly more piecemealed and homegrown. There’s not as much touristy glitz. More families. More gardens. More random clotheslines, bikes and animals. Less zoning.

We first started to notice this difference on our hike yesterday. We had emerged from our campsite just as dawn was breaking. The sky was purplish and stars twinkled over groves of pear trees. Wait a minute. Pear trees? In someone’s yard? Wow. And there’s a pony! We ended up hiking over five hours and when we came back through the residential area we had our camera ready. Enjoy a few photos of rural Austria. – Kate

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Given enough time five miles an hour will get you anywhere, maybe even to contentment. Today we woke up before it was light and went on a hike in Blundenz, Austria. The mountains here are severe, treacherous looking masses of rock. But if you stay on the trail and just keep walking, with an occasional rest, it’s almost unnatural how far you can go. In a few hours it’s possible to walk to a place that appeared impossible from an earlier perspective.

I’m choosing to believe that life is similar. Dreams and goals that appear impossible from the present perspective can be miraculously realized given enough time and slow persistent effort. – Philip

And We're Off!

2007-09-06T09:59:00.000-07:00

Yes ladies and gentleman, it’s no joke. We’ve really done it this time. All strings are cut, all obligations and responsibilities severed. It’s just us and the road… and Gertrude, the little Opal Astra wagon we’ve converted into a camper of sorts. When we left Leysin Tuesday morning, it was on wild goose chase to find a car top carrier and bedding before nightfall. Otherwise, we’d either be sleeping in our passenger seats or blowing our budget on a motel. It’s a rather long and grueling story, but it ends with us pulling into a reststop between Bern and Zurich, unpacking our goods from Ikea and setting up a very comfy “bedroom” including a down comforter and curtains (Philip made them out of twine and pillowcases).

We spent the next afternoon wandering the streets of Bern, Switzerland’s capital, snapping pictures and admiring the gothic architecture. That night (last night) we drove on towards Zurich a ways and ended up parking up in some forested foothills. As we set up camp (meaning: making dinner on our nifty little gas-burner) occasional bikers and horse-riders passed by, giving us curious and out-right shocked stares. I don’t think people do much car camping around here.

At the moment, we’re stopped at another reststop. It’s sunny out and we just finished a scrumptious breakfast of granola, fruit and coffee. I think our plan is to head into Zurich for the day. The city offers free bike rentals and I know for a fact you can buy a hot shower for two franks at the train station. - Kate

Our Last Weekend in Leysin

2007-09-03T06:46:00.000-07:00

Saturday

Morning dawned grey and fresh, and in spite of our desire to snuggle deeper into the covers and sleep late, we dragged ourselves out of bed, pulled on our hoodies and lumbered out into the crisp Fall day in search of one last Leysin adventure.

As it happened, the day proved to be full and blog-worthy, but alas! We left the cumbersome camera behind and subsequently failed to capture the rich details of our day. It’s really unfortunate, because I can think of at least three extraordinary shots that would have illustrated our adventures so well. I guess I’ll just have to describe them to you:

Photograph 1: A portrait of an old wrinkled farmer with a pipe clenched in his mouth, squinting at us through blue sparkly eyes as he wound up a bit of fencing. We came across him in a cow pasture that we were hiking through on our way to Le Fer, a near by vista about an hour and half climb from our apartment. At about 11:00, thin slices of sun slid through the mist just as we summitted. Hungry, we stopped at a little cow shed/restaurant in the mountains and had a traditional lunch of beer, homemade brown bread and cheese fondue.

Photograph 2: A wide-angle street scene, encompassing a stage full of European gypsies (replete with bangles on their ankles) dancing and playing guitars, booths selling beer and raclette (another Swiss favorite featuring a boiled potato drizzled with melted cheese) and of course the colorful locals, young and old, enjoying the Aigle county fair. After our hike to Le Fer, Philip and I decided to take the cog train down to the neighboring village to scout out the rumored festival. We were not disappointed. A street full of international food vendors and stages (there were at least four, with different acts going on all the time) greeted us, and provided an evenings worth of entertainment. We saw several bands, but my favorite are the little two-man shows that play European café/polka tunes. You get within ear shot of their music and everyone starts dancing (especially the little old ladies – they’re so cute.)

Photograph 3: A self-portrait of Philip and I (we’ve propped the camera up on a rock wall and set the timer) sitting in a vineyard with our arms about each other, smiling in the moonlight. If you look real closely you can see fat clusters of grapes dripping off the vines in the shadows. You see, the Aigle train station is surrounded by vineyards, and since we missed the 8:00 train and had an hour to wait, we decided to explore the quiet, silvery hillsides (and taste test). It was nice sitting up there watching the world – occasionally cars would drive by below us and bits of music and laughter echoed up from the glittering carnival in the distance. We sat there talking and munching juicy white grapes for a long time. It was beautiful.

- Kate

Sunday

“Slow down you crazy child, you’re so ambitious for a Juvenile… Vienna waits for you.”

Yes, Vienna’s waiting. But first, we have one more weekend in Leysin, our Switzerland home of the last nine weeks. Being that it’s our last, we decided to employ it to good end. And as today’s Sunday we decided to brave church. A valiant thing to do, yes, I know. Well, we knew there was an English service in town that starts at nine, because we showed up, at nine-thirty last week. So, we put on some snazzy duds and made the three minute walk to the quant little brick chapel.

We were almost late, but part way into our walk, a good minute or so, we heard the bell of the church start ringing, so we figured we couldn’t be too late. It continued to ring for the rest of our walk. Imagine a little classic chapel built out of rock and wood, with stained glass windows, carved wood ceiling rafters, a pipe organ built into the front on one side, and a raised John Calvinish pulpit on the other side. It does not feel like a catalyst of grace and love to me, but the people do. There were about twenty five locals or so, a few from our school, actually. And a lady led us in some worship with such favorites as, Lord I Lift Your Name on High (do you know that one?), and Hail, Hail, Line of Judah, how powerful you are, etc. You know the place can’t be that bad when they sing the songs of your youth, I think.

And Mr. Pastor talked about joyful giving and it was pretty good. My favorite part was going over the verse that says, Godliness with contentment is great gain. A tall order on both ends, but you know what they say, No pain no gain. Actually though it was really refreshing to think about. Being godly and just slowly working and being content, in time builds a life that is costly and beautiful. This is a good reminder for me because striking my fortune quickly and taking my position among the idle rich is a frequently visited fantasy of mine. If you were in the keen on my shrewd financial dealings you would understand more fully why this is appropriately a fantasy.

So, yes, church ended and out we wondered into the street. The sun was shining and the wind was composed of microscopic ice particles, just small enough to get through all your clothes. A coffee, I believe, was in order. So, we consulted our financial advisers and got the go on investing a couple of five-spots into some pain-aux-chocolates. I think it’s in the original Greek texts that all church services should be ended in this fashion, a Eucharist of sorts.

So, as we sat eating chocolate bread and coffee the crisp wind brought up the idea of a bike ride. So, we walked up the hill (remember, dear reader, there is only down or up) to see if Hefty Sports was open and if they were in the mood to rent us some bikes. As it turns out, they were, and they were. It was about eleven AM by this time, but the lady let us have the bikes at the half day price, which pleased our financial people. And said that we didn’t have to bring then back until nine the next morning when they open, which pleased us.
So, outfitted in our cool, very hard-core looking bikes, and helmets (helmets are very fashionable among the hard-core looking people nowadays), we rode up yet another hill to buy a little lunch to take on our ride, a picnic of sorts. Then we busted out the map to consider where the day might take us. How much biking can one fit in a given day?

There were a variety of colored loops across our mountain, color-coded to the guide on the bottom, from ‘facile’ to ‘dificile +’ which came after normal ‘dificile’. We chose a loop that went to places we had yet to see, which was mostly down the mountain. This loop happened to be the first facile loop and almost killed us. But I would not be deterred, the brown number nine ‘dificile +’ had caught my eye, and I had an idea. It was a 29k loop, in the Swiss Alps, but we could ride the cool part down and take the cog train back up. A genius idea, I am aware.

Well, we ride over to the place were the downhill starts and it’s not bad, steep but paved. And then there is this sign with a little bike rider on it, pointing off the cliff, well ok, a path through the brush on the way down the cliff. It was a mixture of protruding rock edges and loose rocks ranging in size from marbles to cantaloupes. And on the map, we had not yet gotten to the difficult part. So, I changed my plan, we could do the loop the other direction and still take the cog up.

So, back we went, up the path we had just flown down. About two hours, seven breather breaks, half a kilometer in elevation, and a small fraction of the brown loop later we decided to eat a little something and reconsider our plans. We’d barely moved on the brown line. Prudence and discretion won the day. Back down the mountain we flew. Paved roads, gravel, cow pastures, with unmoving lazy, docile cows, and finally we were back at our school just in time for dinner. Our cool hard-core bikes came equipped with cool hard core racing seats. After five hours of riding up and down hills, it hurt to walk and to sit. The 29k would have de-capacitated us. So, our last Sunday in Leysin is coming to a glorious close. Watch out, Vienna.

- Philip

The Via Ferrata

2007-08-26T14:17:00.000-07:00

It all started the night before, over hamburgers and beer at the Top Pub.

“So have you been to Champery?” demands a red-faced local, “And did you climb the Via Ferrata?”

“I’m sorry, the what? Where?

“You’re leaving and you haven’t been to Champery?” he gasps. “You haven’t climbed the iron path over the falls? You must go. Go tomorrow!”

Ordinarily, a spontaneous command from a total stranger flies by without much notice. But, being that we had the day off with no particular plan, we shrugged our shoulders and said, what the heck. Car pe dium, right?

Equipped with peanut butter sandwiches and our trusty google map and train schedule, we set out the next morning, excited to see what this “iron path” was all about.

Well, Champery, a small ski village nestled deep in the mountains, proved to be further then we expected and it wasn’t until 3:15 pm that we found a sports shop to rent us some equipment and point out the trail head.

“The hike takes a little over three hours.” the shop owner said, zipping a harness and helmet into our packs. “We close at six.”

“Six o’clock?” So it was a race against the clock. “Okay,” we said. “No problem.” Or so we thought.

The first half of the trip went great. Sun filtered through groves of pine and beech trees, and the air was filled with sweet earth smells and the hum of bees and river water. Forty-five minutes of waffle-stomping upwards, we came to where the Tîere river violently crashed down a ravine. The waterfall was surrounded by cliffs, and in those cliffs were iron rungs welded at random, snaking up out of sight: the Via Ferrata.

Excitedly we donned our mountaineering gear (we felt super hardcore), figured out the double-clip system (there is a cable that runs along the ladder) and tackled the 1500-foot wall that rose at a 75-degree angle. Twice we crossed the river on rope footbridges on the way up, and at one point the cliff actually slanted back over us. For a few moments we both got really quiet and I had to practice yoga breathing. It was really freaky.

The adventure would have ended there, but for the fact we got lost on the way out. Somewhere around 5:30 the path disappeared amidst a few acres of recent logging debris, and at about 5:45 we ran into a hiker who told us we were headed in the wrong direction. That’s when panic set in. (Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that we’d left our backpacks at the sports shop, including my passport and wallet.) Racing back up the hill we’d just descended, we popped over a ridge and headed towards the sound of roaring water and the peaks of Champery rooftops. After half-falling down the steep embankment we stripped off our pants and went crashing through the rapids on foot (there wasn’t a bridge in sight, and there was no time for dilly-dallying. We meant business).

The story ends with us sprinting a half mile into town to find the shop-keepers waiting for us. I checked my watch. Only 6:13. We did it. Panting and mumbling a slur of merci beaucoups, we stumbled back onto the street towards the train station.

As it turned out, the last train of the day was just pulling out of Champery, and we boarded with minutes to spare: 6: 34 pm. Unbelievable.

As the train lurched into the growing darkness and began it’s peaceful decent, we sat there staring at each other, marveling at our luck and last minute adventure. Kik and Jil PS* strike again.

*Our superhero code names

The Fivespot

2007-08-21T10:34:00.001-07:00

Sometimes while traveling, small cultural differences are unearthed that bring a little bit of joy to one’s soul. Such is the case of the Fivespot, a small Swiss coin worth five Franks, approximately $4.143 USD. It’s a little larger than a quarter, and easily recognized from other Swiss coins, such as the 2 CHF and 1 CHF (the twospot and onespot respectively).

Despite the lesser value, having a fivespot in your pocket somehow feels better than having a 20 CHF note. What’s the reason for this you ask? That’s a good question and something I’ve been trying to put my finger on.

Perhaps it’s because a 20 Frank note, although worth more, also carries with it this foreboding sense of economic responsibility (at least within my economic spectrum), while a fivespot has somehow managed to free itself of this awful, aforementioned accountability, yet still retain the ability to procure small, yet substantial treats, leaving the spender with the sense that little more than pocket change has been spent (which is true).

What can one buy with this single coin you ask? Another good question. Well, at the local Boutique de Pain one can purchase a "pain aux chocolate" for 1.50 CHF. And then cross the street and enjoy a cup of coffee to compliment the pastry for 3.00 CHF, leaving a ½ Frank piece left over, which is also a fun coin.

A pain aux chocolate is literally “bread with chocolate” but should really be “a croissant textured pastry, folded with chocolate in the middle,” but I think that’d be a mouthful in French (albeit a tasty one).

So, with mere pocket change one can freely enjoy a morning coffee on the town. I think I’m going to break all my twenties into fives, so that I don’t spend too much.

- Philip

Still in Switzerland

2007-08-20T11:36:00.000-07:00

Bonjour!

Here I am, two months later, updating Our Travels: Cutting Edge Reporting on Kate and Phil’s Gallivant Around Europe. I’ve been meaning to get this blog started for ages, but it became very apparent early on that there’d be no time while working for Summer in Switzerland, and therefore postponed until now. To those of you who don’t exactly know what Phil and I have been up to, we’ve been teaching English at an academic/adventure camp in the Alps. High-schoolers from all over the world come spend their summers here, and it was our job to teach and entertain them for two months. However, the camp has drawn to a close, and Philip and I extended our contracts with Leysin American School through August, buying us time to plan our road trip through Europe. The change of pace has been wonderful. Now that the kids have gone, we only work part-time in a bookstore, and devote the rest to hiking, reading, drinking coffee at the village café and taking naps. Yesterday we went on a six-hour hike to a peak called Tour d’ Ai, a frightening windblown crest surrounded by 1000-foot limestone cliffs, accessible only from the East, where upon looking closely, we discovered a narrow winding goat path. The climb was a little dizzying. Okay, it was down right scary. But beautiful. We didn’t bring the camera, but I’m including some photos of other hiking ventures just so you can visualize the Alpine splendor. I’m also throwing in some pictures of our camp kids. I really like the different skin tones, and all the countries they represent. Oh and castles. We’ve seen some really nice castles. Okay. Vwa-La. A sample smattering of summer sights. Enjoy the photos, and please, log on again soon because this is only the beginning, my friends.

Fredrica (Italy), Victoria (Russia)

Daniil (Russia), Andres (Panama)

Khalid (Saudi Arabia)

Leysin, Switzerland

2007-06-20T13:57:00.000-07:00

Hello friends and family! Welcome to our new travel blog. Hopefully this site will help keep us connected and allow you to see Europe vicariously.

Below are photos of Leysin (lay-ZAWN), Switzerland, a small mountain village where we'll be living for the next two months while we teach English at the Leysin American School summer camp. Here's a brief email I wrote back home with a few more details:

Hello from Switzerland! It's a beautiful morning here, and just about
all the stereotypes are true. The alps tower above us, with lots of
little green meadows scattered here and there with cows (whose bells
tinkle early morning and evening) and I watch all this from our
balcony window (we're very high up.) All the little houses have
brightly colored shutters and flower boxes, the streets a narrow and
winding, and we've been sipping hot chocolate every evening on our
balcony.