Swiss Family Grass

Arriving in Norway we realized our travels in this northern country would be limited, the main reason being the seven dollar per gallon price of gas. We settled on visiting the capital, Oslo. The oldest of the Scandinavian capitals, Oslo was founded around 1048 and is surrounded by forest, sand, and sea.

With chilly weather and cloudy skies welcoming our arrival, we were eager to explore Oslo at a rapid pace. However, when we reached one of the city’s major attractions, time seemed to stand still. Vigeland Sculpture Park, one of Scandinavia’s finest open air sculpture parks holds the key to unlocking the beauty and complexity of the human form.

Norwegian artist Gustav Vigeland worked on the sculptures displayed in the park from 1924 until his death in 1943. The unique sculpture park has over 200 of Vigeland’s works displayed harmoniously throughout the landscaped grounds. The sculptures are bold in design and capture human emotion and body movement seamlessly.

Works are in bronze, granite and cast iron, and regardless of the material used the lifelike, almost breathing nature of the works is unsettling. While situated in a natural setting, the sculptures blend with the surrounding green space effortlessly, probably due to the fact that Vigeland was responsible for the design and architectural outline of the park.

From the park we rode on a streetcar to Karl Johan’s gate, a pedestrian street in city centre lined with shops and cafes and too many Burger King’s and McDonald’s to count. At one point you could see two sets of golden arches, one behind the other, and it wasn’t a result of double vision. Looking at menus displayed in windows of restaurants it was clear eating out would not be an option. But, the high prices and quality of selection steered us away from supermarkets too. So, we ducked into a Burger King to get a bite to eat and use the free wireless internet supplied at the eatery. Needless to say, it was the worst burger I have had, comprised of meat from the 1990’s and lettuce that may well have been colored wax shaved from an old candle. The fries were lacking too, tough and crunchy, too hard to get down without a gulp of the flat soda offered. It was a total let down for two American folks looking to the familiar fast food chain for a taste of home. But, it only got worse. The twenty four dollar price tag was both astronomical and absurd, comedic in it’s’ irony. There we were two American’s who usually scoff at the trademark ‘All Things American’ that we see poisoning the culture of Europe, eating a crappy burger in Norway of all places, and paying twelve dollars per whopper for the pleasure of it.

We left the Burger King and continued our sightseeing in the direction of the central train station, our conversation stopping each time we saw yet another sign of the states. McDonalds and Burger King weren’t the only beacons, 7 Eleven could be seen on opposing corners too. In fact, the 7 Elevens in Oslo probably outnumber the McDonalds four to one. It was then that Andy came up with an inspired phrase for our stops; Cathedrals to Capitalism. He couldn’t have been more on the mark. Every city or village or town we have stopped in has a cathedral or mosque or synagogue at its’ center. From this ‘holy’ center grows a community, a maze of streets that are the lifeblood of the area. Trade and various merchant shops of centuries past have been replaced by the commercial retail establishments and the tourism industry. And so it goes, if you plan to visit that wonderful late seventeenth century cathedral, or admire the architecture of the Romanesque nineteenth century parliament building, you will do so by trudging through streets lined with countless symbols of our fast food nation; the antithesis of culture, kinship, and tradition.

Shopping promenades gave way to the grittier station area, where we tried our luck at yet another store. Wandering the aisles aimlessly, we headed to the register with only three items in our cart. We are amazed at the lack of selection in Scandinavian grocery stores. I have hypothesized that the overwhelmingly svelte population is due to two factors; the use of cycling as mode of transport and the lack of inspiration displayed on the market shelves. We stopped at two more stores on our way back to the campground, and decided that we would eat the meager supplies collecting dust in our campervan pantry rather than waste another day searching the shelves of Norway’s supermarkets.

The following day we awoke to sunny blue skies and could for the first time see the beauty of Oslo and the fjord inlet. The waters of the Oslo Fjord are deep in hue, almost midnight blue. We drove to the Viking Ship Museum, and were struck by the countryside feel of the neighborhood where the museum is housed. A cross between Cape Cod and the plantations of the south, the area projects an image of a time past. Small children run freely through the streets and small stands on street corners sell fresh fruit and vegetables. Manors rest gracefully next to homes of the seafaring, and tucked between is the Viking Ship Museum.

Housed in what looks like and old school building, the Viking Ship Museum has put on display three Viking ships unearthed when three royal burial mounds were dug up in the Oslo Fjord. The ships were buried more than 1100 years ago to carry their royal owner’s to ‘the other side.’ Each ship was buried with it’s owner and all the goods necessary for the journey to the afterlife. In contrast to the Vasa Ship Museum that we visited in Stockholm, the three Viking ships on display in Oslo are simple in design, yet bold in appearance. Looking at the relics found with the ships, it is easy to imagine how the royals lived, spartan by today’s standards but complete with small examples of exotic luxuries acquired during the age of sea exploration.

One final stop at the Oslo Film Museum proved rather fruitless. While we were looking forward to learning about Norwegian cinema and curious about how Hollywood culture would be portrayed, we were surprised to find the museum to be a small, cramped room of displays with no clear method to the design. None of the exhibits were accompanied by an English translation and an English paper guide was not available. Other than the mobeius strip display at the beginning of the museum and a somewhat hastily put together exhibit of actor photos near the end, one wouldn’t know they were in a ‘film museum’. We spent most of our time browsing through the gift shop, excited when we found a poster from one of our favorite Peter Seller’s films’ “The Party”; renamed “The Hollywood Party” for the European market.

With that last stop we bid farewell to Norway. Within a few hours we were crossing a bridge from Norway to Sweden. One of the more unusual bridge crossings we’ve experienced during our travels. As we approached the toll booth the toll taker leaned out her window and asked, “How much does your van weigh?” I don’t know about you, but vehicle weight is not something I pride myself in knowing. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I’ve ever known the weight of any of my vehicles. And, I can say without hesitation that IS something I take pride in. When I responded that I didn’t know the weight the toll taker very matter of factly told me that the price depended on the weight of the vehicle and that from one category to the next resulted in a price hike of nearly fifty US dollars. I responded by telling her that I thought the van weighed about 3500 kilograms. She asked if I was sure and I told her that I wasn’t. “The cut off weight is 3500,” she responded with a smile. Then she asked if I was sure. I got out our vehicle manual and handed it to her. She then told me that they calculate by the gross weight and our vehicle gross weight is over 4000 kilograms. I looked at her rather quizzically, with one eyebrow riding up my face and said, “Well do you have a scale?” End of conversation. She gladly accepted the lower of the two fares with a smile and a wink.

First stop upon returning to Sweden was Gothenburg. As Scandinavia’s largest port, Gothenburg feels something like a cross between San Francisco and Seattle. But, I cannot tell you that from experience, instead I learned about this lively city from Andy. For me, the time in Gothenburg was spent catching up on writing for the webpage. It’s unusual for us to be apart, and with Andy gone I found myself eagerly awaiting his return, anticipating the stories he’d tell about exploring the city. Instead, he returned to tell of similarities between the city we were now in and ones we had visited before; more of a bike ride than anything else. I found myself sheepishly grinning inside, happy I hadn’t missed out on a European treasure.

The following day, enroute to Denmark we made a fortuitous and unscheduled stop in Grimeton, Sweden. The transmitter station at Grimeton was made a UNESCO World Heritage Site in July 2004. Built for wireless radio waves, Grimeton transmitter stood as a technical innovation of its’ time, and remains today in operation, the only one in what was once a network of long wave transmitting stations built in the 1920’s. Six massive masts positioned over a thousand feet from each other climb toward the sky, and to walk amongst these giants while reading the self guided tour pamphlet takes one back to the days of yesteryear, when news of the end of World War II effortlessly crossed the Atlantic to New York in a single transmission.

Next, we continued along the farm lined highway until we reached Malmo, where we made a pit stop before crossing a bridge to Denmark. No discussion of vehicle weight here, just a flat fee of forty dollars US, payable in any of three choices of currency.

Gloomy weather followed us into Copenhagen and we decided to save the sightseeing for the next day. With the next dawn came clear skies and moderate temperatures, perfect for a bike ride into town. Copenhagen is a cyclist friendly city. Bike lanes are wide and have their own signals. Traffic jams exist in town, but primarily consist of the two wheeled variety of vehicle. I found bicycling in Copenhagen overwhelming; hundreds of cyclists sharing the road with me, signaling left and right turns, and all moving at an unnerving pace. I had never known riding a bike to require such a harness on my senses, anticipating other biker’s moves while trying to avoid getting clipped by a car speeding by. I was somewhat relieved when we reached town center and hopped off our bikes and returned to our normal mode of transportation, our legs.

Sightseeing in Copenhagen started with the usual tourist laden stops. The area of Indre By makes up most of Copenhagen’s inner core. Streets carve through the neighborhood in mazelike fashion, and one unplanned turn can send you circling the many squares that make up the heart of the city. Copenhagen’s city center is gritty and the busy pace leaves you looking down at the pavement for free space to place your feet. But if you keep looking down you miss the show, expansive window displays advertising all the latest styles and café culture spilling out onto the streets.

Continue on to the more scenic side of Copenhagen and you will find yourself on Nyhavn, a canal side street that boasts colorful eighteenth century houses that have been transformed into bars and restaurants.

Nyhavn has a picturesque quality and visitors to the area are met with a friendly atmosphere. Cheery smiles adorn the faces of those sitting along the canal sipping beer, and the voices of seafaring men can be heard singing from boats tied up in the canal.

A quick walk along the Inderhavn toward the Royal Library and we had reached the bridge one crosses to reach Christiansborg, on the island of Slotsholmen. Before crossing the bridge we noticed a truck with hundreds of bikes parked in what appeared to be a city yard. Concerned as to what caused the bikes to reach this incarcerated state, we decided to stop and ask one of the workers why the bicycles had been confiscated. We were concerned that we had missed some special rule about how to park bicycles in Copenhagen and our bikes too would suffer this fate. When inquiring we were surprised by the answer we received. Actually we weren’t really surprised by the answer, that was simple and logical enough (bikes parked too long in one space, or bikes that were not in running order). What astonished us was the accent coming from the mouth of the city worker that helped us…clear New York. Queens to be exact.

We spent the next half hour talking with the native New Yorker now transplanted to Copenhagen about the election of 2004. He provided us with his philosophy about politics, ninety percent bullshit and five percent the truth. And, he said that Kerry lost the election because he refused to take a stand, remaining a ‘waffler’ straight through to the day of the election. And to think I traveled half way across the globe to have an expatriate sum up our political system and past presidential election in two succinct sentences. As we parted ways, the Ed Harris look alike New Yorker wished us safe travels and as he pulled away in his city truck said to us, “Give my regards to Broadway.”

Crossing the bridge onto Slotsholmen we were eager to cross another bridge to reach Christianshavn, built in the early sixteenth century as a new town for shipbuilding workers. Within Christianshavn is Christiana, an area colonized by hippies and declared a ‘free city’ in 1971. Residents of Christiana are self governed, and the district has become known as somewhat of a creative zone, with artist studios, workshops, and an overall laid back attitude. Anyone is free to visit Christiana, but taking photos is not allowed. As we approached Christiana through the streets lined with rather utilitarian dwellings, we were expecting that the area would be like the Haight in San Francisco, a neighborhood with a 1960’s feel. What we saw when we passed under the wood archway announcing our arrival was completely different. Christiana is actually a former barrack area, but you wouldn’t know it from the remaining structures. Instead, the streets of Christiana look like the ‘Wild West’ has collided with ‘hood’. Dirt roads are littered with broken furniture and eccentric individuals mill about with no apparent destination in sight. Drug deals take place openly and dogs roam the streets looking for discarded food. Bars look more like someone’s backyard than a true brick and mortar establishment, and artist workshops spill out onto the streets, welcoming anyone to come in for a closer look. Graffiti can be seen everywhere and music of all varieties blares from windowless window frames. And yet it all seemed somehow organized, like each thing had its place. It would be easy to say that Christiana was full of the dregs of society, the discarded and those unwilling to live by ‘the rules’. But really Christiana is a way of life, a choice to live free from the constraints of conformism; to live and let live. With Denmark’s now conservative government cracking down on the use and sale of drugs in Christiana, its future is uncertain. Residents have taken to the courts to survive and only time will tell if Christiana will remain a ‘free city’.

Leaving the lawless city of Christiana we headed back into central Copenhagen for a visit to the Museum of Erotica. An unusual stop recommended by our tour book, we weren’t quite sure what to expect. Opened in 1994, the museum was the first of it’s kind in Scandinavia and features exhibits on sex, love, and pornography spanning from antiquity to present. The exhibits are a mixture of historical and peculiar, a veritable hodge podge of sex.

Riding back to the campground I couldn’t help but feel that the slowness of my pedaling was rivaled only by the sluggish speed of my bike. For weeks I had been complaining about how hard it was to peddle my bike. I arrive at destinations dripping with sweat and feeling as if I had just completed a full workout. Now I know I’m not in the best of shape, but we have been riding bikes for the better part of six months now and I would think it should be getting easier, not harder. Riding was becoming a chore, not a pleasure. Like riding an exercise bike with the tension set at high. Andy was sure that it was just low tire pressure slowing me down. But, adding air to the tires had done nothing to ease my feverish pedaling. However on this particular day we finally resolved the mystery of the slow-moving bicycle. Andy noticed that the rear tire of my bike was wobbling when in motion. Apparently my bike had a few broken spokes that were causing it to spin unevenly, forcing the tire to come into contact with the brake after each rotation. So it was true, I WAS working like crazy to propel the bike forward. It was like riding with the brakes on. First thing on the agenda for tomorrow…getting the bike fixed!

Now bound for the Benelux region we drove the better part of the next day, traveling from Denmark to Oldenburg, Germany. We decided to camp overnight in a free camping spot offered by the municipality. Quite a common occurrence in Europe, many small towns and villages provide some type of camping spot in town, usually just off a main road, or in a parking lot near town centre. Many offer a free electrical hook-up, and some even have running water. Up until this point in the trip we have not stopped at one of these overnight camping spaces, for fear that a lack of facilities would leaving us running through town looking for a restroom in the middle of the night. But on this occasion, with no campground in site, we decided to give it a try. The town of Oldenburg offered three parking spots situated between a small pond and an RV dealer.

Oddly enough, Oldenburg turned out to be just the stop we needed. Life on the road, with an ever changing landscape may sound exciting and enticing, but you never really get to leave the life less ordinary at home. Errands and laundry and e-mail among other things always need to be done, and being on the road presents certain challenges when trying to check ‘things to do’ off your list. But somehow the stars aligned for one day, and the tiny town of Oldenburg met all of our needs. In one day we were able to get our oil changed at a garage specializing in US cars, pick up supplies at a well stocked store, go to the bank, have my bike repaired, see a physician and get a prescription, go to a pharmacy, stop at an internet café, get gas, call the family, and still have time for a stop at the local bakery for fresh pastry. While this may all seem quite mundane, it was quite an accomplishment for us. Usually every stop requires an “appointment”. And, language differences can be quite a challenge. However, on this day all our stops were met with a friendly smile and helpful shopkeepers. The doctor I saw didn’t even charge me for the visit! But alas, we were just passing through. By nightfall we had made it to Groningen, in the Netherlands.

Andy and I didn’t know quite what to expect in Holland. During our travels we have come across too many Dutch people to count. Every campground we visited in Spain and Portugal were made up largely of Dutch holidaymakers. If you see a car towing a caravan on the highway, odds are the plate is from the Netherlands. I would estimate that eighty percent of campers in Europe are from the Netherlands. So I had to wonder…what is causing all of these people to want to travel outside of their own country? Isn’t Holland, the land of tulips and Gouda cheese and clogs, supposed to be a happy little Utopian society? Well, my answer came when we reached Groningen.

The Netherlands, we have come to find out, is a country filled with old-world charm and down home hospitality. Canals carve through beautiful countryside and larger towns have a feeling that they are on the edge of the next trend while maintaining a level of culture and tradition that is somehow so Dutch. They embrace the old while searching for the new.

As a first stop in Holland, Groningen quickly acquainted us with Dutch topography; towns built around a system of canals. Working your way toward the center of town takes you past miles and miles of canals with attractive canal boats moored along the way.

The architecture of the buildings involves bricklaying on a massive scale. Handsome brick dwellings line both sides of the canal in a combination of housing and commercial space. Each building is unique and the Dutch’s tendency to leave windows free from any covering gives the passerby a view of how locals live.

As a college town, Groningen’s population is youthful and full of life. Transportation of choice is the bicycle, and squares in town are all lined with a sea of bicycles.

Bicycling is taken to new levels in Groningen. Wide biking paths run alongside each street, intersections have special signals, and bike rack spaces are coveted like good parking spaces in San Francisco.

The open air market in Groningen is the best we’ve seen in Europe, and the quality of goods is excellent, with prices kept competitive on account of the student population.
While strolling in the market we met a couple who gave us a few recommendations of things to see and do while in Holland. The man went on and on about how wonderful the Netherlands is and how nice the people and cities are. We found out later in the conversation that he was from Germany. This came as a shock to us, as he expressed such national pride that we had assumed he was full fledged Dutch.

One recommendation we pursued right after our meeting was to sample the Dutch delicacy Poffertjes. Most commonly referred to as a pancake, poffertjes are actually small dumpling like mini crepes smothered in butter and topped with a snowy layer of powdered sugar.

After satisfying our sweet tooth we walked a historical walk of the city using a brochure provided by the tourist office. Many examples of architecture from the early and mid 1800’s can be found throughout Groningen, and the timeless beauty of the era has been preserved well in town. We also walked through shopping districts that were unlike the usual corporate logo emblazoned ones we have grown accustomed to during our travels. Unpretentious boutiques welcome window shoppers and the selection of goods is unique, not the ordinary tourist garb.

We also saw our first Dutch “Coffee Shops”, establishments where the smell of marijuana spills from the doorway as young and old partake in the legal drug while having a beer or coffee.

Having worked up a healthy appetite roaming the streets of Groningen, Andy decided to try one of the automated fast food establishments that are so prevalent in the Netherlands. These coin operated eateries can be found in all cities and appear to us to be just your ordinary vending machines. But, a closer look reveals that behind the machinery is a kitchen with cooks frying up the menu items.

Andy purchased a Frikendal special, some kind of deep fried sausage item he had heard about from a Dutch fellow he met years ago at an airport in the states. Needless to say, he paid for it later. The “Frikendal special is truly “special”.

At night is when Groningen really comes alive. Partygoers take to the streets and the atmosphere is spirited. Street side tables are hard to come by and people watching is the sport of choice. We ducked into an art house cinema and caught a film. After the movie, we exited the cinema onto streets more lively than when we had left and watched as college students celebrated their last days of freedom before the new quarter.

Riding back to the campsite we saw a most unusual sight. As we pedaled along the dimly lit park road we observed a man sitting naked on a park bench. This man, we’ll call him Buster (as he looked just like the character of Buster from the show Arrested Development) was seated at a bench, not two feet from the road, legs crossed and still as a statue. As soon as he saw us approach, he stood up and walked rather calmly into a bush. It was all sort of surreal, pedaling by at midnight, wondering, “Did I just see what I think I saw?” Andy was shocked, and for some odd reason I wasn’t thrown by the occurrence. In fact, Buster looked harmless to me, almost embarrassed he’d been caught. We contemplated reporting the incident to the campsite, but decided that maybe sitting in a park late at night by himself was torture enough for Buster.

We left Groningen and drove to a campground across from Hogue Veluwe National Park. The landscape in the region is green and full of trees. It’s an idyllic setting, forests separated by pastures where horses roam freely. During our stay we visited the Airborne Museum ‘Hartenstein’ in Oosterbeek. During World War II, more than 10,000 British and Polish airborne troops fought in an around the area of Oosterbeek. Arnhem, the city next to Oosterbeek was the site of a battle for the Rhine Bridge, a major stronghold for the Germans, and a much sought after area for the allied forces. The museum now housed in the former Hartenstein hotel was the headquarters of the British divisional commander during the war. Today, the building and adjacent park follow the events of ‘Operation Market Garden’, the battle that took place in September 1944. The exhibits are well thought out, outlining the conflict day by day, with supporting documents and artifacts, many supplied by those who fought in the battle. Later, the movie “A Bridge to Far” permanently memorialized the story of the fierce fighting that took place while Allied troops tried in vain to secure the bridge.

A short ride from the museum leads to the Airborne Cemetery, where many of the British and Polish soldiers who fell during combat are laid to rest. A number of Unknown Soldier grave markers are also found here. Scattered throughout the cemetery grounds are several memorials to the airborne troops who fought here.

From Arnhem we drove to Rotterdam. We had made plans to visit two friends, Linda and Eric who we had met while camping in Tarifa, Spain. Linda and Eric both live in Rotterdam and they were the perfect tour guides during our time in this captivating city.

Rotterdam is not the traditional tourist destination. It is a vibrant city with a large immigrant population. Driving the streets near our friend Eric’s house was like traveling across international lines. People of all shapes and colors loiter in front of shops, the street noise at an elevated hum. The sheer number of people was overloading to my senses and I found myself craning my neck to take it all in. The pulse of the neighborhood was beating, both literally and figuratively.

From Eric’s place we drove to ‘Hotel New York’ Rotterdam, a landmark building at the heart of redevelopment efforts near the waterfront. Built between 1901 and 1917, the building served as the headquarters for the Holland Amerika Lijn. It was through the Rotterdam port and this terminal building that so many European migrants made their way to America; specifically New York City and ‘The Promised Land’.

In 1977 the head office moved to Seattle and the building was closed. The company, now named Holland America Line, continued to transport passengers by ship until 1984, when both the business and the building were put up for sale. The building was sold and it stood empty for ten years. In 1993, Hotel New York opened with its’ beautifully Jugendstil inspired motifs intact.

The following day Linda and Eric took us to the countryside surrounding Rotterdam. We saw many Dutch enjoying the wonderful weather. Bikers and picnic makers could be seen along the dikes that line the river Rhine. The outstanding scenery we viewed is hard to put into words. It’s a mixture of country cottages and calm canals. The terrain is almost surreal, like wandering back in time, to days when things moved at a much slower pace. The stillness and quiet of the beautiful back road drive left me speechless. At one point Eric looked at me and said, “Leah, you are so quiet. It’s really something huh?” And it is, it’s all one on holiday could hope for. It’s serene and wonderful and a place where time just passes by.

We stopped for teatime at a canal side tea house and then shared an Italian dinner in the town where Eric grew up, Gorinchem. After dinner we wandered the streets of his hometown and Eric shared with us stories of his youth. The charm of the town was only enhanced by his tales, and we now felt that we knew what a typical Dutch town looked like.

After two days in Rotterdam, we bid our friends farewell and headed toward Amsterdam. On the way, we stopped in Delft, famous for its distinguishable blue and white Delftware. In Delft we admired the Markt, one of the most stunning squares in the Netherlands, with an ornate 17th century Town Hall and imposing Nieuwe Kerk (New Church) with its over three hundred foot high bell tower.

Before hitting the road for Amsterdam, we stopped for a slice of apple cake at a well known café in Delft, Kobus Koch Café. The eating establishment is situated in the shaded Beestenmarkt, a rustic square that was once home to a sheep and cow trading market.

We spent only two nights in Amsterdam, the capital of the Netherlands. But, we made the most of our time. First, we sampled Indonesian food in the heart of the city. Once a colony of the Dutch, Indonesia has left its’ mark on the gastronomy of the city. After filling up on gado gado (vegetables in peanut sauce) and chicken sateh we walked through cramped alleyways working our way toward the cobweb of canals that wind through the city. Passing over three canals we reached our destination, the Anne Frank House. Best known as the home where Otto Frank and his family hid during the Nazi occupation, the house is where young Anne wrote her diaries.

The museum is a walk through living history, with entries from Anne’s diary posted on the walls of their former house to guide your way. Life has long left this building, but the walk through does give you a glimpse of how Anne, her family, and another family of Jewish friends lived.

After the museum we boarded a canal boat and toured the three canals that slice through the city, and after we disembarked we walked through the much famed ‘Red Light District’ to soak up the grittier side of Amsterdam.

The bright lights of Amsterdam gave way to the southern border town of Maastricht. One of the oldest towns in the Netherlands, Maastricht is sandwiched between Germany and Belgium. The feel of Maastricht is strictly cosmopolitan, and high end shops line the picturesque streets that spread out from the Markt square. Café terraces are all the rage here and holiday makers from the two bordering countries can be heard chatting in their native tongues along the streets.

The campground where we are staying is in a relatively rural area, and I spent the day visiting the nearby village of Eijsden and soaking up the local flavor. In the afternoon I walked the dog in a nature preserve just across the river from the campground. We walked past wild horses and swans on a lush green path bordered by wildflowers. It was another picture perfect day…that is until I came face to face with a naked man on the trail. Instead of enjoying the natural surroundings, he was exploring a more personal area; his anatomy. And so it goes in the life of Leah. The day ended with a statement being given to the police and a heartfelt apology from the authorities that we had, “Two unfortunate encounters with naked people in Holland.”

All said and done, the Netherlands ranks highly on the list of countries visited, second for me only to Switzerland. Tomorrow we are off to Koblenz, Germany.

The short drive to Tallinn presented us with the opportunity to tour all three campgrounds located within the city. This is a luxury, as we are often left with just one choice. In this case, having one choice would probably have been a better option, as the pickings were slim. Our first stop guaranteed us a ‘parking space’ in a lot about two miles from city center. The second stop was near a local landmark, the TV Tower and left a lot to be desired. The restroom facilities looked worse than what I’d expect at a flop house. We only found one camper at that campground, and there’s some debate as to whether the person was an actual ‘camper’. The third option was located at the marina. Sounded promising at first, but turned out to be another parking lot. To make matters worse, the restroom facilities were located in a building far from the lot, and to get to the showers the security guard needed to draw me a map. Our conversation went something like this:

“Now to get to the showers, you’ll need to go here to this building, take the stairs to the second floor, then go left, go down the hall, make a right, then go left again, then you’ll see a door, then you’ll go…” Needless to say, I zoned out after about the third turn direction, and through the entire mapping exercise I was trying to avoid the disturbing smell coming from the man’s mouth. Next he moved on to plotting out a course for me to get to the bathrooms. I politely listened, holding my breath and trying not let any of the exhale he left hanging in the air get into my nostrils. When he started showing me on the map how to get to the chemical toilet, I had to draw the line. I thanked him for his time and told him that we were going to ‘look around’ a bit. I walked to the car and told Andy to, “Get in, we’re going to the first parking lot.” We drove back to the first stop, happy that we had indulged our curiosity and checked out all of the accommodation possibilities.

With four days until our ferry to Helsinki, Finland, we were certain that we would be able to tour Tallinn from end to end. And, that is just what we did. Tallinn proved to be one of the few stops during our travels that have so intrigued us that we visited day after day, without a break.
The city of Tallinn is charming and attractive. A true medieval town, Tallinn comes complete with cobblestone streets, authentic fifteenth and sixteenth century buildings, and restaurant hawkers dressed in traditional period costumes. Yet, the streets leading away from the touristy main square, while still medieval in style, weave through a modern, more hip city.

During our first day of exploring we rode our bicycles to Upper Town and visited the Russian Orthodox Church Alexander Nevsky Cathedral. Built directly opposite Tallinn’s parliament building, the cathedral is a prominent example of the Russification that occurred during the last years of the nineteenth century.

From the cathedral we passed through the Danish King’s Courtyard to the Old Town Wall. A total of nine tower walls remain, with three towers still connected by a covered walkway atop the wall. We climbed the winding staircase and worked our way up to each tower, dank air guiding our way. The towers were filled with the smell one expects a seven hundred year old structure to have, and when we reached the final tower our ascent was halted by a pigeon dive bombing Andy’s head. I’ve never seen Andy run so fast! He came flying down the stairs nearly as quickly as the pigeon, and the flailing arms and head shaking alerted me that our tour of the towers had come to an abrupt close.
We laughed in unison when we reached the street, mine a comedic laugh as I replayed the events and Andy’s a laugh riddled with nervous fear as he scanned the sidewalk for any other renegade pigeons.

On our way back to the campground we stopped at a grocery store to stock up and were surprised at the lack of selection. Shelves were nearly empty and the produce section looked like the final resting grounds for bruised fruit and battered vegetables. Meat and dairy cases were empty and not one baked good to be found. It was only after inquiring with a clerk that we found out the store was in the process of remodeling. For a moment, I thought we had stepped into an old news reel illustrating the plight of the Russian shopper. We settled on a box of milk, a few nectarines, and a bag of chips to hold us over until the next day.

The following day we rode back into the city and visited the Town Hall, a striking building with bell tower erected between 1371 and 1404. I gladly paid the small fee required to climb the tower, making it to the top in record time. A feat I would pay for later, as I spent two days walking like a cowboy who has just spent a week roaming the range on horseback.

In lieu of our recent fruitless outing to the grocery store, we decided to eat out that evening. Tour books and an endless flow of tourists hovering around Old Hansa were the deciding factors in our choice of eating establishment. We had read in our guide book not to be detoured by the slightly campy nature of Old Hansa; waiters and waitresses dressed in medieval garb, candlelit rooms, goblets for beverages the size of pitchers, and restrooms with a true ‘throne’ to seat ones bottom upon.

Instead, we were delighted to find that the gluttonous feast we were served was researched thoroughly and served up a generous portion of real medieval time dining. Our waiter thoughtfully offered to describe each item that lined our plates, and we listened earnestly as he went into great detail about the exotic looking food. The foreign and at the same time tasty results were surprisingly welcome. It was a dining experience known to the nobleman of medieval Tallinn and the traditionally Hanseatic influenced décor and surroundings made you feel as if you had just stepped into an episode of the television show Fantasy Island.

On our third day in Tallinn we decided to drive out of town to Paldiski. Originally a maritime stronghold established by Peter the Great, Paldiski true claim to fame came in 1939 when the town was handed over to the Russians, with town citizens being relocated in the process. Paldiski served as a Russian military base until 1994 and was considered a “closed town”. Surrounded by barbed wire, the town concealed nine Russian military units, ballistic rockets and nuclear warheads, and submarines. A building known as the ‘Soviet Pentagon’ served as a nuclear submarine training center and more than 16,000 soldiers called Paldiski home. The town was off limits to Estonians.

Driving through Paldiski gives one an strange feeling of entering a battleground after the war has been fought. Massive structures lie crumbling along the roadside and barracks appear bombed out. Bunkers loom ominously along the limestone cliffs, and the rare sight of a person strolling is the only indication that life still remains in this tiny town. Apparently two-thirds of the town’s inhabitants are Russian and for their part they occupy a ghost like center of town where decrepit concrete ‘project like’ housing is the only inhabitable shelter. Solemn faces guard those you see on the street and small child with scuffed knees playing what looked like a game of cowboys and Indians by himself was the only evidence that a youth population existed in Paldiski. Our tour was a morbid reminder of how life can be quite literally sucked from the soul of a people in an oppressive society.

Our final day in Tallinn started out rather uneventfully; that is until we realized that one of our bikes had been stolen. We waited three hours for the police to arrive to take a report, and during that time we contemplated whether to purchase a new bike or not. After weighing the pros and cons we decided that while an unexpected and costly expense, working with just one bike wasn’t going to cut it. Andy took a bus to a nearby bike shop while I continued to wait for the police.

I have to say, I think I took this particular stroke of bad luck in stride. Normally, I would obsess on why it had happened to us and what we could have done to prevent the thieves from targeting us. But, this time I was more pragmatic. What would we need to do to fix the problem? Thinking that way saved a lot of time and aggravation, and by noon we were both headed back into town on bikes for our last day of sightseeing. Andy in particular seemed quite content, as he had chosen a more practical touring bicycle this time around, leaving the hard pedaling to the people like me who had been convinced that mountain bikes with their smaller tires and weighty frame were the way to go.

On our final day in Tallinn we got lost on streets we’d rode before, seeing things we’d missed the first time around. We visited the City Museum and learned about the history of Tallinn through artfully crafted exhibits. Later, we stopped at Café Chocolaterie for mochas made with Estonian Kalev chocolate and shared a fresh berry tart. We rode past the Town Council Pharmacy, one of the world’s oldest continuous running pharmacies, serving as an apothecary since at least 1422. We stopped at a trendy bar for what was billed as Tallinn’s best Mojito and were pleasantly surprised with the result. We biked by the US Embassy, an unwelcoming building modified to include a bullet proof security checkpoint hastily attached to the original façade and warning passersby not to try to take any photographs. We left the Old Town and rode to Kadriorg Park, home to the Royal Palace and the recently opened Kumu Museum.

On Thursday’s the Kumu is open late and we wandered the visually stimulating seven floor building with energy, curious as to what lay behind each corner. The outside of the building is itself a piece of art, and we lingered after closing to watch clouds colored with the setting sun reflected in museum windows.

And we closed the day with an amazing sunset, looking across the Gulf of Finland tour our next stop, Helsinki.

If only the day had ended there. Instead, we returned to the campground to find that our new neighbors, a group of four twenty-something teachers from the Netherlands had their car broken into near the port after arriving from Helsinki the night before and had been robbed of their passports, clothing, and anything else the robbers could get their hands on. But, these men had youth and optimism on their side, and seemingly unfazed about the events of the prior evening they spent into the wee hours of the morning talking with us about the environment and world politics. It was refreshing to see young people driven by curiosity and seeking out knowledge about foreign lands, questioning any and all authority that might be about to sell them a bill of goods. Their outlook and perspective gives hope to jaded old souls such as me and lets me sleep a little easier at night, even if it is with one eye open, worried about waking to find yet another item of ours ripped off. But I must say, no theft incurred in Tallinn could have tarnished my image of the city. Tallinn is the jewel in the crown of Eastern Europe.

Early the next morning we boarded a Viking Line ship bound for Helsinki. The short three and a half hour journey provided just the time needed to start and finish the book Nickel and Dimed in America, a haunting non fiction book documenting the real life trials and tribulations of the author as she goes undercover in America’s minimum wage working world. While the book doesn’t make you feel, “Oh, the horror of living on minimum wage”, it does provide an insightful and at times thought provoking look at our system. The author puts forward heartfelt analysis of how people are ‘getting by’ in America and her study makes you wonder how the richest country in the world stands by and allows it’s working poor to be the constant victim of a capitalistic society; through a nearly non-existent medical care program to low income housing options that would stretch the pocketbooks of anyone lucky enough to be considered part of the working middle class.

Andy and I began to discuss the book (he had read it earlier during our trip) and our lively discussion came to a close only when the rocky coastline of fast approaching Helsinki harbor averted our attention. Tiny islands came into view and the similarity to the coastline of Maine is uncanny.

Charming red and yellow wood paneled houses rest on small rock islands, with only the sea’s pounding waves to remind us of their impermanence. Each little island viewed from the deck of the ferry liner offers a glimpse into how the Finnish live, and it isn’t until Helsinki comes into view that the pulse of Finland’s capital can be felt. The imposing Tuomiokirkko Cathedral that occupies Senate Square is a beacon for all ships entering the harbor.

Once dockside, the buzz of the local market can be felt and those disembarking often head right for Kauppatori, the bustling open air market a stone’s throw from where the ferries moor. For the patient and those willing not to let the smells of freshly grilled salmon tempt them, a short distance away the Kauppahalli market hall provides an nineteenth century setting for top-notch eateries.

We spent two days exploring Helsinki. This Scandinavian capital city is a pleasant place to get lost, with all the trappings of a big city elegantly laid out in a waterfront town. The Finnish are renowned designers of functional house wares and stops at the Helsinki Design Museum, the Design Forum, and iittala shops showcased goods that combat ‘throwawayism’. Decadence is left to the grandeur of the Esplanadi, with its tree lined parks dripping with late nineteenth century touches such as ornate fountains and classic trellised gazebos.

Deeper in the city, the grittiness of the urban center is felt with busy streets and a hurried pace. A dizzying array of shopping centers is only broken up by the occasional café or McDonalds (I stopped counting at five). Papers blow by in the streets and Helsinki’s down and out mill about in front of the central train station. Heading back toward the waterfront we stopped at the Stockmann Department Store, Europe’s largest department store. We closed the afternoon with a stop at a street side café in the Kaartin-Kaupunki neighborhood, watching well to do Fin’s leisurely amble by on a Sunday afternoon walk.

From Helsinki we drove to Turku, the former capital of Finland. Turku is situated along the Aura River, and developers maximized the riverfront by lining both sides with promenade like paths.

Turku feels old, but not in the normal sense. Instead of the usual medieval centers with cobblestone streets and crumbling castles, Turku feels rough around the edges, like a city that stopped growing in the 1960’s. Downtown is filled with streets arranged in grid form, with nondescript utilitarian buildings housing maze like shopping centers. The people are a mixture of youthful business types and tattered street people. Turku is a city where the energy is low, almost down to a dull hum; as if once stripped of its’ capital status (it lost the title to Helsinki in 1812) it never recovered from losing the honor.

With tourist guide in hand we wandered the riverfront, an admired the marine vessels that were tethered to the docks. Turku boasts the only remaining three mast wooden boat in the world, and that boat along with military ships and fishing rigs dot the river.

From the river we walked to the Market Square, a somewhat dreary open air market, with stalls weather worn and scattered in no particular order. Kauppahalli on the other hand is a Market Hall housed in a striking hundred year old brick building. Situated just one block from Market Square, Market Hall leaves a lasting impression, with fine woodworked stalls and eye catching displays of fish.

With less than perfect weather afoot, we decided to venture indoors. We visited the Turku Art Museum and viewed an exhibit of art by Alphonse Mucha. A master of Art Nouveau, Mucha’s works are theatrical and sumptuous. His study of the female form and face so complex that it captures detail even a photograph couldn’t provide. We were mesmerized by his work and felt lucky to have caught such an extensive collection housed in one museum.

From the museum we walked to the Tourist Office to find out if there were any local cinemas nearby, an ideal shelter from the ever worsening weather. With three within walking distance, we decided to catch a movie.

Back at the campsite was when I was struck by a rather simple realization; Turku isn’t a place you visit for big city life. Instead, Southwest Finland and the city of Turku is a gateway to the Turku Archipelago, with some 20,000 islands to visit. We are told that Finland is the land of islands, saunas, and the catch of the day. Life on the islands is slow paced and outdoor recreation fills the visitor’s time. Getting outdoors in the land of the midnight sun is the order of the day, and the Finnish take full advantage of the beautifully carved terrain. Lush green tree filled paths end to reveal stunning rocky coastline that beckons the adventurous in for a swim or a sail.

Unfortunately for us, the weather did not bring with it the desire to plunge into the chilly waters, and rain kept us van bound for most of our meals. One meal in particular always seems to get Petey’s begging mode going, and for this particular bacon and egg filled morning he stood at begging attention through the entire meal.

The drive back to Helsinki to catch a ferry to Stockholm, Sweden was filled with views of Finnish farmland and deep red hued barns. We saw many tractors cutting through knee high wheat and even saw one farmer trudging through the field in a horse drawn cart, freshly cut honey colored fields spraying out from behind. It was a lazy country drive, and had we not been on a perfectly paved highway, I would have thought I had stepped back into the 1950’s.

Back in Helsinki the city swelled with tourists making a mad dash to pick up last minute souvenirs before boarding one of the many ferry boats and cruise ships that line the harbor. We skirted all of the hustle and bustle by queuing up early for our ferry. We were first in line, and once on ship we left the confines of our little campervan for the cruise ship like atmosphere onboard. For the amazingly low price of 114 Euro we were able to book passage for two adults, one dog, and one campervan. And, the price included a cabin onboard. We couldn’t have come close to matching that price with the gas we would have required to drive to Sweden. So for one evening, we had all the luxuries of a cruise ship at our disposal. We even participated in and won a trivia contest at the pub onboard. Our prize was two drink coupons and a box of chocolates. Somehow the 114 Euro price just kept getting better and better.

The next morning as we pulled into Stockholm we instantly became entranced by the city. Built on fourteen islands, Stockholm is considered by many to be Scandinavia’s most beautiful capital.

One could easily spend a week or two exploring Sweden’s capital, and the overwhelming number of sights and museums warrants such a lengthy stopover. Some areas of Stockholm have all the commotion of the lively streets of New York City, while others have been painstakingly kept to look as they did in the romantic early 1900’s. The green belts that link Stockholm’s neighborhoods almost all follow the water, and a bike or walk through Stockholm is sure to arouse the senses with extraordinary landscapes unfolding right before your eyes.

Our first day of sightseeing was cut short as we got caught in a torrential downpour that left us soaked through to the bone and pedaling as quickly as possible back to the campground. The next day we ventured out again, taking time to really look at the city. We biked to the Stadshuset, an imposing town hall, built with more than eight million bricks. Inside, the Blue Room is where the Nobel Prize ceremonies are held each year. From this waterside icon we continued on to the more urban area of Norrmalm, a section of the city that feels oddly similar to Manhattan. Heading back toward the water again, we visited the Old Town, Gamla Stan. Cobblestone streets are lined with seventeenth and eighteenth century Renaissance buildings, and the shops and restaurants are touristy.

Day two brought a visit to the Vasa Museum. Housed within the museum walls is a nearly four hundred year old warship that sunk in Stockholm harbor on its’ maiden voyage in 1628.

The Vasa warship was raised almost completely intact in 1961, having been preserved by the harbor’s muddy bottom. The massive ship and its’ contents are on display in the museum and viewing decks provide a birds eye view into the ship. The museum provides a fascinating glimpse of seafaring life in the 1600’s and the exhibits address every question that pops into your head while you gaze at the daunting Vasa.

After the Vasa Museum we rode our bikes to the Nobel Museum, eager to learn what men and women have won the much sought after prize. Surprisingly, the Nobel Museum wasn’t what I expected; a rather simple museum, with a small display on the man himself, Alfred Nobel, and a few plain cabinets displaying belongings from prize recipients. Two rooms show films on a loop that are meant to give you insight into a Nobel prize winner’s mind, but instead leave you itching to get out of the theater due to the low budget production. I’d like to say that the museum simply lacked in luster what the Vasa had, but it really just didn’t cut it, more a lobby exhibit than a museum.

We ended our tour of Stockholm with a visit to the Royal Palace of Drottningholm. Located on Lovon Island, the palace and grounds are a spectacular retreat from the vast expanse that is Stockholm. Absolutely stunning scenery is interrupted only by breathtaking buildings. The Chinese Pavilion, a gift from King Adolf Fredrik to his queen is listed as a UNESCO site, and it was here that the court enjoyed country life. Others that can be found on the grounds include a lavishly decorated guards tent and hand painted Court Theatre. The stop was a perfect close to Stockholm, a royal city that never fails to astound.

Next we are off to Oslo, Norway, land of the Viking.

Leaving the Curonian Spit we had our first encounter with law enforcement. As I drove the narrow, two lane warped road toward the ferry, I noticed a small patrol car hidden behind pine trees. Before the officer could raise his red paddle my foot was reaching for the brakes. I pulled off the road some twenty feet from the officer and watched in the side view mirror as he walked toward the driver side window, eyeing the foreign plates as he approached. I rolled down my window and innocently looked the officer’s way. It became instantly apparent that this would be no usual traffic stop. The officer didn’t speak English and I don’t speak Lithuanian. Exchanged looks were replaced by my handing the officer a small pad and pen. He wrote the numbers sixty and seven five on the pad, pointing with force at the second number. Message received, I was speeding. I apologized profusely and a look of “what do we do next” crossed over both our faces. He looked like he knew he should give me a ticket, but the time involved in the process wasn’t worth the effort. He waved us on with his red paddle and a strong reminder that sixty kilometers was the maximum speed allowed.

With the cruise control set at sixty we began the long drive back to the car ferry. Or so we thought. Unbeknownst to us, we were actually on the road to Kaliningrad. About half a mile from where we were stopped by the patrolman we reached a border crossing. And, for the first time we had reached a border crossing that truly felt like a border crossing. High fences and thick concrete buildings announced the Lithuanian, Russian border. We looked at each other, still not aware of where we were and remarked, “I don’t remember having to go through a gate when we arrived. Do you?” Andy exited the van to ask a woman where we were. Her tearful response assured us that we were on the wrong road. Apparently she was waiting, without much success, for someone to cross from the Russian to the Lithuanian side. I hurriedly turned the van around, drove past the speed trap I had been snared by when driving in the opposite direction (going only sixty this time around), and made my way to the correct road.

During the drive to the car ferry Andy and I talked about some of the more perplexing things we noticed during our stay in Lithuania. People were giants. Men and woman were tall, really tall. Andy, coming in at six feet four was forced to look up at people we passed on the street. Women too seemed heads above. We both knew that many Lithuanians treat the sport of basketball like a form of religion. But, to have both the love of the sport and size needed to be successful at the game is a rare occurrence. Here, it seemed that forces collided and the country was producing an inordinate amount of tall people.

Next, the guide books had listed the water in the Baltic States as ‘unsavory’. Boy was that an understatement. The water flowing from the showers at the campground smelled of eggs, and the drinking water pouring from the taps had a brown tint.

We amused ourselves during the ‘now cruise controlled’ drive with these little tidbits and soon we were on the ferry again. After a quick stop for gas we were on the road heading northeast, toward the Hill of Crosses.

Driving to the Hill of Crosses, Lithuania’s countryside revealed wheat colored fields, old tractors lumbering along potholed roads and women wearing sun brimmed hats riding bicycles with baskets of wildflowers attached. I was reminded of driving through South Dakota, only the lackluster sky reminding me of our whereabouts. Most of our stay in Lithuania was greeted with grey, drab skies, and this drive was no exception.

When we reached the Hill of Crosses it was instantly apparent why this stop is high on the list of Lithuania’s ‘must sees’. As you approach the parking lot to this famous pilgrimage sight, a sea of crosses appears before you. All at once, a tangle of wood and land lays before you, with crosses the only common theme.

Depending on whose history you believe, the Hill of Crosses was either begun as a father’s desperate bid to cure his ill daughter, or as a memorial to warriors lost during a great battle. Stories of a pagan ritual site also abound. Regardless of its origin, the Hill of Crosses can be traced back to the fourteenth century. More recent history reminds us of how Communist Russia bulldozed the hill at least three times; an effort to stop pilgrims and locals from demonstrating their displeasure with the powers that made placing crosses on the hill an arrestable offense.

From a mound covered with 2000 crosses pre-independence to at last count over 400,000, the Hill of Crosses illustrates mans perseverance and above all else, mans faith. A visit in 1993 by Pope John Paul II made the Hill of Crosses famous the world over, and now license plates from all over the European Union (and one California camping van) can be seen on any given day throughout the parking lot.

The area once known as the ‘mound’ now encompasses a much larger land area. Crosses spill off the mound into a sea of faith inspired icons, spreading toward a recently built monastery and encroaching on adjoining farmland. These symbols of faith bear names of those who have passed, the needy, the ill and even victims of 9/11. Wooden platforms and dirt paths wind through the crosses, giving the curious a closer look at what inspired each cross. Hours or days spent meandering through the Hill of Crosses would not provide the time needed to read each cross. Instead, time is better spent wandering along the paths stopping to look at crosses that catch the eye.

From the Hill of Crosses we set a direct course for the Latvian border. We stopped at border store to spend the last of our Lithuanian Litas. Many of the small stores in former Soviet occupied nations provide a glimpse of what it must have been like to shop back in the pre-independence days. Selection is limited and most of the food is displayed behind a counter, with the assistance of a clerk needed to select and pay for the items. It’s an eerie reminder of how government policy dictated the public’s access.

When we approached the border crossing we had all our paperwork in hand. The border agent bore a striking resemblance to Saddam Hussein, and it was instantly apparent that this crossing was going to take some time. While he inspected our documents we could see two young agents inside the small booth playing computer solitaire on a pc that appeared to be from the late 80’s. After spending what seemed an eternity leafing through our passports, the agent handed our documents over to the young agent (think of the movie ‘Clerks’). The youthful agent took us our paperwork into the booth and we could hear laughing and broken English coming from inside. “Official document” we heard the young man saying, stifling giggles. After a few minutes the agent emerged from the booth and pointing at our vehicle registration stated that he had never seen paperwork that looked like that. He asked for more ‘substantial’ vehicle papers, as demonstrated by him miming a larger piece of paper. We provided a copy of our vehicle title stating the original was back in the safe, and he disappeared again. Within a few minutes he returned, our papers in hand and waved us through the border.

Latvia’s road proved just as bad as Lithuania’s, and we headed straight for the capital, Riga. As Riga’s skyline came into view, I for the first time had a vision of the states. It’s strange I know, but Riga reminded me a little of Boston. We approached from the river side and three bridges cross into the center of the city, with varied architecture on display. Old buildings stand next to shiny glass business offices, streets heavy with traffic crawl along the waterfront road, and the pulse of the city is busy.

After a failed attempt to find the city campground we crossed back over a bridge to find signs clearly marking where the campground lies, not a mile from the city. We settled in at the campground, which resembled a parking lot more than it did a campground. That evening was spent highlighting guide books as we planned our ‘invasion’ of the city the next day.

The following morning we loaded Petey into his trailer, mounted our bikes and drove the quick ten minute ride to city center. Along the way, as we were crossing the bridge Andy spotted yet another anti-Bush piece of art (notice I am no longer referring to them as graffiti?).

Arriving in Riga we went to the tourist office and picked up a walking guide to the city. My goal was to see as many of the art deco buildings as possible, and Andy was looking for a café to sample Latvian dumplings. On this particular day, we were both in luck.

Full of rich history and striking design, Riga has all the flavor of a big city steeped in Latvian culture. It’s a gem of a city, crowned by the aptly named Freedom Monument that rests smack dab in the middle of Riga’s greenbelt.

We walked through the Old Town, stopping in popular Liv Square to sample dumplings of three separate varieties. Much of the Old Town has been rebuilt to look as it did in the fifteenth through seventeenth centuries, and famous landmarks (such as the Town Square originally built in 1334) were rebuilt after being reduced to rubble during World War II. Some famous landmarks have been rebuilt as many as three times, reminders of Latvia’s turbulent and war torn past.

Passing by the guarded Freedom Monument (guards change on the hour from sunrise to sunset), we strolled through a stunning city park, where locals and tourists enjoyed the warm sunny weather. A small canal winds through the park, with pedal boats and rowboats making their way slowly along the water. Scattered throughout the park are polished marble stones, memorials to five people who were killed when Soviet Special Forces stormed the nearby Interior Ministry on January 20, 1991 eager to demonstrate their displeasure with Latvia’s recent moves toward independence.

North of the park in New Riga we visited Elizabetes Street, a small street famous for the Art Nouveau buildings that adorn it. Looking down, you miss all that makes Riga’s romantic style rich. Lift your head, and you are welcomed into an art world of facades, brilliant and profound.

Back in the Old Riga we wandered along the route outlined in our walking guide, taking occasional breaks to rest our tiring legs. We ended the day by riding our bikes through what is probably the largest market we have seen in Europe. The Central Market, dating back to the town’s founding in 1201 can now be found across from the train station (originally the market was located closer to the popular river trade routes). Housed in five enormous Zeppelin hangars, the Central Market is like a food and flea market super sized. Stalls spill out onto the streets and engulf neighboring streets. It’s a maze of shacks and umbrella covered stands that overwhelm the senses. Russian can be heard throughout the market, owing to the fact that 43.7% of the capital is Russian. It’s a people watcher’s dream.

We closed the day with a few beers back at the campground. Just as we were planning to head into the van for a night of ‘must see tv’, courtesy of our small dvd collection, we were approached by a gregarious and some might say obnoxious Swiss fellow. Well, that’s not exactly accurate. He had Swiss plates and has lived in Switzerland for most of his life, but ethnically he is German. His name escapes me now, it was Umondo or Umongous, or Andy thought maybe Humongous. For the purpose of this writing we’ll just call him ‘Bearded Man’, for the lengthy, shaggy hair that covered his face.

Bearded man pulled into the campground as the sun was making its’ daily slip out of the sky. He drove by our site, eyeing our van. After checking in at reception he walked not back to his car (as one usually does), but toward us. Halfway across the street he could be heard asking, “Is that two lazy Americans sitting there drinking beer?” Stunned, Andy and I looked at each other in disbelief. Next thing we knew, Bearded Man had sidled up to us and invited himself over for drinks. He brought a bottle of Four Roses Kentucky Bourbon and a chair and plopped himself down in our site as if we had known him for years. The next few hours were spent hearing all about Bearded Man’s travels, his soon to be ex-wife, and his disdain for politics. Probably one of the most interesting meetings of our trip, not soon will it leave my memory.

For a break from big city touring we headed next to Gauja Park. Latvia’s first National Park, Gauja is filled with colorful flora, crumbling castles, and too many pine trees to count. We only spent one night in the park, as the facilities left much to be desired. And, the water flowing from the taps actually surpassed the foulness of the water in Lithuania, leaving a scummy brown film on all our dishes.

We criss-crossed our way through the park, driving into the Gauja Valley bound for the town of Cesis. Cesis is known as a true ‘Latvian Town’. To us, Cesis looked somewhat like a Gold Rush town, the wide streets lined with wood and stone paneled buildings. Cesis is quaint and charming, as yet unspoiled by tourism. Storefronts are not yet strewn with souvenir items, and locals can be seen ducking into the local apothecary or café.

While in Cesis we visited a castle left for ruins in a local park and walked through an outdoor market where the lack of vendor booths left one wondering, “Is this really all there is to the city market?”

We tried in vain to find an entrance to the oldest brewery in Latvia, relegated to looking at the remains of the place from the far side of a chain link fence.

Even though it lacked in tourist driven sites, Cesis provided us with a glimpse of how Latvians go about their everyday business. We bought a toaster at a small electronics store for about nine dollars (I can’t tell you how much we have been craving toast lately). We exchanged Latvian Lats for Estonian Kroons at a local bank, and eyed the fare at a local café. It was noticeably like a Saturday at home, running errands in town. This stop, more than any other made us feel like people are pretty much the same wherever you go.

We left Cesis by mid afternoon. Andy made sandwiches while I drove and we drove until the road ended, literally. As we were making our way to the Estonian border suddenly the paved road dropped off, leaving us in a cloud of dust. After checking with a local who assured us we were on the right road, we plugged along on the rocky, dusty path for another fifteen miles, until we reached the border.

The border as it were, consisted of a wooden barrier across the road, with a small cabin of to the side. Not a soul was in sight. We waited, and after a few moments a brusque guard appeared and asked for our papers. He sifted through our documents for quite some time before attempting to converse with us. We labored to understand his English and he didn’t appear interested in our responses. Confusion set in and suddenly we were gathering more ‘original’ documents for our ‘friendly’ border agent. He disappeared into the cabin with our paperwork and when we saw him next he was handing us our documents saying, “I give you all papers”. Yes, he did return all of our papers to us, without the flashy red folder we had handed them to him in. Quick to weigh the option of questioning the agent as to the whereabouts of our nifty folder, or just take the loss and make a clean break across the border, we opted for the latter.

First stop in Estonia was the resort town of Parnu. Not like the traditional resort towns we are accustomed to back home, Parnu feels more like a quiet beach town. The beach is filled with bronzing bodies laying on white sand, with the Gulf of Riga the backdrop. Apparently Parnu is where Estonian’s visit for some much needed rest and relaxation. Mud baths are the spa service of choice and chic bars border the lovely new paved promenade that follows the coastline. Crossing through parklands from the beach one reaches the small town center of Parnu, its’ streets easily walked in ten minutes time.

We spent most of our time in Parnu at the campground, an ideal spot next to the Parnu River Estuary. We watched a film about 9/11 we downloaded from Google and read about our next stop, the capital Tallinn. And, one evening we walked through a weekend carnival, a reminder that the Baltics have quickly grasped western culture with a zest long ago lost in the states.

Tomorrow, we’re off to Tallinn.

Arriving in Dresden, the landscape hadn’t changed much. The countryside that we had been weaving through to reach our destination dropped off to reveal the bland, less than dynamic suburbs of Dresden.

At the campground we again realized how small the globe truly is when our neighbors turned out to be from Elk Grove. Our shock at their geographic closeness to where we live was only surpassed by the disbelief felt when we found out that the father of our neighbor ran the union Andy belongs to in San Francisco. “Small world” comments were exchanged all around, and we spent the better part of an hour talking with the fellow Californian’s about their travels.

In the morning we drove into central Dresden to visit the Zwinger Museum. Originally built as a royal palace, the Zwinger now houses fine art and scientific treasures. A sight to see, the buildings were actually rebuilt to their former glory after being carpet bombed at the end of the Second World War. We decided to focus our visit on the Mathematics and Physics Salon, where numerous globes, telescopes, and clocks are housed.

Andy and I were so entranced by the items on exhibit that we decided to spend the small amount needed to secure an audio guide. After donning our headphones we parted, each choosing our own path through the museum.

Dresden was meant to be a quick stop on out way to Poland, and within a few hours of visiting the museum we had crossed the Polish border. We drove for many hours that day, ending our journey in the town of Oswiecim, more commonly known as Auschwitz.

It has long been a goal of mine to visit the concentration camps of Eastern Europe. I don’t know if ‘goal’ is the right word, but I have always felt strongly that I should visit the site of the Auschwitz concentration camp and pay my respects. Our visit to Terezin only intensified this feeling.

Pulling off the main highway and onto the national country road that leads to Auschwitz is a strange experience. While the countryside doesn’t change much, the flavor of the towns do. Poland in general appears to have a deeply depressed economy, and the cities and towns reflect that. But, driving to Auschwitz felt different. My judgment may have been clouded by the impending visit, but I can say without hesitation that the feeling was post war gloominess. City outlines were grey and the people walking through the streets seemed somber at best. A tremendous hazy sky was splintered by bright pink and orange sun rays, the only sign that civilization is not so bleak.

We were astounded as we pulled in to the town of Oswiecim. Camping in town is relegated to one of two parking lots. Both charge a flat fee for a 24 hour stay, and we pulled into the lot exhausted from a long day of driving. We walked across the street from the lot to the museum and read all of the outdoor displays. After checking for the museum opening time we went back to the van to get a good nights’ sleep before what we predicted would be an emotionally and physically exhausting day. I had a restless sleep that night, the sounds of trains passing on nearby tracks an eerie reminder of where we were.

At 8:00 a.m. the next morning we walked to the State Museum in Oswiecim, the actual site of Auschwitz. The entire camp grounds have been turned into the museum and one can stroll the grounds freely. For the most part intact, Auschwitz looks like an old military base that has been preserved in time. Originally established as barracks for the Polish military, the Nazi’s took over the grounds in 1940 to house Polish prisoners. Numerous barracks remain, and when one enters the property it’s hard to imagine the horrific crimes that were perpetrated within its’ gates. However, one need only look at a grounds map or enter one of the buildings to be reminded of what took place here between 1940 and 1945.

Many of the buildings display items taken from victims as they arrived, shoes, suitcases, dishes. Mounds and mounds of possessions rest in perpetuity behind glass walls. Too many shoes to count, too many hairbrushes and combs to take in, too many suitcases to comprehend. And, a wall of hair shaved from the heads of the victims brings visions of lambs being led to sheering before slaughter. It’s all too real, and at the same time incomprehensible.

We later found out that the hair taken from prisoners (which included all body hair) was sold by the Nazi’s to factories in the Reich to be used for haircloth used by tailors to line clothing. Hair was removed not only from live victims, but also from the carcasses of those gassed in the gas chambers. Forensic studies conducted on samples retrieved from bales of haircloth found in the Reich showed trace levels of a type of cyanide consistent with a compound being used at the camp.

Walking toward the site where executions took place it was hard not to notice the boarded up windows of the block where medical and sterilization experimentation occurred on women. Looking up at a second floor window frame I quickly averted my gaze, only to be drawn to the window again, with a weighted sole feeling numb from the pain and horror I imagined took place in that building.

From the so called ‘Death Block’ we walked through several of the barracks containing National exhibits put together by nations eager to keep alive the memory of those of their citizenry persecuted in the camp. Then, we made our final stop at the provisional gas chamber and crematoria, where the Nazi’s first tested the use of gas on 600 Soviet prisoners of war and 250 infirmed prisoners in 1941.

After touring Auschwitz we walked back to the parking lot, packed the van and drove to Birkenau. Situated not five minutes from Auschwitz, Birkenau is less visited than Auschwitz, but where most of the mass killings took place. The moment our van crested the small overpass that leads from one site to the other our collective gasps assured us that we were staring down at a concentration camp. Unlike Auschwitz, Birkenau was a massive undertaking, a city of death. Set on over 400 acres, with more than seven miles of fence, Birkenau was the last stop for over 1.1 million Jews.

When you enter the gates of Birkenau, your eye is instantly drawn to the railway track that carves its’ way through the center of camp. Only after absorbing this does one look to the standing structures and the crumbled remains of 300 buildings. The grid like pattern of the camp appears calculated and demonstrates the Nazi’s need and ability to keep prisoners from communicating with each other; communicating the fate of those pulling into the camp by train who were not ‘lucky’ enough to be unloaded from the train at the ‘selection platform’. For those individuals were railed straight to the gas chambers at the back of the camp, told they were the ‘lucky’ ones and would be allowed to bathe before entering the camp. They were systematically exterminated. Literally railed to their deaths.

Under the burning sun we walked the entire camp. We saw barracks with three tiered bunks crowded from wall to wall in the women’s camp, viewed a small covered piled of silverware that remained where warehouses once stood housing possessions collected from victims (the Nazi’s later burned these buildings in an attempt to cover their crimes), and stared mouth agape at the collapsed ruins of the gas chambers and crematorium.

I told Andy that I needed to see one more place. A small pond where the ashes of those exterminated at Birkenau lies in an area of greenery, an anomaly amongst the cold ruins of the camp. I wanted to see the pond, to see first hand the gruesomeness of the crime, and to place a stone at the foot of the pond, showing my respect for the dead. On the map I spotted where the pond was and began trudging the overgrown weeds to get to it. As I approached the pond, still some fifty feet away, I noticed small spots of green moving all around my feet. Upon closer inspection I saw that the green items were actually little green frogs, hundreds of them. The frogs danced all round my feet, leaping in the direction of the pond. When I reached the waters edge frogs jumped into the pond, while others continued to hop along the perimeter of the pond. I know it sounds strange, but it seemed as if the frogs were there to welcome me, to thank me for visiting and remembering, and most of all for paying my respects. Instead of being a truly sorrowful experience, it was a fulfilling moment. I placed a small stone on a branch protruding from the pond and backed away as quickly as I had approached, a parade of frogs guiding me.

We left Birkenau changed people. We left disillusioned with humanity and discussing world peace. We left talking of the magnitude of the maniacal behavior exhibited by the captors and the totally disregard for life displayed. Most of all we left with diminished spirit.

Before leaving the town of Oswiecim we stopped in the actual town center at The Auschwitz Jewish Center. A center dedicated to the history of the town’s Jews and the Synagogue, it is interestingly enough funded in part by our own State Department and staffed by several young Americans. I looked at the photography exhibit displaying Jews during the early 1900’s, alive with love for the arts and community. To bear witness through photography to the pre-Holocaust town forever shaped how I will remember my visit to Auschwitz. The bustling streets, New Year’s parties and town markets featured in the photos so starkly contrasted with the death camps I had walked that day, that disbelief once again entered my mind. There was no way this could have happened, right? Maybe that’s what people who don’t think the Holocaust happened believe, even when faced with evidence to the contrary. That is why we must forever preserve the memory of those murdered; we must continue to face history.

From Auschwitz we drove to Krakow and were uninspired by the city. Even the popular town square, with a chain link fence snaking around Cloth Hall was unimpressive.

Krakow to Warsaw was a lengthy drive, where the landscape still continued to lack any stimulating design. Warsaw was worse. The city is riddled with thick black exhaust and grey concrete structures are boxlike and unorganized. The few striking buildings, and I do mean few, can be observed while driving through the city. We decided not to stop and continued on to the so called ‘Lake District of Poland.

Pulling into the lake area (Poland touts being the land of lakes, with over 9000 in all), it was too late to find a campground. We slept in a parking lot. The next morning we took in another grey sky and decided it was time to move on to Lithuania. We had just one more stop to make. We drove to the ‘Wolf’s Lair’, one of Hitler’s hideaways. A densely forested area of bunkers, the hidden military headquarters was built for an offensive against the Soviet Union in 1941. Site of an assassination attempt on Hitler, the Wolf’s Lair was visited many times by Hitler and his many guests, including Mussolini. An airstrip, hotel, and fortified bunkers litter the forest, and what remains today is crumbling concrete. Yet, the setting is strangely scenic. The forest drips with lush green foliage. Tall trees provide a natural shelter from the elements and you weave through damp forest on a picturesque path.

Oddly enough another frog reference comes in here. As you walk through the forest along the trail that leads to all of the bunker ruins, tiny brown frogs frantically criss-cross the path. Frogs scramble around, appearing to seek shelter from being squashed. Their movements are erratic and they leap in all directions. Some hop into the forest, others jump into small well camouflaged crevices on the trail. I couldn’t help but think that these brown frogs, with their hasty movements were a sign. Maybe they were the reincarnation of Nazi SS Officers, forever punished to roam the forest, a kind of purgatory to pay for their sins. It was so striking to me. First the frogs at Auschwitz, now the frogs at Hitler’s lair. I’m not usually one for signs, but the coincidence was too glaring to overlook.

By mid afternoon we passed through the Lithuanian border, making our way to the capital of Vilnius. We camped just outside the capital on Lake Galve, across from the village of Trakai.
Our first day of sightseeing was filled with the many flavors of Lithuania. But before our walking tour began, our eyes caught the site of yet another anti-Bush graffiti effort.

We visited three very distinct areas of the capital. First, we wandered through the Jewish Quarter and Ghettos. The neighborhoods that make up the quarter are lined with apartment topped storefront buildings. We ducked into the lobby of a building being renovated to take shelter from a downpour and were surprised when we saw the remains of an old building exterior preserved inside.

Apparently the redevelopment efforts have sparked some controversy, with one member of Parliament being particularly outspoken about his opposition. While many feel the reconstruction amounts to a tribute and ‘resurrection of lost culture’, MP Vytautas Sustauskas remarked that Lithuania would, “Be turned into slaves of the Jews.” His remarks ignited simmering anti-Semitic feelings and that mindset, coupled with the rising value of the land being developed has made the old ghetto area a hot topic.

We also saw the only remaining synagogue in Vilnius. Once regarded as the ‘Jerusalem of the North, Vilnius was at one time home to some 100 synagogues. The synagogue, built in 1894, survived only because the Nazi’s used it as a medical store.

By midday hunger had begun its’ ugly creep, and we ducked into a famous tea house to reenergize. The Skonis ir Kvapas specializes in teas from around the world, and the scrumptious desserts that accompany the liquid libation are an added treat.

From the ghetto we visited the Parliament area, known as Gedimino Prospektas. The streets that dissects the area is a wide, newly redeveloped promenade, with high end stores and the Small Theatre of Vilnius, where a striking sculpture caps its’ entry.

This area is also home to the KGB (or Genocide Museum), housed in the now Court of Appeals building. The building is an imposing structure, with stones engraved with the names of those tortured inside by the KGB lining the façade.

Lastly, we visited the very touristy area near Cathedral Square. Heavy restoration efforts and a sterile Old Town quarter make the area lack luster and we quickly returned to the van for the ride back to the campground.

That evening we took a paddle boat out on the lake and admired Trakai’s Peninsula Castle. We paddled away as the sun set on the lake, only the lights of a restaurant to guide us back to our campground.

As we left the next morning we stopped at the Paneriai Forest. Nazi’s marched more than 100,000 people (at least 75,00 of whom were Jewish) to their death in this forest. Starting in Vilnius, Jews and others persecuted by the Nazi’s walked with armed guard accompaniment to the forest, only to be shot in the head and dumped into mass graves. According to historical literature, Lithuanian accomplices did as much of the killings as the Einsatzkommando 9, an SS killing unit.

To get to the memorial site you walk along a nearly deserted road, empty except for a handful of ramshackle houses that sit across from busy railroad tracks. A little over a half mile down the road you come to a parking lot where a huge stone structure announces the entrance into the memorial grounds. From there you follow a paved trail as it winds it way through the forest, with intersecting paths leading to grassed over pits. Each pit is marked by a memorial, some describing in Lithuanian what occurred at the site.

After a slow and thought filled walk back to the van we left Vilnius and drove toward the Baltic Sea. Our destination was the Curonian Spit, a thin strip of sandy land that is bordered on one side by the Baltic and the other the Curonian Lagoon. We boarded a ferry for the short five minute crossing and then drove almost twenty-five miles toward the town of Nida, the most famous of the fishing villages on the Spit.

The campground is a short ten minute walk to the famous dunes of the spit. Dubbed the ‘Sahara of Lithuania’, the Parnidis Dune offer a view of nearby Kaliningrad, Russia. Mother nature will eventually have her way with the spit, as the dunes drift into the sea at an alarming three plus feet per year. Fourteen villages have been swallowed in the last three centuries, and tourists romping through the dunes could quickly make that number grow.

From the dunes we walked into town and admired the handsome fishing cottages that border the harbor. Brightly painted and complete with thatched roofs, the homes are a throwback to a bygone era.

Weathervanes dot the tiny village, and are actively sought by tourists as a keepsake and photo opportunity. The weathervanes were used to identify fishing boats and later became the known address for the homes of the town’s inhabitants. They are colorful and intricate, each work a piece of art.

Back at the campground we settled in for a night of reading and writing. We are eagerly reading about our next stops. Tomorrow we will make one last stop in Lithuania at the Hill of Crosses, and then our ‘Capital Connection’ continues when we drive to Riga, Latvia.

Waiting out the camera repair proved lengthy. We camped in Eschenz, a small Swiss village near the German border. Our campsite was on a plateau overlooking Lake Constance, near where the river Rhine feeds the lake. Our wait lasted five days, and we had five days of absolutely spectacular weather. Each night, as the town bell towers struck midnight, we waited and watched as an enormous blood orange moon crested the hills, casting a tremendous glow across the lake. For the most part we stayed at our site relishing the view. At one point a British couple moved in next to us. We shared an evening of wine and conversation of our travels. Also, our neighbor was kind enough to share a copy of Microsoft’s Autoroute for the laptop, assisting Andy and I with mapping out our travels on the computer. The timing was perfect, as our atlas has begun to show some wear, literally tearing free from its’ binding.

Every day we called the Olympus headquarters to find out if our camera was ready, and each day Herr Hartman told us it would be ready the next day. Finally, bright and early on July 19 we drove to pick up the camera.

From Olympus we drove to the Austrian border. It was here that we experienced our first border stop in Europe. The border official asked for our passports and green insurance card. I was actually kind of excited to show the small green piece of paper. We had to pay quite a bit of money for our international auto insurance policy, and to date not one person has asked to see it. We were waved across the border quickly and drove to the lakeside village of Hallstat.

Temperatures in Hallstat hovered in the high nineties. The heat was sweltering and we decided a visit to the Dachstein Giant Ice Cave was in order. Our only mistake was that we decided to ride our bikes to the aerial cable lift. We packed Petey into his trailer and began what we thought would be a short three mile bike ride from the campground to the lift. We had been told by the campground owner that the short ride was mostly flat, with only the last half mile a bit of a climb. That small climb turned into switchback after switchback, and each corner brought a new groan (from both mouth and body) as we looked up the road at the remainder of the climb. We made several stops, red faced and out of breath, and looking for a small patch of shade to shield us from the scathing sun. After what seemed like an eternity we rounded the last bend and arrived at the Dachstein lift.

We boarded the cable car and were rapidly whisked up the Schonbergalpe mountain, where an even more intense hike awaited us. Once you sign up for the cave tour at the gondola exit, you must rapidly make your way along a steep trail to the cave entrance. Sweat pouring from our brows we did our best to try to keep Petey cool by pouring water on his back, the view from the mountain and the door to the cave were our only impetus to continue the trek.

At the top of the trail we waited as a digital clock ticked away the minutes until our guided tour began. We quickly gobbled up two of the nectarines we had packed for our planned ‘leisurely’ lunch and then we saw a guide prop open the door to the cave. Within seconds of entering the ice cave the temperature dropped from ninety plus to thirty two. Andy and I quickly donned warmer clothing and within a few minutes decided that it was time to put Petey’s coat on too. To go from the sweltering heat to such chilly cold air was a shock to the system.

Inside, a system of tunnels is walked through to reach the extensive ice cave. Steps bring visitors into the many viewing areas, with names like King Arthur’s Cathedral, Grail Castle, and Ice Palace.

During the tour we climbed up and down narrow platforms and viewed tremendous blocks of ice that looked as if wide rivers had frozen in place. Ice spires and jagged ice in the shape of daggers loom at every corner. Throughout the year temperatures fluctuate throughout the cave, with the highest shift occurring near cave openings. Yet, the increase of ice in the winter months still exceeds the loss of ice during the summer months. While in the cave one traverses altitude differences of as much as two hundred feet, so by the time the tour finished, we were looking forward to boarding the cable car back to the Dachstein Banhoff.

After a quick downhill ride back to Hallstat Andy and I decided to take a dip in the lake. Our camping neighbors had warned us that the lake was ‘glacier’ cold, but we were willing to risk it. We both enjoyed the swim. The water temperature was warmest near the surface, with only your lower extremities feeling the frigid water beneath. But for our aching calves, it seemed the perfect prescription for muscle pain relief.

Later we toured the tiny town of Hallstat on bicycle. The homes and restaurants that border the lake are literally perched at waters edge. The dollhouse style architecture makes the town visibly appealing, while the vibe is funky. Seeing Hallstat and the towns that led up to our stop led me to say that Austria feels like a morphing of Switzerland and Berkeley. Strange, but true.

The following day we drove around the mountain range that had been our backdrop while in Hallstat. The limestone mountains are dramatic and appear to flow a river of rock from impressive top peaks to wide, colossal base.

Bound for Slovenia we entered onto the freeway only to be stopped some thirty minutes later. What we thought was routine weekend traffic turned out to be one of the worst delays of our travels. Apparently one of the tunnels we needed to pass through to get to Slovenia has a history of accidents, so traffic entering the tunnel is monitored. On this particular day, another accident had taken place. We sat on the freeway for over three hours. It seemed everyone was in the know but us. As soon as the cars came to a stop travelers pulled out chaise lounge chairs and coolers with snacks to wait out the delay. I even saw a woman lying on the freeway pavement sunbathing in a bikini! Andy and I passed the time playing gin and snacking on food from the pantry. With temperatures at an all time high we were glad to be in a campervan, having a cooling fan and ice cubes at our disposal.

By mid afternoon boredom and irritation set in and Andy decided that the traffic delay was a sign that we shouldn’t head south as we had planned. After much discussion and a little arguing we changed course and drove to Graz, Austria.

Graz proved to be a pleasant detour. First, the campground was situated adjacent to a huge waterpark. But, this was no traditional waterpark. Instead, the swimming pool at the campground was designed to look like a lake, complete with a loose stone bottom. It was the largest swimming pool we have ever seen, and the strangest too. The entire pool was fashioned out of stainless steel, with the smooth rounded stones making up the floor. The temperature was warm and we swam the night and next day away, happy to be far from the heat absorbing black tarmac of the highway.

We chose to walk the Old Town of Graz on a Sunday, when tourists would be at a minimum. Graz was listed as Europe’s City of Culture for 2003 and is Austria’s second largest city. Not surprisingly though, the Old Town is manageable by foot and makes for an enjoyable mid afternoon stroll. The brightly colored building facades draw the eye upward toward the towering buildings. Small boutiques and lively cafes fill the streets and alleys that maze through the Old Town. Speaking of alleys, anti-Bush sentiments are alive and well in Graz, as evidenced by the graffiti I found in an alleyway near the town hall.

After exploring the streets of the older region we crossed the river by bridge, stopping to admire Murinsel, the Island in the Mur. Touted as a new landmark of Graz and designed by New York artist Vito Acconci, the Murinsel is a meeting place resting in the river. Intended to look like a giant open mussel shell, the Murinsel is connected to the two shores of the river by narrow plank like walkways. The entire ‘sculpture’ is crafted from metal and is in stark contrast to the muddy, murky waters that flow beneath. Apparently a night viewing of the Murinsel is ideal, as the nightclub housed within radiates with ethereal lighting that brings the structure to life.

From the river we walked through Sackstrasse, a mile of art and antique dealers. Andy and I window shopped, gazing through the cluttered windows at war memorabilia and art deco lighting. Our budget and lack of space kept us from purchasing two boldly shaped art deco lamps.

Having now altered our plans to leave Croatia for another trip, we did decide to drive the three hours necessary to see Ljubljana, Slovenia. The capital of Slovenia, Ljubljana is a mesmerizing city, where the average age is a young thirty.

We arrived at the campground in Ljubljana relatively early in the day and were struck when we found out our neighbors were from San Francisco. Cliff and Sandy have been on the road for sixteen years. Yes, you read that right. The extremely liberal, free thinking, anti-war, couple left California in 1990 bound for a life on the road in Europe. They lived in the city for many years, later moving to Fairfax. Cliff retired at 42 after spending years managing pizza parlors and he and Sandy sold their house, invested the money and began their travels. They are traveling in a 1980 Volkswagen van they shipped over from the states. They have never used electricity while on the road, and don’t use a fridge. Sixteen years without a refrigerator…can you imagine?

Their van is still registered in Oregon, and through some creative networking they have managed to get their mail and essentials forwarded to them on the road. They do go to Washington, to the San Juan islands, every other year. Not completely free of their peaceful protest nature, they organize anti-war events or champion other causes close to their hearts when back in the states.

During the winter months Sandy and Cliff leave the road life, bound for warm climates. For many years they have wintered on Hydra, a Greek island near the Peloponnese. They told us many stories of their adventures, one of which included a time when they almost bought land in Norway during a stopover there. The price was right, but the fact that for two months in the winter the sun wouldn’t make an appearance left them rethinking their new home choice.

Our first day of scheduled sightseeing was delayed by a day filled with politically minded reading. Our peace minded anti-war activist neighbors provided us with several books that immediately peaked our interest and had us diving into the bindings. All totaled, Cliff and Sandy have a collection of over two hundred books in their van. Titles such as
‘Public Power In the Age of Empire’ and ‘War On Iraq What Team Bush Doesn’t Want you To Know’ as well as numerous essays by Noam Chomsky filled our day. We were reminded what prompted our trip in the first place, and recent news of events in Lebanon left us wondering if world peace will ever be an option.

The next day was a hot one. We packed ourselves and a muzzled Petey onto a city bus and headed for Ljubljana’s town center. We got off the bus at Tivoli Park and crossed the sprawling urban park bound for the Old Town.

The buildings that line the Old Town have both a Mediterranean and Baroque style and the town exerts a natural beauty not often felt in city’s of its’ size.

A huge daily general market lines the riverside pedestrianized street and we took advantage of the colorful awnings that shaded each stall, looking at tourist souvenirs and fresh produce stalls, a welcome respite from the burning sun.

We strolled both sides of the river, crossing the famous dragon bridge to reach the nineteenth century quarter, where most of the city’s museums are housed.

After getting our bearings in town center we hiked the steep hills climbing to the castle in the late afternoon. The castle now houses art exhibitions and nightly outdoor cinema events, and not much else unless you are willing to part with some cash to go up to the viewing tower. Supposedly the viewing tower affords spectacular views of the city. We would have been happy donors, had the viewing deck allowed dogs. Instead, we carefully navigated the steep grade back to the Old Town and caught a bus back to the campground. After a dip in the strangely ‘Las Vegas’ like swimming pool (and I use the term pool loosely here, it was more like a bar and night club dropped into a swimming grotto), we ate dinner and looked at the atlas, trying to plan our next stop.

We decided that the heat made southern travel unappealing and chose to focus our future travels on Northern, Eastern Europe. We looked at Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia, and all looked promising. By now, we were getting used to the fact that even some European Union countries were not yet totally on the Euro, so traveling to lands that required multiple currencies might not be such a hassle after all.

From Ljubljana we drove north, crossing the Austrian border and continuing until we reached the Czech Republic. At the border crossing into Austria was the first time we have had to actually hand over passports and stop and wait as our information was processed. The border agent eyed us suspiciously, especially Andy as his passport photo is incredibly grainy and dark. After a few minutes the agent stamped our passports, the first time they have been stamped in over a year of travel and let us through. We were beginning to realize that maybe the European Union’s borders were not as open as we had been led to believe. All through France, Portugal, and Spain we had never encountered an actual border crossing. Usually, a small sign on a bridge or the side of the road was the only indicator that we had passed from one country to another. Now, when we cross from country to country we reach a border maintained by the military, with checkpoints still in place. So much for ‘open borders’.

Crossing into the Czech Republic we were again stopped and passports stamped. Andy was most amused, as our passports began to look like the world travelers we felt we had grown to become. A short detour to a town recommended by Cliff and Sandy, Cesky Krumlov, resulted in our moving on to Prague. Cesky Krumlov is a Unesco World Heritage Site, but the overcrowded atmosphere by the murky river left us longing to move on to the excitement Prague had begun to stir inside us.

Arriving in Prague in the late evening during the high season is probably not a wise idea. On the outskirts of Prague in Troja, many homeowners have converted their fruit tree laden backyards to accommodate the flood of campers that arrive during July and August. Andy walked the streets in vain, coming back to the van after each stop to tell me that the campground was full. Nearing eleven o’clock we decided to try our look at a campground on the other side of town, on an island in the river Vltaba. We arrived at ten minutes to midnight and were wearily greeted by the campground manager. She agreed to let us in, and we were both surprised and pleased. We awoke the next morning feeling as if we had been trapped inside an oven, the van temperature quickly rising from the glaring sun, and ended up moving to a different campground on the island, seeking trees and the shade they provide from the heat.

By late afternoon the temperature had cooled a bit, due in part to a thunderstorm, and we road our bikes into Prague’s city center. Prague is probably the most visually striking city we have visited on this trip. The architecture is simply magnificent. You could walk the streets for weeks and not have enough time to take in the remarkable buildings that line the streets. I know that I have often described grand facades and moving architectural masterpieces in this travel log, but Prague takes the prize. Never have I been so transfixed on the architecture of a city. Prague is a must see for anyone intrigued by the artistic style of period architectural buildings.

Our first stop was in the Jewish Quarter, filled with synagogues, the most famous of which is Pinkus Temple. Kosher eating establishments line the streets and we stopped at a place called Bohemian Bagel to check our e-mail and sample a Czech bagel with cream cheese.

Next, we biked through the Staromestske namesti, the most famous of all Prague’s squares and took time to soak in all the surroundings. Many tourists filed into the square from small pedestrian side streets and the grandeur of the square could be seen in their faces as they made the final turn from alleyway to the Staromestske namesti.

As the sun set we walked across the Charles Bridge, a world famous bridge started in the fourteenth century and lined with massive statues, including some Jesuit propaganda pieces. During our walk we stopped to listen to the Original Prague Syncopated Orchestra, a band playing songs that would make any fan of Woody Allen movies proud. The authentic 1920’s early American jazz enticed many a tourist, and after listening for nearly an hour, Andy bought their cd, to liven up our traveling music collection.

The next morning we drove to Terezin, to the Thierrenstadt prison and concentration camp. We stopped at the Small Fortress, a fortification built in the 1700’s. Throughout history, the fortress was used to protect access routes, while in the 1800’s it served less as a fortress and more as a prison, including during World War I. However, it was during the occupation of Czech lands in 1939 that led to the Small Fortress’s occupation by the Prague Gestapo Police. From 1940 through 1945 the fortress housed prisoners of war and people resisting the Nazi regime. Many nationalities were held in Terezin including Russians, British, French, and many Central European groups.

In November 1941 the Nazi’s made the town of Terezin itself a Ghetto, a concentration camp for Jews. Within one year the town’s original population had to be removed to make room for the large number of Jews being brought there. Terezin became the Main Fortress, a town behind bars. Terezin’s concentration camp was originally established solely as a reception and transit station for Jews. What occurred at Terezin was in fact a carefully orchestrated Nazi propaganda campaign. The Nazi’s told the world that Terezin was actually a “self administered Jewish settlement territiory”, and went so far as to develop a ‘beautification’ campaign meant to dupe the international public and cover up the atrocities occurring in Terezin. In fact, famous Nazi propaganda footage was shot in Terezin , film and photos designed to prove to the world how well the Nazi’s were treating those imprisoned in the territory. And, accredited doctors and dignitaries visited to tour Terezin and bring reports back to their respective homeland that the Jews were, ‘okay’. Many of these high ranking people were fooled too.

Touring the Small Fortress we were able to see where prisoners were housed in the concentration camp. When we entered the barracks style buildings my heart sank. The mutli-level bunk beds brought back images I had seen as a child while studying history in school. Moderately sized rooms housed racks and racks of the rickety wooden bunks. Pictures of hundreds of emaciated concentration camp victims crammed into the makeshift beds filled my mind.

We walked the entire camp and viewed execution grounds, administrative buildings, solitary cells and areas where mass burials took place. I couldn’t bring myself to take one photo. I watched as individual tourists and large guided groups walk by pointing their cameras and shooting photographs of selected sites. For me, it was a place not to be recorded on film, but absorbed by the naked eye. The organization and precision with which the Nazi’s orchestrated their campaign against the Jews and others, and the level of deceit are all apparent, all the way down to the entrance gates with large black letters looming above stating, “Arbeicht Macht Frei” (Work Makes Free).

As we left the grounds we walked backed to the van in near silence, only uttering a few words about the dark clouds that had begun to fill the sky. Within moments of reaching the parking lot a downpour began of a magnitude I have not seen in years. It was as if the sky had parted and a river from the heavens began to flow onto us. We watched in astonishment as the roads began to swell with small lakes and people ran for cover.

We drove slowly in the rainstorm the short drive from the Small Fortress into Terezin town and visited the Ghetto Museum. The museum is probably one of the most informative I’ve visited. Exhibits clearly outline what occurred in Terezin and provide an exceptional description of Nazi propaganda and a brief history of other concentration camps, specifically Auschwitz. After visiting the Museum of the Ghetto, one can take a self guided tour of the town, with all of the sights during the occupation clearly delineated.

By late afternoon we were on the road again, destined for the German border. We planned to drive to Poland from the Czech Republic, but decided the efficient German Autobahn system would make for less travel time. As we approached the German border we noticed something that we have seen quite frequently at border towns. Typically, there are a number of flea market style booths selling garden gnomes, cigarettes, and other knick-knack items. And, we almost always see prostitutes. Usually the prostitutes begin to show up on the side of the road, sitting on buckets or chairs. Some flag cars down, but most sit by the highway bemused. Next, the string of prostitutes gives way to strip clubs, and then you reach the border. The Czech Republic border town of Cinovec had all the usual makings of border towns with which we were familiar, with a few added visuals. First, prostitutes were rather conspicuously mixed in with fruit vendors. Sometimes it was impossible to tell who was who. Women sat on both sides of the highway, some under sun umbrellas, hawking their wares. I would imagine it could become quite confusing for the customer. Next, as the road narrowed and we left the town and drove the last few miles to the border, the area becomes desolate. That is, until small shacks appear on the side of the road, real hillbilly style lean-to’s with barely clothes women dancing in doorways. Some of the women were standing in the shoulder of the road in just their underwear. It was really bizarre.

At the German border we were stopped and our passports stamped out of the Czech Republic and into Germany. We are going to spend a day or so in Dresden, visiting the palace Zwinger, now home to some of Dresden’s finest museums.

We spent the night before meeting Meaghan and her boyfriend Stephen in the Porto Municipal campground. Truly an interesting place, the campground while in the suburbs just outside of the city center, has character like no other site we have been to. The campground is a walled piece of land that appears to have been an old park. Tall trees and green mossy plants fill the place, and a cobblestone street divides the site into two. If you follow the long narrow road to it’s’ end, you will find a place reminiscent of the fantasy lands one who grew up reading fairytales would picture.

At the end of the road, large looming gates are permanently affixed open, with weeds and vines growing at the base. The two enormous wrought iron gate doors are attached to a tall moss covered stone wall, complete with huge stone pedestaled vases sitting atop the wall. An abandoned ‘Hansel and Gretel’ style cottage lies just to the left of the gate, while directly in front of you a giant single ‘Rapunzel’ castle tower rests on an island surrounded by a moat like miniature pond. Take the dusty dirt path to the right and you come to a small bridge that offers a view into a tiny grotto where a small faded fountain fed by a babbling creek feeds water to the little pond. It takes less than three minutes to walk around the lake, but the stroll usually lasts much longer, as one makes stops to peer into each window of the tower trying to catch a glimpse of a character from a fairytale storybook. At night the tower is illuminated and through the small rounded doorway you can see small stone steps winding their way up the tower. There are other distractions too. Steps leading down from the path across the pond lead to a detailed statue of a pointing women being enveloped by a giant fish. Her pointing finger draws your view toward her extended hand. She is pointing nowhere in particular, but one can imagine that hundreds of years ago she was pointing to something…something of importance. Continue along the pond side path and ducks begin to follow your steps, eager for crumbs from a day old baguette. Both days we were at the campground I visited the pond and watched as ducks and frisky fish raced to reach the thrown bread first.

While I have provided a somewhat idyllic perspective of the park, it should be noted that Andy felt it had more of a haunted feel, not unlike the ‘Headless Horseman’ story.

In the afternoon we took the city bus to the center of Porto and strolled the main drag working our way toward the determined meeting point. We were supposed to meet Meaghan and Stephen by a metro station entrance. Imagine our surprise when we bumped into the couple while stopping to read the menu of a restaurant. As it turned out, their hotel sat atop the restaurant, and they were on their way to meet us when the chance encounter took place.

After we exchanged pleasantries and the wonder of arranging a meeting in a foreign destination, we walked to a small café and ordered drinks. We exchanged stories of our adventures and time passed quickly. Meaghan and Stephen had just completed a segment of the Santiago de Compostela trail, passing through Spain and Portugal during their travels. After an afternoon spent relaxing at their hotel, they recited with rich detail their journey, complete with visuals; Stephen’s blistered feet proved his ardor for finishing the trail.

After drinks we walked through Porto, enchanted by the steep streets and narrow alleyways of the Ribeira area. We decided to have dinner at a waterfront restaurant.

Unbeknown to us the evening meal came with entertainment. First, an accordion player stopped at our table. His loud accordion playing and gapped tooth smile a welcome example of local culture. That is, until the accordion playing made table conversation impossible. A quick passing of a euro to the entertainer guaranteed his move to another spot. Next came the main event. Our dinner conversation quickly stalled when a woman chasing a man up the street attracted everyone’s attention. From a café two doors down the woman had come bursting out the door after a tourist and his wife and two others. The resulting melee happened not twenty feet from our table. First, the shop owner began screaming in Portuguese at the male tourist, a waif like man decked out in easy to discern tourist garb (dockers pants, checkered shirt, backpack and camera around his neck). After what seemed an eternity of shouting, the woman removed a stacked heal shoe and hurled it at the tourist. Then, she charged the man and began slapping him on the back of the neck. At this point, the mans’ wife and friends joined the altercation and the shopkeeper turned her anger on the wife, grabbing her hair from behind and violently shaking the woman’s head back and forth in a whiplash style movement. The entire debacle played out in slow motion, with stunned onlookers at a loss for how to break up the dispute. I can best describe the fight as reminiscent of a Peanuts cartoon, where a swirling of dust engulfs the frame, with only a few legs and arms peeking out as a clue to the scuffle ensuing inside. After a few more shouted insults and kicks from the shopkeeper, the locals began to restrain the woman and the tourists hurried along the promenade. From a safe distance one of the tourists yelled back, “If this is how you treat tourists…”, her voice trailing off as she rushed away.

Needless to say, our conversation post altercation speculated in great detail what had led to the fight. Some felt the man had said something lascivious to the shopkeeper, others believed the woman was insulted by the lack of a tip after a meal. But, our waiter seemed to sum it up best, “She’s crazy.” We continued talking about the events that had just played out before our eyes until the dusk filled sky turned our thoughts toward the dozens of neon lights filling the hillside across the river. Porto, the world’s premiere port producer is home to some 48 port houses, and each maintains offices across the river in Vila Nova de Gaia. As the sun sets, the river is illuminated by the many neon signs beckoning tourists across the river to sample port in the tasting rooms of each house.

After walking the winding, hilly streets back to the center of town, we bid farewell to Meaghan and Stephen, and to Portugal, as this was to be our last evening in the country that had been our home for the last month.

The next morning we decided to bang out as much distance as we possibly could. Looking at the wall mounted calendar in our van always reminds us just how short our traveling time truly is. We’ll be back in the states by November, with plans to see at least eight more countries in the remaining four months on the road. Our drive got us as far as San Sebastian, with a quick detour in Bilbao to see the Guggenheim Museum.

Bilbao is a magical city, where café culture is the dominant pastime. Shops line the compact streets and people watching is surpassed only by admiring local architecture. It truly is a wonderful city to explore by foot, and I plan to return someday to spend some quality time soaking up the local flavor. One would need a week at least, and our tight schedule did not permit the stopover this time around.

In San Sebastian we took one day to recuperate from the road and one day to wander the rich sun soaked Riviera of the Basque region of Spain. In general, we were amazed and delighted at the sheer beauty of the Basque area. Andy commented that the Basque countryside reminded him of Switzerland, and I remarked that the seaside resort style of San Sebastian reminded me of Cannes, only better. Tapas bars fill the streets, literally paving ones way to gastronomical delight, and locals and tourists soak up street entertainers while sampling refreshing glace from a cone. We walked along the beachside promenade and watched as hundreds basked in the sun and cooled off in the sea. The atmosphere is lively and infectious and only our worn out feet signaled that it was time to return to the campground for some rest.

From San Sebastian we drove to Avignon, France to visit an area explored by my father and recommended highly to us. The campground sits at the Rhone rivers’ edge on an island across from the city and affords amazing views of Avignon, the city of popes. At night the city lights up, with the Palais des Papes the main attraction.

The medieval city is a mixture of historical venues blended with cosmopolitan life. We strolled the streets looking for Provencal gifts to bring to family and friends we planned to visit in Switzerland. We wound up buying the bulk of the presents in a store manned by the daughter of a Provence pattern designer. When she found out that we were American she asked us if we were familiar with the television show Friends. When we responded in the affirmative she produced a news clipping from a Friend’s episode where one of her father’s designs was featured on a tablecloth used by the character Monica to decorate her kitchen table. It was refreshing to see a young person take such interest in her family’s trade, and I could feel her pride in relaying the story to us. We left the store with two bags of housewarming gifts in tow and rode our bicycles back over the bridge to the campsite.

The following day we drove from Avignon toward Annecy and as we headed toward the Swiss border we began to worry about making the border crossing with the bikes mounted to the front of the van. We made several stops, one at a bike shop, another at an auto parts store, ending at an rv dealer. All of course reminded us that driving in Europe with bikes on the front of the vehicle is illegal. Yet, none could provide us with a rack that would mount easily to our American rig. So, we checked into a campground perched high above lake Annecy and Andy began to customize our bike rack to fit the bikes on the back of the van. Needless to say I began to worry when he borrowed a drill from our United Kingdom neighbor, but his efforts paid off when at last, late in the afternoon he had mounted the bicycles to our rack now permanently affixed to the rear of the vehicle.

The following day we set out to explore Annecy. Annecy is a lovely French lakeside town encircled by stately mountains and intersected by canals. Hikers flock to the town for spectacular hillside trails and amazing lake views. During our visit we watched as hundreds of parasailers drifted through the baby blue sky to a landing spot situated at the lakes edge. With the mountains as a backdrop their descent was both dramatic and daring.

We dined by the canal and were glad the scenery was inviting , because the food was not.

If we do spend money to go out to eat, we usually are very selective of the places where we dine. In this case, a first pass by provided glimpses of ample dishes bursting with color, and one assumed flavor too. Instead, after ordering what arrived at our table was a leathery old shoe heal (Andy’s steak) and a runny potato dish (my regional tartlette selection). A four dollar small soda and one incredibly priced beer later we were regretting our choice to eat out. And, to make matters worse we now knew we were inching closer to the Swiss border, as evidenced by the skyrocketing price of food. Our spirits were further dampened when we set our eyes on the steep (and I do mean steep) hill we had to climb back to the campground. With a creamy potato tart lining my full stomach, a wave of nausea came over me as we trekked up the incline. At first I thought I had food poisoning. Later I realized that my body was working overtime to digest the rich meal and propel my muscles and bones up the hill all at the same time.

Back at the campground a family stopped by to ask about our van. The family, a father, mother and daughter are from Canada and are on a two week road trip through France and Italy. They had rented a van and appeared to be having more luck efficiently utilizing storage space than we have had. But, in all fairness to us, we are on the road for a great deal more time than they are. Our conversations turned to trades and we were all surprised to find out that both Andy and the father are electricians. Speaking of the father…his name is Alan, and he bore a striking resemblance to Dennis Miller, the television personality. When I told him so, his response led me to believe he had heard it all before, too many times. If I didn’t know better I would think he must be a brother of Dennis Miller, for his witty banter and all too familiar laugh reminded me of many a late night spent watching Dennis Miller’s show on HBO. In fact, after we spent the better part of an hour chatting away, I couldn’t believe the likeness. It was as if Dennis Miller was standing in front of me firing off biting one liners. Later, when Andy exchanged addresses with Alan I found it strange to find only the first names of the family members included, the surname suspiciously missing from the scrap of paper their daughter handed Andy. If you ask me, Alan was definitely related to Dennis Miller…and probably spends his days avoiding his famous family members’ shadow, though it must be hard with the uncanny resemblance. Dennis miller chat aside, it was nice to meet fellow Northern American’s and share our travel stories from our similar continental perspectives.

From Annecy we drove to the Switzerland border and were promptly stopped and asked our ‘business there’. Next we unloaded forty Swiss franc from our wallets for a highway vignette and were quickly on our way. We met two family friends, Fritz and Kathy at their assisted living facility in Berne for lunch. Fritz met me with a, “Hello Sunshine” at the door and I felt right at home. For the remainder of the visit he called me sunshine, a big grin stretched across his face each time he said it. I must say, I felt quite special until Fritz started calling everyone in the restaurant during our lunch ‘sunshine’. The waitress was sunshine, the housekeeper sunshine, and of course the manager was sunshine. Suddenly I wasn’t so special. Still, nothing could tarnish my view of Fritz. He shared a treasured Grass family album with us and listened eagerly when we talked about our travels. You could tell he is a man still keen to explore the road, only old age holding him back from travels. At the end of our visit we shared an unexpected and emotional parting as Fritz told us that he knew that this would be the last time in his life he would have the pleasure to see us and how glad he was we spent some time together. Reality set in and we all realized just how numbered our days are. We parted with the three traditional cheek kisses and a “so long sunshine”.

After Berne we traveled to the Jungfrau region to the village of Lauterbrunnen. The first campground we stopped at had a hillbilly feel to it and Andy thought the services seemed a bit dated. The place we tried next will go down as the all-time best campground of the trip, I’m sure of it. Camping Jungfrau is a five star campground, with five star prices to match. At forty-six Swiss franc per night, it’s the most we have ever paid to camp. But, the price was worth it for the location. The campground itself has huge, grassy campsites. When we pulled in we were met by the owner who let us know that he and his staff were at our service. It was like checking into a fine hotel. A young gentleman named Toby met us next and asked what type of site we would like, river view or mountain view. Then, we followed Toby as he rode a bike through the campground and directed us to a site with a view of two breathtaking waterfalls.

This area of Switzerland evokes a feeling of a fairy tale book come to life. The beauty of the lush, green landscape is only rivaled by the imposing mountains. Wanderwegs criss cross the valley floor and day hikers have their choice of strolling past pleasant farms or taking aerial cable cars to the top of a number of impressive mountain tops. I would have been satisfied to spend our days in Lauterbrunnen walking with Petey on paths that skirt the river, but we had a goal.

We had planned to go to the top of the Jungfrau, the highest point in Europe. The two hour, multiple train ride to the top costs a staggering 154 Swiss franc. Visitors waiting to get a clear viewing day check television monitors at the train station that transmit a live picture from the mountain top. For the price, you want to be sure that when you get to the top you are guaranteed a spectacular view. We were in the Jungfrau region for three nights and four days. Each day we experienced wonderful weather; clear skies and warm temperatures. But the top of the mountain was a different story. Andy rode his bike to the station every morning and sometimes in the early afternoon too. Each time the monitor displayed a view of a fog filled lens, with dipping temperatures to match. So, each day we decided to wait for an optimum viewing day. And from what we’ve heard, the wait is worth it. From the top of the Jungfrau one can see Italy, Germany, and France. Snow covered mountains peak out from clouds below and all at once you feel like you are on top of the world…or so I’ve heard.

During our wait for the ascent we took a walk to the Trummelbach falls, a UNESCO world heritage site. Trummelbach is a series of waterfalls flowing through a mountain with such force that you could probably power a small city from the hydro power produced. We took a lift to the top and from there you climb into the mountain and pass by each waterfall. At each bend in the mountain tunnel a view of water coming towards you with locomotive force instantly reminds you of the power this natural resource. We stood in awe gazing at the mesmerizing wide river of water that poured through the mountain. The noise is immense and your body shakes from the intensity of the falls. The walk down the mountain leaves your knees rubbery and unstable. When we finally reached the base, we sat on a bench to rest and wipe the watery mist from our bodies. As we left the park we stopped and looked at where the falls finally drop into the river, a chilly forty one degrees, the water appears to trickle into the river compared to the rollercoaster ride it takes through the mountain.

After three nights we decided we would have to come back in the fall to visit the Jungfrau. For one, the cost of waiting out the weather was getting high. Also, the food in Switzerland is quite expensive. One day, returning from checking the monitors at the train station we decided to stop for a pastry and a bottle of orange juice. That little stop set us back 18.60 Swiss franc. Finally, we needed to get on the road and start visiting all the friends and family that Alice had arranged for us. So with a heavy heart we left Lauterbrunnen, second on the list only to Uetliburg, my favorite place in Switzerland.

Our first stop on the round of visits was to Gret and Jorg, family friends of the Grass’s. They welcomed us into their home with open arms. We spent three days with them and each day we were treated to fine Swiss cuisine. Gret even taught me to make birchermeusli, my favorite breakfast meal. While staying at their home in Pfeffikon we took a quick day trip to Volketswiel to drop off my camera at the Swiss Olympus headquarters. In Spain Andy had dropped the camera during our visit to the castle in Morella. He had actually tried to hide the blunder from me by not telling me, but the following day when the shot button and zoom toggle fell off he fessed up. Since Spain I have been reduced to taking pictures using a toothpick to activate the shot button. Candid shots are nearly impossible, and trying to balance the camera while inserting a toothpick into a pinpoint sized hole was taking the fun out of taking photos. So, we decided that since we would be in Switzerland for about a month it would be a good time to get the camera repaired.

Back at Greg and Jorg’s we had traditional Swiss raclette one evening for dinner and spectacular barbecue the next. We wandered the hillside trails with our dogs each day and during our walks we picked cherries from a neighboring farmers’ trees. Their home has the fortunate distinction of being cornered on three sides by farmland, a zoning decision nearly impossible to reverse. The resulting privacy affords wonderful views of the nearby hills and the gentle ringing of bells as the cows pass by their property while grazing.

During our stay we visited the village of Zofigen, touted as one of the prettiest towns in Switzerland. The day we visited it was incredibly hot and we stopped at each village fountain to wet down the dog. While an enjoyable detour, Zofigen is not unlike many of Switzerland’s tiny villages, pristinely kept and picture perfect to the eye. No need to make a special to this village, you can see the same thing in just about any canton in Switzerland.

From Gret and Jorg’s place in Pfeffikon we drove to Berne to walk through the old town. While Andy walked to the infamous bear pits I walked through the covered shopping district. Shops rest on the ground floor of stunning Swiss architecture. While ducking in and out of stores one has to remind oneself that just over head are some of the most beautiful buildings to be found in Switzerland. To really get a view you must walk out into the middle of the street and look up at the imposing facades.

After an afternoon in Berne we drove to Bea and Rolf’s in Ober Erlinsbach. Bea is Andy’s cousin on his mother’s side. We were welcomed in grand style. After spending just a few minutes with Bea and Rolf (and their dog Lupa) it felt like we had stopped to visit old friends.

Bea and Rolf went all out during our visit. They planned days of sightseeing, hosted a barbecue where Andy met many of his relatives, and fed us some of the finest food we have had during our travels. Rolf is a master barbecuer and his cooking skills are only matched by Bea’s amazing baking. I cannot begin to express how generous and kind they were to us, and we felt a special affinity toward them because they too enjoy traveling and seeing the world. Rolf has put together several photo books of their travels and we spent days learning about the distant lands they have traveled to together.

In addition to caravanning, we both love dogs. Lupa, their dog, was actually trained as a seeing eye dog, and now is bred for puppies that will become future seeing eye dogs. She is a beautiful black Labrador who responds to commands spoken in Italian. I loved playing with her each day and for a small moment in time I knew what it would be like to have a dog that followed commands. Petey on the other hand had to be muzzled during our visit, for the risk of him taking a finger off someone was too great. But, that didn’t stop Bea from giving him the royal treatment. First, she provided a bed made for a king. A bed we later found out belonged to Lupa. Lupa didn’t seem to mind.

Then, an endless supply of treats and strolls around the neighborhood were showered on him. Bea gave Petey lots of belly rubs too, and when he’d hear her voice in the morning he’d spring to life. Lupa and Petey were a constant source of entertainment for us during our visit, and it was nice to meet people that have such a special relationship with working animals.

Bea and Rolf’s home is striking. From the outside it looks like a moderately sized dwelling with an unimposing façade. Once inside, you realize how deceiving the outdoor view is. Rolf designed their house, and it is three levels of artistic form and function. Even the awnings attached to the sunroom are automated to sense wind and temperature change, lowering when a signal alerts. Outside, the yard is an inviting oasis, with three distinct eating areas. We almost always dined outside, with a small pond and blooming flowers as our backdrop.

Rolf pointed out to us a feature of Swiss homes we were not yet familiar with. All homes must be built with a bomb shelter in the basement. The thick cement locking door was the only sign that you had entered a bomb shelter, otherwise it looked like a well stocked pantry. But even the design of the shelter was ingenious. What appeared to be pantry shelves actually doubled as sleeping cots. Their shelter has room to sleep six. Each shelter comes with an air filtration system and outside air monitor, so that one could check the conditions outside after a disaster. It was so strange, and at the same time so interesting to see.

Speaking of disasters, I must share a most interesting side trip we took. While driving to Bea and Rolf’s house we noticed a large looming tower off in the distance. We recognized the tower instantly as a symbol of a nuclear power plant. We mentioned the plant to Rolf our first night as we were curious if he had any concerns living so close to a power plant (the plant is about seven miles from their home). Rolf told us that Switzerland has four nuclear power plants (five reactors in all) and that the government’s strict regulations left the community at ease. According to Rolf, he would rather have the nuclear power generated in Switzerland, where proper maintenance and environmental protections are sure to be in place, rather than contract out to another country where the laws might not be as strict. We mentioned that we found it so striking to see nuclear power plants in Switzerland (we had seen another near Basel), as they are in such stark contrast to the beautiful landscape. With that Rolf asked us if we’d be interested in seeing the plant up close. Andy and I looked at each other and without hesitation said, “YES!”

What followed next can only be described as science meets amusement park. We all piled into the car (dogs included) and drove to the Gosgen nuclear power plant. As we approached the security gate to the plant I was shocked, if not amazed, to see that the gate was wide open with no guard manning the entrance. As we drove the short road to the parking lot we passed two day walkers, complete with backpacks and hiking sticks. We parked the car and Bea took Lupa and Petey to a picnic area adjacent to the parking lot and we headed for the plant. A short thirty yards in front of us loomed the cooling tower and within a minute we were in the plant.

We entered a lobby and were greeted by a receptionist with a smiling, welcoming face. Rolf spoke to her in Swiss German and before we knew it we were being escorted to a room that contained a scale model of the nuclear power plant. I asked Rolf if he had called the day before to make arrangements to see the plant, and he responded that he had not; the company welcomes (and encourages) visits from the public. The receptionist next apologized for the fact that the reactor display’s interactive function only came in three languages, German, Italian, and French. This of course was not a problem as Rolf provided the translation for us.

After viewing the interactive display the receptionist returned and asked if we would like to see a short movie about nuclear power. We walked to an auditorium decorated with old time street lamps and velvet colored stools and took a seat in front of a large screen. The lights dimmed and huge boxes adjacent to the movie screen began to illuminate. Each box contained mannequins posed in different scenarios. There was a woman ironing, a worker drilling, a couple having breakfast, children watching television, and too many more to list. As a movie outlining all the possible uses for electricity played on the screen, the boxes lit up to reveal another scene. The longer the movie played, the more you realized that the entire auditorium had been designed to look like a small neighborhood, with building facades, streetlamps, and even flower boxes lining the set windows. Oddly enough, the movie contained no spoken words, just one solitary message; we need power to live. The movie ended, the lights came up, doors magically opened, and we were whisked into the next room which contained a labyrinth of displays meant to educate people about nuclear power. For lack of a better word I would call this area of the plant a ‘museum’. There were exhibits that showed what we did for power before nuclear power was discovered, displays where you could test the radioactivity of items (including yourself), and cases that contained uranium in its’ many forms. The whole place was laid out like a nuclear version of the “It’s a Small World” ride at Disneyland. Around each corner a different glitzy display was waiting to educate you about the positive effects of nuclear power.

At one point the receptionist returned and provided a demonstration with uranium pellets. She showed us how the reactor worked and used an interesting science experiment to illustrate the nuclear fission process. At this point I had to ask, “Anybody can come here?” I went on to explain that in America a person couldn’t even get close to a nuclear power plant, let alone tour one. She stated that it was the company’s policy to maintain a positive rapport with the public and that they had thousands of visitors each year, mostly school groups. She left us to continue our tour and the next stop was another movie auditorium that had a three dimensional movie that showed the reactor at work. Little people were beamed all over the reactor (exactly like when R2D2 projected Princess Leia’s image in Star Wars), and they walked you, the audience through the process.

At the end of the movie the receptionist greeted us on the other side of the eerily automatic doors and she then told us that she had done some research while we were watching the movie and had found out that America has 104 nuclear power plants. She wasn’t sure of the exact number in California, but said she could find out for us if we liked.

By this point I was in a daze. I was astonished at the amount of access we were provided and in disbelief that I was less than a stone’s throw from the reactor itself. Every time I had passed a nuclear power plant in the states (a rare occurrence as they are usually built out in the middle of nowhere), I would hold my breath and speed up to get as far away as possible, as quickly as possible. It had always been ingrained in my mind that nuclear power was bad and dangerous. Now, here I was in idyllic little Switzerland watching the best public relations plan in history unfold before my eyes. At the same time I appreciated that I now had a clearer, less skewed picture of nuclear power. Honestly, if any of my science teachers in school had provided me with even a glimpse of the ‘fun filled’ science exhibits I saw at Gosgen, I think I might have chosen a different career path. This public relations effort made nuclear science fun!

After an hour and a half roaming the halls of Gosgen we were preparing to leave when the receptionist asked us if we would like to arrange to come back for a tour of the cooling tower. My face must have said it all, “You can actually go into the tower?” She responded in the affirmative and said that the only requirement was that we have at least four people for the tour. Next she told us that the only area of the plant off limits was the reactor, and that was for security purposes of course. She went on to explain that as far as she knew, Switzerland was the only country in Europe that provides access to nuclear power plants for the public. This was a fact she seemed very proud of. Next, she handed us a goodie bag filled with five chocolate bars, two lighters, two ball point pens (all with the company logo emblazoned on them), and three thick pamphlets that provided technical information, operating experience, and a handout listing all of the nuclear power plants in the world. With that and a fond farewell we were on our way. Oh, and I forgot to mention, we toured the place on a Saturday. No rest on the weekends for positive public relations campaigns for nuclear power plants.

From Gosgen we drove to Solothurn. As it turned out, Solothurn was hosting its’ annual street faire. The cobblestone streets were abuzz with activity. Vendors were hawking everything from fine antiques to cotton candy. Rolf and Bea guided us through the maze of people to see some of the beautiful churches that lie within the city walls. As Switzerland’s eleventh canton, Solothurn’s capital city has eleven churches, eleven chapels, eleven fountains, and eleven historic towers. Even the most famous cathedral, St. Ursen, has eleven steps, eleven altars, and eleven bells. Oddly enough, Solothurn is also Switzerland’s eleventh canton in terms of population. The architecture in the town is striking, richly Baroque and maintained with vigor. The churches house some of the finest artwork I have ever seen and the detail of the frescoes lining the walls and ceilings is awesome.

From Solothurn we drove up to the Weissenstein mountain ridge and took in the breathtaking views of the Swiss Mitteland while we sat beneath a sun umbrella at an outdoor restaurant. We walked around a bit and I made the mistake of brushing up against stinging nettle. Bea, ever prepared, handed me a magic potion from a bottle that instantly had the quickly swelling hives under control. Rolf asked if we wanted to take the chair lift down from the mountain, and I graciously declined, thinking the lift looked like a rickety old chair being held up by dental floss. Honestly, I think I would have had an anxiety attack had I boarded that lift. As much as I want to view nature from high above, I want to be strapped in and enclosed in a fool proof car (me being the fool of course!).

After we left the mountain we drove to Sylvia’s, Bea and Rolf’s daughter and second cousin to Andy. She has a spectacular flat she shares with a roommate. The place reminded Andy and I of apartments in San Francisco and it was pleasant to be somewhere that reminded us of home. We sat out in Sylvia’s garden and had a lovely pasta meal and discussed politics. We both commented on the ever changing world and the impact current leadership has on global policy. I learned quite a bit about Switzerland’s government structure and was interested to hear directly from Swiss citizens that Switzerland too has its’ shae of problems.

The following day Bea and Rolf hosted a barbecue at their home. Andy’s Uncle Xavier was in attendance and at eighty-five he is one of the spunkiest fellas I have ever met. He and his wife have matching scooters and they showed us a picture (which Rolf later copied and gave us) of the two of them posing on their scooters giving the ‘thumbs up’ sign in the Swiss countryside. Several of Andy’s cousins were also at the party, and we spent the afternoon getting to know everybody and listening to childhood stories.

The following day we left Bea and Rolf’s. It was a very emotional farewell and as we parted I said to Rolf that we looked forward to hosting them at our home someday. He said he hoped that they could come for a visit some time after he retires, and I responded by saying, “We won’t hope, we’ll expect your visit.” As our van rounded the corner of their block I leaned out the window and said, “See you in America!” Their generosity overwhelmed us, and we would love for them to come to California so that we could show them the same warm hospitality that they provided us.

After leaving Ober Erlinsbach we drove to Engelberg. We camped beneath the Titlus mountain and spent our days walking the valley floor and nights watching the semi-finals of the World Cup. One day we took an aerial cable car to the Furenalp and hiked the steeply sloped paths of the mountain looking for views of the Titlus and the adjacent glacier.

From Engelberg we drove to the farm of family friends Hans and Margaret in Uster. As a child, Andy had visited and worked on the farm during the summers. At that time their property was a highly modern cow farm. Now, Hans and Margaret have retired and their son Hans Peter has taken over the farm and he and his girlfriend run a small café from the barn. The farm lies next to the Grieffensee, a small lake, and they get a lot of foot traffic from visitors to the lake. Hans Peter continues to work the land, but the farm no longer has cows.

Visiting Hans and Margaret provided a completely new view of Switzerland for me. There are farms throughout Switzerland, and there is a tremendous amount of national pride attached to the agricultural industry. But, shifting economies and the threat of free trade have altered the heavily subsidized farming industry, and with that comes change. Nearly five family farms per day close in Switzerland. And, the income farmers earn has steadily declined over the past twenty years.

Interestingly enough, farmers are not just providers of food sources for Switzerland, they are also considered guardians of the land. In Switzerland’s charter (similar to our Constitution) land is considered a rich resource, to be preserved and cherished. Many farmers are paid simply to maintain the land, not necessarily grow crops on it. And so, it was with this information that I watched and listened and learned from Hans and Margaret how the farming industry has changed over the years. For them, the transition has probably been easier, as they had diversified into real estate. But for their son, looking for and finding different ways to continue the work his father began can be challenging.

On our last day with Hans and Margaret they arranged for Petey to visit their veterinarian to have a growth checked and his blood drawn to be sure that the thyroid medication he is on is working properly. We followed them in our van to the vet. Hans walked with us into the veterinarian’s office and after a brief struggle Petey resigned to letting the vet pick and prod at him. Margaret, a champion with animals held Petey tightly to her as the doctor quickly and surprisingly extracted the two growths using only a needle as a tool (in the states Petey has always been put under to biopsy growths). After a failed attempt at a blood draw, the vet switched to a different arm and blood slowly squeezed from our old dog’s veins. The vet told us that we should have the results some time in the next week and we arranged to call him the following Thursday.

What happened next best demonstrates the generosity of all the Swiss family and friends we have encountered on our journey. As we prepared to leave the vet’s office, we asked for the bill. The veterinarian looked at us and essentially told us that our money was no good there. Hans had made an arrangement with the veterinarian to pay the bill and the doctor expressed to us that he was in no position to challenge Hans’s decision. We looked at Hans in disbelief and begged Margaret to get Hans to let us pay the bill for OUR dog. But it was clear, the decision had been made, and that was that. The veterinarian wisely suggested that we take Hans and Margaret out to lunch as a show of thanks. From the veterinarian we went to lunch and attempted in vain to pay the bill. Hans has a serious, stoic disposition and I wouldn’t dare challenge a decision he has made.

After lunch we drove to a small village for a short hike. At seventy-five I was impressed with the vigor with which Hans attacked the steep hillside. At one point, the wanderweg (walking trail) we were on abruptly ended. At the path’s end was a new, modern, richly appointed house. Hans began to look for a way around the house, to continue the wanderweg on the other side. An irritated homeowner came out onto his porch and asked what we were doing. In a calm tone Hans told the owner that he was looking for a way to get through to where the wanderweg continued. The homeowner replied that it was private property (an almost unheard of expression in Switzerland as nearly all wanderwegs pass through people’s property) and told us we could not go through. Hans just stood there, unwilling to budge. A few words were exchanged, with Hans’s tone and body language unchanged. He never took his eyes of the wanderweg in the distance, barely acknowledging the minor irritation he had encountered in the obnoxious homeowner. In the end we turned around and went back the way we had come, but not before Hans let the homeowner know that it was rich guy’s like him, moving from the big cities and building their homes right in the middle of wanderwegs that was ruining Switzerland’s countryside. All the while Hans never flinched, the entire dialogue played out like two guys talking about the weather. He’s like the John Wayne of Switzerland.

Hans and Margaret followed us to our next stop, Heidi and Jack Vinzens’ house in Uetliburg. For those of you who have kept up on the blog, you know that Uetliburg is my favorite place in Switzerland, and I was happy to return to where our European travels began. Petey was happy too. As soon as Heidi came out to greet our arrival, Petey leaned out the window and planted a wet, slobbery kiss on her cheek.

Hans and Margaret came in for a drink and we listened intently as they shared stories of people they both knew. Switzerland is a truly small country, and it seems everyone is linked by the theory of ‘six degrees of separation’.

After Hans and Margaret left, we began what became close to a week long visit with Heidi and Jack and their extended family. We rose early in the morning and went sightseeing in the famous Appenzell area and stayed up late into the night listening to stories of Jack’s time in America. Andy’s father Konrad had provided Jack with a place to stay and contacts to find work in the butcher trade when he had first come to California, and his admiration for Konrad could be heard in each story he relayed.

Jack and Heidi put out a tremendous spread each day and we were included in two wonderful barbecues where other friends and family shared in the festivities. And, Petey was spoiled too. Each morning Heidi would butter bread for Petey and include him in our breakfast meal. And in the evening, all types of barbecued meats were at his disposal.
At five o’clock each day Jack would announce that it was ‘whiskey time’ and everybody would join him in the yard for drinks. One day Heidi’s sister Ruth made Caypareenia’s (forgive the spelling), a Brazilian drink so loaded with alcohol that after a few sips I had to give mine to Andy for fear I would begin dancing on the table from intoxication. No matter what the libation, each round of drinks or glass of wine, or cup of mineral water was always met with a standard toast, “Viva”. Andy and I quickly learned that according to the Swiss it is bad luck to toast without staring the person you are toasting with directly in the eyes. You can imagine then how long a toast would take at a table of eight, each person taking the time to clink their glasses together, one by one, all the while looking each and every person square in the eye.

Andy and Jack went to the Rigi schwingfest one day, and to hear them tell it, it was lucky that they made it home in one piece. A neighbor accompanied them to the wrestling match, and according to Andy he drove like Mario Andredi and made unannounced stops at too many places to recount. Up on the mountain at the schwingfest they had experienced weather changes that led them to believe Noah’s ark would drift by any moment and their thirteen hour journey ended when the neighbor stopped in front of the house just long enough for them to tuck and roll out of the car.

On another day we helped Jack install a cd burner in his computer. It was a comedy of errors as Andy’s tension grew when he couldn’t figure out where a loose hanging wire from the dismantled computer tower belonged. Then, as he went to put the tower back together Jack’s hard drive slipped out onto the floor (after I had told him it should always be locked in the tower). Relief came across all our faces when we turned the computer on and all was working properly.

The next day we drove to the Engadin. Jack planned to visit his sister Erika in Zernez, and Andy and I stayed in a campground located just five minutes from her place. Andy and I went one day to visit his Uncle Flury in Samedan and we also drove to St. Peter’s cemetery to place two plants at his father’s grave.

At 6:00 a.m. then next morning Andy awoke to meet Erika, her husband Rudi, and Jack for a day hike to see marmots that live up in the hills. Andy came back from the hike and promptly positioned himself in the lounger, napping away the afternoon. That night we had dinner with Jack and the family, and then the next morning we took the Albula pass back to Uetliburg.

Back in Uetliburg Heidi made us a wonderful lunch and I gave Jack a quick tutorial on his new cd burner. Jack then gave us one of his woodworking carvings as a memento and we prepared to leave Uetliburg to pick up our camera in Volketswil. As we left, Heidi gave us some snacks for the road, complete with a gold tin of food for Petey. Heidi and Petey had become quite close over the week. Petey even stayed with Heidi during our trip to the Engadin. When we left Uetliburg we weren’t sure that Petey would be accompanying us on the next leg of our journey, as he seemed to prefer being with Heidi to being with us. But alas, food is always a motivator. With a little coaxing and a big treat, Petey jumped into the van.

Next, we pick up the camera and go toward the German border to spend time near the Bodensee, or Lake Contsance as we know it. Our time in Switzerland is quickly drawing to a close, and soon we will be on to Eastern Europe.

While Armacao De Pera should provide the idyllic setting for contemplative thought, what occurred was actually quite the opposite. Well, that’s not completely true. Andy and I did enjoy the expansive blue tiled pool daily for a refreshing afternoon dip. And, we did stroll the sandy beaches watching as the calm coast coaxed local laid back fisherman into the sea. But, it was what happened near the end of our stay that played out like a horror movie. One morning, as I walked Petey around the campground the unimaginable happened. Petey was minding his own business, sniffing the tall dense hedges for a place to leave his scent, when out of nowhere a long mangy fur covered leg extended from beneath the bushes with claws the size of needles. Next I heard a high pitched squeal. Petey retreated from the hedge and continued our walk, with only a frenzied pace to clue me in that something was wrong. I looked at his muzzle, investigating for any damage and then noticed that his right eye was squeezed shut. A moment later a trickle of blood dripped from his closed eye, and then what seemed a stream of blood to me began to darken the fur beneath his eye. Horrified I began to run back to the van to get Andy to assist me in prying the now closed socket open; sure that Petey was now truly a ‘one eyed jack’. Eye intact, we quickly discovered the source of the bleeding. The cat had managed to pierce Petey’s eye high above the lid. We quickly disassembled camp and drove to the nearest vet.

The veterinarian visit proved rather uneventful, other than the repeated, “That’s one lucky chap.” muttered by the vet during the examination. According to her, cat’s usually pierce right through the eyeball, leaving an alarmingly large gash and a nearly useless eye behind. In Petey’s case, the claw had somehow managed to nick the eyeball well under the lid, leaving a gash but no significant damage. I felt relieved and wondered how many of his nine lives he had now used up (yes I realize that’s a cat thing, but how else do you explain Petey’s crazy luck?)

Petey on the mend

After the ordeal at the vet we retreated to the campground for a day of shedding the unwanted stresses that came with the blood filled morning. We made plans to leave the next day and head north to check out a few campgrounds we thought might provide the perfect balance of sightseeing and relaxation for my sister Nicole’s visit. We had found out a few days prior that she would be flying in to Lisbon the last week of May to spend a week with us.

The following morning we visited a sand sculpture park near Pera. Artists from all over the globe assemble annually to create works of art from sand. The resulting masterpieces are both amazing and defy the laws of gravity. We arrived as the finishing touches were being put on many of the works, and watching the artists sculpt from canvasses of sand was truly mesmerizing.

We followed an interior highway northbound and then cut to the coast to find the beach at Gale where a three star campground hugged the beach. The campground required turning off the highway and following a gravelly potholed filled dirt road for nearly five miles. When we finally arrived at the secluded campground we were shocked to see hundreds of people milling about. We were flagged down by an employee who promptly informed us that the campground was full, a highly unusual and unlikely occurrence, considering the remoteness of the place. Later we discovered that the campground had been rented by the National Nursing Association and would be the home to an annual nursing conference with over a thousand people in attendance.

Weary and annoyed we continued up the coast to Troia, a ferry town that rests at the tip of a peninsula just south of where the Lisbon coast begins. Yet another kite surfing destination spot, we drove quickly through the one stop town while winds battled against the engine of the van. The road extends inland about a half mile from the beach, with protected sand dunes on one side and an estuary along the other. Once you reach the end of the peninsula, the road turns eastward and winds through small villages where the main attractions are the large storks that build nests atop tall poles lining the highway.

We drove to Odivelas and just outside of the town limits lies a campground situated along Lake Odivelas. The sleepy campground sits on acres and acres of dried ragweed like terrain and looks like “a commercial for allergy medication”, as Andy put it. Small, brightly colored wildflowers dot the hills and a few of the campers have picked flowers to make arrangements for their dining tables.

The lake itself is nothing spectacular, dammed at one end and lapping the dusty honey colored shores of the rest. The water level has dropped significantly, as evidenced by the banding lines that creep several feet up the shoreline. Bugs are everywhere, and we were grateful that we had a screen room to shelter us from the onslaught of flying things that dusk brings. There are no houses or buildings or city skylines in sight, and the only evidence that civilization is near can be see at night when an orange colored hue fills the sky off in the distance, announcing a small remote town to the east.

We spent four relaxing days biking the miles of desolate roads and batting rocks into the lake. One day we rented a paddle boat and with Petey in tow cruised the lake. Our only excitement came when a sea plane circled the lake a few times and then landed alarmingly close to our boat. To make an impact, the pilot repeated the water landing another time to our ‘oohs and aahs’ and near dives from the boat.

We drove from Markadia campground to a suburb of Lisbon, Costa de Caparica, linked to the picturesque capital by a Golden Gate Bridge fashioned span. Upon our arrival we set up camp and set out to explore the tiny beach town. The main square and pedestrian thoroughfare reminded me of neighborhoods bordering Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, complete with guys hawking sunglasses and pirated cd’s and a carnival like atmosphere. The town itself looked like it has seen better days, but one chalked up the run down appearance to the heavy weekend traffic that arrived each Saturday and Sunday from Lisbon.

I’ve grown shy of bigger city campgrounds and transient looking suburbs since our stay in Badalona. Whenever we venture to the more heavily populated areas my radar goes on. For instance, when we arrived at the Costa de Capricia, I noticed that the campground was positioned along a main road and tucked between a municipal park and a National Guard station. The high barbed wired fence that enclosed the campground was draped with a nearly opaque outdoor fabric that I had assumed was for privacy. While walking the dog and getting my bearings I had noticed that over the rear fence of the campground there appeared to be a small encampment, made up mainly of shanties. I grew suspicious that maybe this beach town didn’t have the natural appeal that most of our coastal stops have brought.

After dinner the first night, we were washing the dishes and a couple from Belgium told us that a young German couple had their bikes stolen from the campground. Earlier that day I had found a cut bike lock and showed it to Andy. He had replied by saying, “Maybe someone lost their key and needed to cut the lock.” I knew better. So, we decided that the following day we would go check out a few campsites, one in Lisbon (a four star) and the other north of Lisbon along the coast in Guincho, a suburb of Cascais.

That night we heard shouting voices drifting from the park well into the wee hours of the morning. We barely slept, and most of the night was spent peeking out the windows of the van looking at the dark silhouettes passing by the heavily draped camp fence. Petey would bark anytime he heard voices, alerting passersby to our ‘guard dog’, and one bold 2:00 a.m. stroller made it a point to ‘shhh’ him.

The next morning we drove to the Lisbon campground, a hip backpackers paradise complete with top forty music blaring from the stereo at the pool. The sites were nice, but the campground is situated smack dab in the middle of a commercially developed area of Lisbon, a sprawling IKEA clearly viewed from the place. It did make for a good stop, as we were able to hit a large chain sports store and the IKEA to stock up on supplies for Nicole’s visit, specifically outdoor lighting for the screen room so that we could see our food at night.

From the Lisbon campground we drove to Guincho and instantly decided that would be our next stop. Spindly thin pine trees carpeted the campground providing much needed shade from the heat, and the beach was lined by a wide bike trail that followed the coastline to the Beverly Hills of the Lisbon coast, Cascais.

We returned to the campground late that afternoon, where our departure date was sealed by an actual villain versus cop scene that played out before our eyes that evening. As we were preparing for bed at night, Andy noticed blue police vehicle lights shining in the distance. Loud voices could be heard from the park, but as we had come to know, this was nothing unusual. Suddenly, we heard screeching tires and a door being thrown open, followed by running footsteps. We both looked out the screened windows of the camper to see what all the commotion was about. Next we heard someone yell ‘stop’ in Portuguese followed by a gunshot. We looked at each other in disbelief and before we could say anything we were ducking as two more rounds were fired off. We literally hit the floor of our van and did the best we could to shield ourselves from the gunfire. After that Andy said, “We’re out of here tomorrow morning…first thing.” A few moments later I noticed two shadows cloaked by the dim park light over the fence moving toward the street where the patrol car waited. I convinced myself halfheartedly that the culprit had been caught and slept that night with one eye open.

After the short drive to Guincho we set up camp and spent the day lounging in our LaFuma recliners, pretty much a constant theme during this trip. We took a cab to Cascais in the late afternoon (when it was cool enough to leave Petey in the van and caught the film The Da Vinci Code at a modern, well appointed mall. Andy thought the movie was so-so, and I spent most of the film with the thought, “Oh yeah, I remember that from the book.”, spinning through my head.

After the movie we walked the streets lined with high end shops and restaurants toward the harbor and people watched before catching a cab back to the campground. For those of you asking, “A cab? You’re taking cabs while camping?” let me just say… Bikes were out of the question. The return journey required navigating an uphill climb that might as well have been Mount Everest as far as I was concerned. The local bus costs two and half dollars per person each way, and a taxi was five dollars, total. You do the math…an air conditioned taxi would win every time.

Nicole arrived on a Tuesday morning and our already late departure for the airport was further delayed by a gridlocked pay freeway. Who knew? Live away from morning commutes and rush hour traffic long enough and you forget that it exists. That is until you are stuck in it when you are rushing to pick up your sister who has flown half way around the world to see you and your husband. Luckily, her flight was delayed. Delayed just long enough for a Portuguese airport traffic officer to stroll to our van and tell us that driving with bicycles attached to the front of our van is not legal in Portugal. I must be putting on my best poker face of surprise every time, because he gestured that he was going to ‘pretend his eyes were closed’ and let us slide. But, not before telling us that his comrade surely would have ticketed us.

After picking up Nicole we drove north of Lisbon to check out three campgrounds near Nazare. The third one was the charm, as we stumbled on a peaceful, modern, resort like campground just three miles from Nazare. We figured that Nazare would make a good starting point for three town that we hoped to visit during her stay. The campground was so welcoming and tranquil that we spent the first day kicking back at the site and catching some rays by the nearly deserted pool. The campground lies in the middle of an expansive coastal pine forest that was planted in the fifteenth century by order of then King Dinnis to stabilize the sand dunes and provide timber for ship building. The royal forest remains today, much as it was hundreds of years ago, perched high atop the cliffs that drop down to the unspoiled coved beaches north of Nazare.

At one point we took a drive along the road that weaves through the forest on route to the well hidden beaches and noticed that many of the trees have had portions of the bark stripped, revealing a blood red trunk with a small receptacle attached to the tree to catch what we assumed was the tree sap. Similar to maple syrup harvesting, but without the holes. The shocking defaced trees are in such stark contrast to the sleepy whispering pine forest that we have come to know along this coast that we slowed to a crawl to inventory the damage. To date, we have yet to figure out why the sap is being harvested.

Later that day we drove to Batalha to see the monastery, built by a young King Joao as thanks for answered prayers when victory in battle led to a Portugal freed from the clutches of Spain.

King Joao and his queen are buried there in a lavish tomb, and the tomb of Prince Henry the Navigator can also be found in the Chapel of the Founders, a highly embellished room located just to the right of the main church.

When we finished touring the Monastery we walked to a nearby residential courtyard and played Frisbee while we waited for the main reason for our visit to Batalha to begin; a food, wine, and handicrafts faire was scheduled to start at 6:30 p.m. Exhausted from an a round of Frisbee in the scorching afternoon sun we sat on benches in the square relaxing for the last hour before the faire began. I did have some relief from the heat, as I noticed an open hair salon and stepped in for a quick refreshing shampoo and nine euro haircut.

The faire proved to be a true highlight of our visit to Portugal. Artisans from regions all over the country manned booths selling distinctive art and decorative items, clothing, leather goods, and linens. Cheese, wine and pastry could all be sampled too.

While walking through the faire we noticed several ‘free wifi hotspot’ signs and decided to whip out the laptop and give it a try. After logging on, and beginning to check my e-mail, Nicole and Andy noticed that a flurry of activity was happening behind me. Apparently I was the first person to actual log on to the hot spot, and the men managing the link were eager to watch someone using the service. They came over and proudly displayed their sponsors signage and told us how this was the first time they had offered this service. Later, they brought by a photographer to take my picture as, ‘the first wireless user at the faire.’ We all got a good laugh and for the first time since Vinaros, free use of the internet.

Local organizations had booths all around the faire advertising regional cuisine, and we decided to dine at the Recreation and Community Center booth. With the advice of our waitress we had pork stew and a mixed grilled meat platter. Dinner for the three of us (which could have easily served five), including salad, beers, and bread came to nineteen euro. As we paid the bill I asked if the event was a fundraiser for the event, and when our waitress answered in the affirmative we left a ten euro tip.

Taking a day off from sightseeing we hung around the campsite the next day, and then drove to Nazare Saturday. Up until this point of Nicole’s visit the weather was mild and pleasant. When we woke up the morning when were to visit Nazare, it seemed to jump twenty degrees. Nazare, known for its beach and sun and fun atmosphere is busy and tourists share the promenade along the beach with older women dressed in traditional skirts and head scarves hawking rooms at their pensions. While a beautiful setting to soak in local food and culture, there isn’t one shade tree to be found, and the whitewashed walls of the buildings leave one squinting to see. The heat and bright sun left us drained and searching for ways to keep the dog cool (one of which involved dragging him into the ocean).

Sunday was yet another day of relaxation as we all lounged around reading. The grounds at the campground are well landscaped, and include a trail that ran the perimeter. Each evening Nicole led us on a walk that ended just in time to watch the sun set behind the tree line of the pine forest and slip into the Atlantic.

Our next adventure led us to Alcobaca. The whitewashed village hosts many outdoor cafes surrounding the square of the great monastery. The sun was blinding and we took refuge from the heat under a giant sun umbrella. We bought pastry from a café and dined as we took in the views of Mosteiro de Santa Maria.

One of the richest monasteries in Portugal, Mosteiro de Santa Maria gained its’ wealth from the fruitful bounty the local landscape provided. A stream fed by the local river was even diverted into the monk’s kitchen to provide both water and fresh fish for the monastery. With all its’ riches, architecturally, agriculturally, and aesthetically, the true fame of the monastery comes from a real life ‘Romeo and Juliet’ story.

The love story involves Prince Dom Pedro and Ines de Castro. The prince fell in love with young Ines, a woman of Spanish descent. His father, the King, refused to allow the marriage, fearing the influence of Ines’s family over the throne. So, the two wed secretly and when the King found out he had Ines murdered. Pedro, alone and broken hearted waited until he ascended to the throne to take his revenge. After being crowned King he had Ines’s body exhumed and crowned Queen and made all in the court kiss the decomposing hand of his newly crowned queen. Next, he had her buried at Alcobaca. He designed her tomb himself, a richly ornate tomb resting on top of sculptures of her murderers. Then, he guaranteed their timely meeting when he had his own tomb designed to feet to feet with Ines’s so that they would rise to face each other on Judgment Day. Their burial place is at the end of a long nave in the chapel that opens to a bright and airy space where the tombs draw the eye from all angles. The surrounding cloister is graceful and serene and one can imagine monks scurrying from one room to the next with purpose as they completed their daily routine. Throughout our visit, opera music filled the air as singers practiced in one of the grand halls, using the natural acoustics to fine tune their voices. Of all the monasteries we have visited during this trip and in past travels, Alcobaca is the only one that’s beauty is only matched by its’ rich history.

We left Nazare the next morning to drive to Evora. Along the way we stopped to purchase a basket of freshly picked strawberries from a farm. We also stopped to attempt to put out a grass fire. Or, I should say Andy tried to put the fire out. Along the national road, we spotted a wildfire that was spreading along the road. Andy grabbed our mini fire extinguisher and went to work..in vain. The fire went out initially, then resumed ravaging the hillside, with flames growing in size. We drove to the nearest town and happened to see a uniformed officer walking along the street, carrying a basket of wild greens. Yes, I said wild greens. He looked like Peter Sellers in the Pink Panther and looked like he had been strolling the fields gathering wild dandelion leaves all day. Really a weird sight. He pulled out a cell phone and called the Bombeiros and assured us they were on their way.

Our drive continued and it took nearly three hours along a narrow two lane highway, the landscape almost completely agricultural. The campground we chose lies a mile outside the walls to the old city, and from afar one can see the cathedral that anchors the city to the hill filled land.

Evora is a city designed for walking. Neighborhoods are linked by winding pedestrian thoroughfares and squares that provide a perfect resting point while double checking the map provided by the tourist office. Evora is rich in sights and we climbed up and down cobble stoned streets to take in as many as we could.

Evora is probably best known for is Capela dos Ossos. Built adjoining the Gothic style Igreja de Sao Francisco, built in 1510, the Capela is the result of sixteenth century monks determination to emphasize just how mortal we as humans truly are. The chapel walls are built from the bones of five thousand human skeletons, with one intact skeletal body hanging for good measure.

From the ‘Chapel of Bones’ we followed lavender colored tree lined streets to Diana Park for a view of the Roman Temple ruins, considered the “symbol of the city”. Still standing from the second or third century (depending on the guide book you read), the temple has fourteen intact columns and rests on top of a massive stacked stone base.

Back at the campsite we usually closed each day with a round of Frisbee. I had no idea how good of a player my sister was, and Andy and I spent our days trying to perfect our Frisbee skills to the level of Nicole’s play.

On our way out of Evora we stopped at Pasteleria Conventual for custard pies and traditional conventual cake made with almonds, squash, plums, and candied fruit. My sister’s and I have always dreamed of having a shop that sold both Portuguese and Jewish foods, and we hoped the stop would spark our interest again, providing a sampling of the delicate yet rich pastry found in Portugal.

From Evora we drove to Lisbon. Nicole’s visit was quickly coming to a close and we decided to spend her last night in Lisbon, seeing the sights and hearing the sounds of Portugal’s capital city. That evening, we dined at a Goan restaurant near the Castelo de Sao Jorge. Goa, once a territory of Portugal, was handed back to India in the 1960’s. The food is rich in flavors and spicy. We asked for our dishes to be prepared ‘extra hot’ as we had not been fortunate enough to find many flavorful foods during our travels. When the food came, it was aromatic and with adequate zest. So fiery in fact, that I could feel my stomach turn into a ball of fire as the meal hit. I’m not really sure that the food was as hot as we are accustomed to at home, or if my palate has become so dulled during our travels, that any hint of spiciness would provide a shock to my system. Andy felt the lava hit later in the evening, validating my theory that we are just out of touch with our normal ‘flaming hot’ eating habits

After dinner we took in sweeping views of the Tagus River from a hilltop viewpoint and wound our way down the streets near the Se Cathedral peeking into the many antique stores that line the neighborhood tucked neatly next to the Alfama district. We walked until we reached the Avenue da Liberdade. The famous street was abuzz with excitement as late diners emptied from closing restaurants onto the street. I picked up a box of malasadas for breakfast the next morning and then we followed the street to Rossio square where we found an exhibit of painted fiberglass cows. One of the cows (embellished by Portuguese artists) caught my eye, a combination of blue and white Azulejo tiles and a sunny side up egg. This sight sums up Portugal well…tiles and food with an egg on top.

It was with a heavy heart that I dropped Nicole off at the airport the next morning. Andy and I always feel sadness when a visitor leaves, and with Nicole it was no exception. She had shared with us what no other visitor during our travels had; life on the road. We left the airport in a daze heading north toward Coimbra. It would take many days for the memory of her presence to pass, and somehow we eventually fell back into our trio, Andy, Petey, and me.

In Coimbra we toured the University, stopping at the famous Biblioteca Joanina. Completed in 1728, the library is recognized as one of the most, “original and spectacular Baroque libraries in Europe.”

The University building was once home to the Royal Palace of Coimbra, the oldest royal residence in Portugal. The historical notes that accompany the tour are steeped in centuries of royal inhabitation and military conquests. Touring the connected buildings that line the grand courtyard one can see architectural touches spanning multiple centuries. Inside, stops such as the Capela de S. Miguel remind us that the academic pursuits now taking place on campus came after the royal line embellished the sanctuaries and grand salons.

From Coimbra we drove north to Madalena, on the outskirts of Porto. What we had planned as an extensive stopover quickly ended as the campground lacked the proper maintenance to keep the place comfortable and the campsite became inundated with ants. We had plans to meet a family friend for dinner late in the week and decided we would try to reach her by telephone to see if we could meet in Spain instead.

With Porto behind us we continued up the coast to Viana do Castelo. The campground connected to the rugged coastline by a short wooden walkway and from the beach you can see the small port that brought Viana do Castelo its’ wealth. From across the bay you admire the city, with its’ dramatic drop to the water. The town itself has wide streets that blend both modern and old architecture. Perched high atop the city is the Basilica de Santa Luzia, said to have one of the most beautiful views of Portugal. You can see the basilica from miles away, resting atop a jagged hilltop like a jeweled crown.

We got most of our sightseeing in the first day of our stay, and that was a good thing, because the next day, it rained and rained and rained. Thunder clapped throughout the day and we spent our time finding new leaks in the van and mopping up ever growing puddles of water. Tomorrow we’re off to Porto to meet up with friends and stroll the riverfront of Oporto

Vinaros turned into a much longer layover stop than first anticipated. We were excited to have met an interesting group of people to socialize with and daily bike rides exploring unknown territory began to get us both into shape and seeing new sights. The familiarity of staying put in one spot we had come to know during our stay at Chauffour had brought feelings of wanderlust, and we intended to avoid lengthy stopovers, instead opting for a change of scenery every few days or so. Yet, somehow Vinaros began to feel like a new home. Fellow campers were friendly and each day we learned a new tip about where to buy the best beef in town, or which restaurant had the best prix fix menu.

With each passing day we were invited to fellow campers’ pitches for dinner, or on a bike ride to visit the local flea market. It seemed every few days we found ourselves in the campground office extending our stay another few days. Days turned to weeks and just as we made plans to depart quaint little Vinaros and head south, the inevitable happened. For those of you that know me, you are surely familiar with my luck. And, if you have been keeping track of our travels through this log, than you know that I have not needed to seek medical attention since Bend, Oregon (about ten months). But, entering into the third week of our stay I took a nasty spill off my bicycle. All at once I felt a sharp, burning pain spread through my wrist and palm. My knee throbbed and I sat on the sidewalk stunned, dumbfounded that I had become separated from my bicycle. Actually, I wasn’t all that stunned. I had been jumping from street to curb to sidewalk for the past few weeks to avoid the small cars barreling toward me while cycling in town. This time, I had tried to jump a curve with an angle similar to the pyramids of Egypt. I was not successful of course, and the disbelief that followed was only quelled by the immense pain I felt from head to toe. Andy and I assessed the damage and after a few empathetic words from him, I was back on my bike.

Actually, the true cause of delay to our trip actually came later that night. As I sat nursing my wounds, icing my knee, and feeling a sense of overall sorry for myself I prepared to climb into the van and wash away the day’s events with a good nights’ sleep. Andy had gone to clean the dinner dishes and I looked to the van’s kitchen counter to see a pack of Mentos calling my name. Mento’s, that small refreshing mint; the candy that whether mint or fruit flavored unleashes a pleasant feeling onto your tastebuds. It seemed the perfect cordial to a day riddled with pain. I inspected the package, removed three pastel colored candies from the foil packaging and popped two into my mouth. Next, I heard a crunch, not unusual as Mento’s have a hard candy shell. But this time, the crunch seemed too crunchy, and sure enough not five seconds later I was staring at a Mento and dental crown sandwich. One of the crown’s in my mouth, no doubt weakened by the fall earlier in the day, had broken and become part of my ‘after dinner mint’. I couldn’t help but laugh, and laugh out loud I did. I quickly ventured to the wash basins to show Andy my prize. As I turned the corner to the communal sinks, Andy could read the expression on my face, a ‘doomsday’ look and asked, “What happened?” Next, we did what one does when faced with a dental issue; find a dentist.

During a visit to the dentist, I was fitted with a ‘pirate like’ silver temporary crown. As we discussed cost of the new crown, it was hard for the Dentist to miss my expression of relief when he quoted me 330 Euro for all the dental work, including the porcelain crown.
The dentist seemed amused by the cost of dental work in the states and went on an on about how backwards our medical and dental coverage is.

Back at the campground we continued life as we knew it. We grew familiar with other campers, and watched amused as Petey would wait for treats every hour to be thrown over the dividing hedge by our Dr. Zhivago look alike neighbor. Most days he was treated to raw steak, with the occasional unidentifiable chorizo looking sausage thrown in for good measure. On our end, we tried to reciprocate by tossing salmon treats to their dogs Chica and Teddy.

Our neighbor wasn’t just feeding Petey. He was quite the cook, and the smells emanating from his trailer peaked my curiosity too. Apparently, our neighbor from the north specialized in Indonesian fare. He was preparing a grand buffet for the close of a marathon in Vinaros and let Andy and I be his guinea pigs. He served a four course traditional Indonesian meal and waited on the other side of the hedge with assured confidence that we would bring back plates licked clean. Many a day were spent chatting about cuisine and we learned a history of the link between the Netherlands and Indonesia that was quite informative. But most of all, we just enjoyed that our neighbors were interested enough to include us in their day to day goings on. It was quite refreshing to see that age was not a barrier, and our different nationalities meant nothing when it came to socializing.

When the travel itch grabbed us we dropped the top on the van and drove to Morella, a walled village perched high above a green terraced valley. The town castle rests on the top of the hill, and we hiked to the top with Petey. Sweeping views of the rolling hills and lush foliage surrounding Morella extend twenty miles from the vista point. After a picnic lunch we walked the narrow pedestrian streets of the town and Andy stopped for a quick haircut, a bargain at seven euro.

On another day we drove to Peniscola, a Miama Beach style strip with golden sand beaches extending as far as the eye can see. As with most of our stops, this one came with the requisite castle and narrow winding streets lined with white washed houses clawing their way up to where the noble once resided.

Back on bikes again, we explored the many ‘Todos’ shops of Vinaros, essentially $1.00 stores with shelves from floor to ceiling lined with all the junk you ‘must have’. Actually, we did make a purchase at one of the shops. That small two euro purchase has become constant amusement for me the past few weeks. I purchased a pair of slip on shower shoes for Andy. Something about the material that the sandal is made from causes a constant farting sound with every step that Andy takes. You can hear him coming a mile away, and I’m certain that our neighbors think I’m feeding him food that makes him gassy. Speaking of food, while we nearly always prepare our own food, we do attend the occasional restaurant. It’s amazing how little you can spend in Spain for an amazing meal. For 18 euro two people can dine on a four course meal that includes a starter, salad, entrée, dessert, bread, and a bottle of wine. You just can’t beat it. Pork and fresh fish dishes are especially divine.

While in town we would usually stop along the promenade, near the harbor to soak in the sun and views of the calm Mediterranean Sea.

Back in Vinaros Campground, Andy and our friends spent nights drinking fruity Spanish wine affectionately named “The Diesel”. The high octane libation was always a source of entertainment for me, as I would sip my Schweppes Naranja (orange soda) and watch as everyone’s teeth but mine would turn a deeper shade of purple as the night crawled on.

On our final night in Vinaros, we laughed the evening away with our friends Johan, Rina and Linda. To be honest, I can’t remember why the evening turned into a chorus of laughter. Maybe it was the ‘Diesel’, or perhaps it was the fact that Johan amused us with numerous sight gags always with a twinkle carried in his eyes. Or, maybe it was because the five of us spent the better part of the evening trying to remember the name of an old ‘Men at Work’ song, going to far as to call Linda’s husband in Ireland to try to get the name. The evening left me amused at the whole ‘About Schmidt’ atmosphere (once again, see the movie and you’ll know where I’m coming from) one gets when living in recreational vehicles, and the other part of me felt like a person having an out of body experience, merely a spectator not a participant.

The morning we left Vinaros campground I was walking from the restaurant with two freshly baked croissants (during our stay in Vinaros we had gotten hooked on the buttery Spanish croissants with their sweet flaky top, better than the traditional French croissants we had become accustomed to) and I did a double take as I passed a motorcycle. I was sure that I had seen a California license plate adorning a BMW cycle. Sure enough, the motorcycle had a California plate, courtesy of San Francisco BMW. I couldn’t believe my eyes! What a small world I thought. Since reaching Europe, we had only seen one US plate, and it was displayed in the rear window of a Pontiac in France. I had to find the owners of the bike, and that I did. When I found the young couple eating at the café, I approached and asked their story. As it turned out, they were an Irish couple who had been living in San Francisco for the last ten years, as dormitory residents for the Academy of Art. We chatted a bit, and they told me how they had moved back to Ireland only to feel that their hearts had been left in San Francisco. We discussed old haunts and our love for the City, and they told us to look them up when we returned to the states, as they were sure they’d be back by the time we were home.

As we drove out of our campsite the entire block came out to wish us safe travels and bid us farewell. We were stunned. As our van pulled out of the campsite, fifteen people watched and waved until we were out of sight. It was all at once a strange and moving moment. Not unlike the impression they had all made on us, we had made one on them too.

We decided to take the coastal road toward the Costa Del Sol. The drive was filled with amazing views of the Mediterranean.

When my gaze wasn’t locked on the ever changing coastline, I was amazed at the number of construction cranes filling the skyline. Spain must have one of the fastest growing coastal land developments in the world. At times as many as fifty cranes can be seen in one beach rimming town. The sprawl is overwhelming and an affront to the senses.
In towns where the development seems to have no land to continue, signage and tourist trade rally to compete for the shrinking advertising wall space. Malaga in particular is a sign of when tourism goes wrong. The streets are littered with English signs advertising every type of cuisine and sunburned Brits walk from shop to shop looking like tomatoes rolling through a Del Monte plant assembly line. The whole place feels like a pressure cooker, with tourist consumerism at its’ base. At the center of it all, the once pristine beaches are now too crowded to be enjoyed and too overrun with expatriates to feel any sense of local culture.

Another aspect of the Costa Del Sol that is quite striking is the number of interior design and furniture stores. Every block along the coastal highway has a number of stores hawking everything from chintzy home decoration to high end room embellishments. If you are every looking to redecorate a house, Spain is the place to go for ideas. This country has home décor from to satisfy all tastes, shabby to chic. I was absolutely amazed at the number of shops, and the overwhelming selection. It’s worth the flight to check out the latest design trends in Spain.

Our first stop along the Costa Del Sol was in Marbella, or rather just outside the town limits. The campground was cramped and loaded with people, mostly Spanish. The campground back gate led straight to the beach, and Andy and I spent a lazy afternoon playing gin at an outdoor beachside café. Andy had a carafe of Sangria and I had a Shirley Temple. I won the match, but I must admit I had a slight advantage after Andy’s third round of Sangria.

We quickly left the bustling campsite and continued along the coast to what turned out to be one of the highlights of the trip. Tarifa, Spain is a fantastic seaside town located at where the Strait of Gibraltar dumps into the mighty Atlantic. Our campground was located adjacent to the most spectacular stretch of beach. And, we had what I thought was the best pitch in the whole place. Our campsite rested on a plateau, surrounded by nothing but gorgeous views of the water and Africa, just 9 miles across the strait.

Tarifa is known as Europe’s premiere kite surfing destination. The mornings in Tarifa are deceptively calm with nary a sole on the beach, perfect for long strolls with the dog.

By mid afternoon, the winds come in with a surge and the skyline becomes a sea of color, as kite surfers take to the water. Watching surfers cut through the water with ease made one think that the sport required little more than the nerve to jump on the board and the know how to fly a kite. A quick conversation with a young German kite surfer educated us to the dangers of the sport. Many people have had ears and fingers sliced off when their kite strings pull from the force of the winds. Even worse, decapitation is not totally unknown. Apparently a man had been beheaded last year when his kite strings became entangled with another surfer. So, Andy and I remained spectators of the sport and looked with interest across the water to Africa and pondered taking a day trip to Morocco.

On our second morning in Tarifa we walked the extensive beach into town. The walk along the beach from the campsite into town takes about forty-five minutes, and the time passed quickly as we ran into another couple from the campground and began a conversation. David and Isabelle are from Australia. Actually, Isabelle now resides in Australia, by way of Chile. She left Chile two decades ago seeking political asylum. While in Australia she met David, a true ‘outback’ Aussie who tells stories of world travels that keeps the listener engaged and amused. They were in Spain visiting a couple they had met while camping in their home country. The couple, Vicente and Catalina, had invited them to Spain so that they could show them all the beauty that Spain has to offer. But, I digress. We walked with David and Isabelle to Tarifa and they showed us the entrance to the old walled city and directed us to an internet café so we could check our mail. At the café we parted ways and agreed to meet later for drinks back at the campground. Andy and I strolled the small cobblestone streets of Tarifa, winding in and out of buildings like a maze. The Moorish influence is most evident in Tarifa, with striking rounded architecture and intricate designs woven into building facades. And, if you take the time to peer through building doorways, you will find yourself staring into beautiful courtyards, ornately decorated with blue and white Spanish tiles. We had lunch in Tarifa at a café along the promenade taking time to enjoy our favorite pastime, people watching.

Later that night we walked over to David and Isabelles and enjoyed a bottle of wine, or rather I should say several bottles of wine. Vincente and Catalina schooled us on many things Spanish, including but not limited to wine, regions worth visiting, and Spanish music. For Spanish music they highly recommend the guitarist Paco De Lucia. Later, while visiting Seville we were able to pick up one of his cd’s, and listened to the rhythmic strumming of one of Spain’s musical treasures as we drove through the Spanish countryside bound for Portugal.

Vincente and Catalina are natives of Mallorca, and many laughs were shared that evening as Vincente pointed out to us ‘six degrees of separation’ between just about everything gracing the globe and Mallorca. Junipero Serra…from Mallorca. Christopher Colombus…born in Mallorca. Bill Clinton…visitor to Mallorca. Willie Nelson…Mallorcan. Okay, so I made the last one up, but you get the gist. It became a long running joke, and everything that came out of Vincente’s mouth was followed by a pause only to be broken by my chiming in with, “Isn’t he Mallorcan?”

After getting to know each other a bit we could tell that we had been accepted into the fold as Catalina instructed Vincente to go to their refrigerator and get the ‘good stuff’. What emerged was a soft spicy sausage spread called Sobrasada. The spread tastes similar to linguica and is served on toasted bread. Sobrasada was followed by pastry from Mallorca and Spanish champagne produced by a vintner friend of theirs. They waited to hear our evaluation of the sparkling wine to tell us that we probably wouldn’t have cared to know how it was produced. Evidently it’s a small production, done for friends and family the ‘old fashioned way’. My vivid imagination instantly planted a picture of a very hairy man with dirt laden feet stomping the grapes that made the water of life I was now drinking. I guess I had drunk enough of the bubbly not to care, because as a group we polished off two bottles of the stuff.

The following evening we met and played billiards with a young couple from England. Kit and Kate are on holiday and had come to Spain to hit the beaches and explore the Sierra Nevadas. We talked until the billiard room closed and then moved the party to our tent and talked until the wee hours of the morning. They shared many travel stories, especially extreme sports stories and I listened intently, remembering what it was like to be young again and have no fear.

Taking a break from slow pace of beach bumming, Andy and I drove to the rock of Gibraltar one day. The queues to gain entry to Gibraltar are long. Gibraltar, one of the few remaining territories of the United Kingdom requires one wishing to visit to meet the same entry conditions as if you were traveling to England. As our car inched along in traffic we prepared our passports and vehicle documentation. Then, we realized it may be necessary to provide Petey’s passport. It dawned on us that Petey had not yet had the two treatments needed for entry to the United Kingdom (as they have to be administered 48 hours ahead of any visit to the England and we weren’t planning to go to the United Kingdom until October). We knew Petey would be eager to jump to the window when we rolled up to the border crossing and panic set in. Had we waited all this time in line only to be turned away at the last moment? Sharper minds prevailed and we threw a Greenie into the back seat just as we made our final approach to the border agent. Petey dutifully jumped in the back (and out of site of border patrol) and we were in. With that said, Gibraltar turned out to be one of the ‘should have skipped it’ stops on our journey.

Gibraltar as a rock is actually quite impressive…if admiring from afar. Once you are on the rock, a mess of traffic and run down buildings combined with unorganized redevelopment construction is all one sees. I liken the rock to a dilapidated military installation turned tourist attraction, sprinkled with locals who have stayed on the rock for who knows what reason. If you ask me it’s a major fire hazard, an island with a maze of misplanned streets leading virtually nowhere. All directions point to a small area of pedestrianized streets that the tourism board likens to a mini England, complete with pubs serving fish and chips. Wandering the streets felt like visiting an amusement park that had fallen on hard times, and that paired with the road rage coming from the cars of nearly every passing vehicle made for a stressful visit. At one point, Andy and a local of Gibraltar were having a verbal duel for a parking space that ended with the man shouting, “Go back to America” and an expletive I won’t repeat here because tender eyes are reading this log. By the way…we were rightfully entitled to the space as we were there first.

For our part, we tried to make the best of it and ventured all the way to the other side of the island (where the road literally and abruptly ends) to watch tankers pass into the Strait of Gibraltar. Marine vessels litter the waterways and one looks out at the sea wondering what far away lands the goods are destined for. One positive thing to note is the wonderful views to Africa that can be had on a clear day. We were lucky enough to visit on such a day and sat on the nearly deserted far side of the island having a picnic lunch and remembering that our British friend Tracy had told us not to bother with the stop. Boy was she right…

Back in Tarifa we met a couple from the Netherlands who spend five weeks at the campground we were staying at. Erik first approached me by our van and asked the string of questions we are so used to getting now, “You’re from the United States? How’d you get that car here?” Our conversation continued with Erik sharing about his travels in the states and later he invited us over for a BBQ where we met his girlfriend Linda (a dedicated nudist) and spent the evening chatting about politics. And I do mean chatting. There was no discussion or debate, just friendly chatting about how current political climates have changed our two nations. We may live on opposite ends of the globe, but we face similar issues. Separate, but the same. From Erik we picked up another culinary trick that we have now incorporated into our daily routine…cappuccinos topped with whipped cream and sprinkled with cinnamon. Mmmmm…

Our week long stay in Tarifa ended with me vowing to return again one day and driving slowly along the last stretches of coastline, so as to savor each last mile. Within a few minutes the coastline disappeared and we were heading toward the three grand cities of Granada, Cordoba, and Seville to visit historic landmarks worthy of short stopovers.

Before reaching the trio of cities we drove the winding roads of Spain into the rolling hillsides, populated almost completely by olive trees. It appears that there are as many olive trees as Spaniards, since olive trees seem to drape the landscape with their silvery green leaves. We stopped for a night in Ronda, Spain, a village sitting high atop a gorge valley. There are two bridges in the city that day back to Roman times and the views from the bridge overlooks are terrifying. The town itself is known for its’ bullring, as it is one of the oldest and most monumental. We strolled through the Bullfighting museum, which has an extensive collection of bullfighting art and costumes. We also were able to see a special exhibit of the Royal Harness Collection, an imposing collection of the ornamental gear worn by horses used for Royal events and travel throughout the ages. A fabulous exhibit, and not to be missed. After the museum we walked through the bullring, climbing the stairs to the viewing levels, all the time feeling the wave of excitement that lives there whether visiting during a sold out bullfight or when the ring is filled only with the spirits of past matadors.

The main street in town provides the perfect environment for a late afternoon stroll and we walk the cobblestone streets stopping only for a gelato and to people watch. Later, we biked two miles back to the campsite, almost completely an uphill battle, and were disappointed to see that the swimming pool at the campground had not yet opened for the season.

The next morning we drove to Granada to see what many guide books list at the “If you only see one thing in Spain…” place, the Alhambra. Granada itself is a dizzying city, complete with traffic snarls and dilapidated barrios. Yet, perched high atop the city is an oasis, a Moorish palace and gardens that have been exquisitely maintained. When you first arrive there is a theme park feel, as gates and ticket booths swell with throngs of tourists But, don’t be deterred. Once you enter the gates, the crowds reduce to a trickle as visitors fan out to explore the massive grounds. We spent the afternoon wandering through the gardens, visiting the ruins, and looking out at the spectacular city views.

At our assigned time we visited the palace and became mesmerized by the architecture and intricacy of design. The palace has sculpted waterways running throughout the maze of rooms and courtyards, and one can see how water has become such a grand and luxurious symbol of life. The detail in the tile work is all at once a puzzle and marvel of workmanship. Most of all, I was impressed by the arched windows, nearly all of which provided a panoramic view of lush green grounds and bountiful fruit trees. I can understand why royalty built the jewel know simply as Alhambra, which translated from Arabic (al-Hamra) means “the red”. And a fine red jewel it is.

For our next stop we ventured to Cordoba. The manager of a campground that was filled to capacity directed us to a rural park that had campsites that resemble the style of camping we are more accustomed to in the states. Spring wildflowers could be seen in fields of pine trees and the setting was tranquil. After a restful nights sleep we drove to the city center, left the van by a heavily shaded park and biked to the famous La Mezquita.

The great mosque known as La Mezquita now houses a church and tiny chapels that surround the perimeter are dedicated to the many saints Catholics pay homage to. I never realized how entrancing religious art could be until my visit to the Mezquita. I was particularly taken with one piece, and gazed through the chapel gates to admire the attention to detail and rich color the artist had used. For the first time in my life I found myself looking, and I mean really looking, at the paintings before me. Small nuances that had gone unnoticed before were now glaring beacons. I’m not saying that I was having a ‘Da Vinci Code’ moment (read the book to know what I mean, and forget about seeing the movie), but the breadth of the paintings is too much to be absorbed by just a passing glance.

Also in the Mezquita is one of the largest wood carvings in the world. Yet another masterpiece, the deep rich brown stained wood encompasses seats for the leaders of the church, pulpits, and decorative features that extend high into the busily cherub painted oval ceiling. Rows of benches are rarely empty as tour groups and individuals alike take a seat to admire the carvings, each blink of the eye bringing a newly discovered face or crest. It too is a piece of art that reminds one of the great attention to detail paid by artists of yesteryear, who for some one piece could end up being a lifelong work.

After visiting the church we wandered into the Jewish Quarter, where the only sign that Jews once dominated the landscape could be seen in the ornately painted street signs bearing Jewish names and the small Jewish star tiles for sale at tourist shops.

We rode our bikes back to the van and decided to picnic in the park. Andy made sandwiches consisting of salami, cucumber, peppers, cheese, and tomatoes on freshly baked pannini bread. They were ‘scrummy’, as our British friend Linda would say. Yep, you guessed it…yummy. On our way out of town we picked up a piece of Torte Espana for the following day’s breakfast, a quiche like torte made with eggs and potatoes

Our final stop on the cannonball tour of the trio of cities was Seville, home to the largest gothic cathedral in the world and the Alcazar citadel. Unfortunately, with the fame of being the ‘largest’ of anything, comes the drawback of major tourism trade. The cathedral is nearly completely encircled by book and trinket stands selling all of the usual guides to the site (in a minimum of five languages of course).

For me, the best part of the visit was the stop I made at a churro stand run by a young Spanish couple. The churros coiled like a hose and sizzled in the oil, only to be plucked from the bubbling cauldron by a huge round spatula like net. Drained of the grease, wrapped in paper and sprinkled with sugar, the churro makes a perfect portable snack for sightseeing.

Back on the road again, it was a matter of an hour or two and we were crossing a bridge into Portugal. We stopped at the border tourism office and were welcomed by a smiling, well informed tourism office employee. She provided guides to the sixteen municipalities of the Algarve region and directed us to the village of Ohlao, for a traditional fishing village atmosphere. We spent a few days touring the town, rather unspoiled by tourism and then continued along the national highway.

During our drive we stopped in Faro to visit a Jewish cemetery and museum, the cemetery being the only remaining sign of post Inquisition Jewish presence in the Algarve. Smack dab in the middle of the busy Faro city center, the nearly hidden iron gates open to reveal a courtyard filled with cypress trees. The small cemetery has just over 100 graves, some marked by marble gravestones and others simple pebble graves. The small museum provides a detailed history of the small Jewish presence found in Portugal, the most notable being how the Jewish community in Faro actually came about after the Marquis de Pombal asked a sixty family Jewish group to relocate to Portugal to help rebuild the post 1755 earthquake economy.

Back on the road again I began to notice one striking difference between the national roads of Portugal and Spain.
An interesting aspect to the driving in Portugal is that unlike Spain, where the highway hugs the coast, in Portugal the coastline is a well kept secret, a stones throw from the highway. Take any turn off the highway bound for the coast and you are rewarded with quaint fishing villages and unspoiled beaches. But remain on the highway and you miss it all. I think it’s what’s kept development at a limited pace, a marvel considering the beauty of the Portugal’s coast.

After leaving Olhao we drove the Algarve coast all the way to the tip of the continent, Cape Vincente. Dramatic cliff top drops are only rivaled by the fisherman leaning over the edge trying for the daily catch. A hazardous sport perfectly captured in a photo exhibit at the museum housed at the citadel.

Returning to the Eastern Algarve we decided to stop in a tiny fishing village. Armacao de Pera strikes the perfect balance between understated tourism in harmony with local people. Beautiful beaches and coast side cafes hug the coves and the people are friendly and inviting. We decided to stay awhile and enjoy the seaside town. Days are spent riding to town for the early morning market and lounging by the campground pool. Evenings are calm, with a gentle breeze whistling through the eucalyptus trees. Right now as I write this update the sun has set and a neighboring camper is playing folk music, presumably from his homeland of the Netherlands. He serenades us each evening as the sun slides down the orange tree lined groves of the Algarve coast. The slow soothing sounds of his accordion will lull us to sleep tonight as we dream about adventures that lie ahead.

When Andy and I first decided to leave the United States and venture on a road trip, we had looked into living in Switzerland. After all, our purpose for leaving the states was disgust with the current political climate. We simply needed somewhere to stay for a few years, to register our feelings by walking away from the land we loved. When we decided to ship our campervan to Europe, many new doors opened. With the freedom our campervan provided, we would be able to explore more of Europe than we initially thought. So with that in mind, we took our hard earned ‘all mighty dollars’ and headed to Switzerland, the bullseye of Europe, a starting point for our adventure.

As thoughts of winter approached, we were looking for warmer weather to rest our heels, and we thought France would provide the needed respite from the road. We would have been traveling for four months by then, and the luxury of a stationary bathroom and a comfortable bed all had their pros. So, when Andy stumbled on the house-sitting gig in the South of France it seemed ideal. We had often discussed that the duration of the house-sitting job seemed a bit long. For wanderers such as us, five months seemed like a long time to stay in one place. We debated day and night until we finally decided that where we were was less important than the statement we were trying to make. We did not want to live in a ‘Bush run’ society, and by walking with our wallets we would be happy to call wherever we landed (so long as it was outside the contiguous United States) home. Don’t get me wrong, we enjoy being American, and all the privilege that our citizenship entitles us to. We think of the Great Plains with fondness, we remember with enthusiasm the coastline of Maine, with its rock laden beaches, and our mouths salivate at the thought of North Beach pizza. We often talk about the rich diversity the Bay Area offers, the culture we have come to know and appreciate. As a line in a film we recently viewed said, “America was made from the sweepings of all the other countries.” How true that is, and how lucky we are to sample the ‘best’ of all the worlds societies.

With that said, five months in the South of France should have provided the respite needed for weary travelers. An opportunity to decompress from a pre-trip life filled with all the trappings of the ‘rat race’ culture we had become accustomed to. Instead, domesticity was the order of the day. Flying blindly, we learned that heating a house doesn’t always come from simply hitting a switch. Shopping for essentials was limited to the pace of the culture we were now immersed in, meaning that you must plan in advance of a trip to town for groceries. Country life comes with the occasional mouse, and other furry multi-legged creatures, so the faint hearted need not apply for the job. And, dial-up internet is truly a throw back. I never realized how precious my high speed internet connection was until I tried to download yet another attachment from my father, the serial spammer. Finally, the language barrier proved difficult to overcome. Our reliance on translation by the British contingency here left us feeling awkward and ignorant. Yet we persevered, and in true American form used our creativity (and the aid of a travel dictionary) to get our point across. The only thing left behind in the translation was my seemingly unabashed directness. Probably not such a bad thing.

So what have we been doing for the last few months? We have had the fortune of welcoming many friends and family to our little vacation home (on loan). First to visit was my Father, and he brought with him all the positivism and ‘go getter’ personality I have come to know him for. With my Dad we explored the rich gastronomic delights, walked the medieval streets of Bergerac, roamed through a few of France’s ‘beautiful villages’ (a distinction given to a mere 100 plus villages), and tasted France’s well established wines, cognacs, and pineaus. Down time (of which there was little) was spent revisiting old memories and laughing as we watched our mouths emit a cold fog each time we took a breath in the house. We centered our late evenings in the main living room, as it was the only room in the house warmed by the wood burning stove. As we relaxed on the couches and chatted each evening away, we would retire later and later each night, fully aware of the 30 degree temperature swing once the confines of the living room were left. As we said good night, we would each run from the 70 degree living room to our forty degree bedrooms and quickly slip under the bed comforter.

The holidays brought even colder weather, and after the first of the year we saw our first snowfall. By days end, nearly six inches had fallen.

We spent Thanksgiving and our anniversary eating absolutely horrendous Chinese food. We had tried to find a turkey to roast, but goose was the order of the day. So, we thought, “How bad could it be?” Pretty bad. At Christmas we were able to secure a real bird, and had an ‘All American’ Thanksgiving dinner.

As the winter doldrums set in we occupied our time mowing the lawn at Chauffour, not an easy task as it takes nearly five hours to complete the job, and attending American and British film screenings at a local Brits’. And, on the odd sunny day we hosted impromptu photo sessions with Petey, ever the willing subject. We also had the good fortune to be welcomed into the home of the Williams and Faulkner family, British transplants to France who were a constant source of social gatherings and spirited political and cultural conversation (not to mention the unlimited assistance they provided to aid with our assimilation into local culture).

February was an exciting time for us. We were able to purchase tickets to the Olympics in Torino, Italy. We made a quick turnaround trip to Torino to see the US hockey team beat Kazakhstan.

Our seats were amazing. In an arena that seats less than 6000 people, we were dumbfounded as the row number on our tickets took us closer and closer to the ice. We stopped at row three, just over and arms length from the glass wall encircling the ice. Apparently I was seated next to a semi-celebrity, Cris Carter. Not knowing who he or his posse was, I began chatting away, and when Andy nudged me to let me know who the famous neighbors’ seat belonged to, I began to understand why so much attention had been drawn to our row. We also attended the Team Final Speed Skating event.

Between venues we were able to explore Torino’s lively streets, abuzz with sports enthusiasts from all over the world. Apart from the terrible air pollution, the city shined. All in all, it was a positive experience, and we started to entertain the idea of going to the Olympics when they are in Vancouver in 2010.

Also in February, my sister visited with two friends. Ladies tend to have a different sightseeing schedule than men. Generally, men prefer to visit historic sights, meander halls of museums, and inspect the general construction and architecture of the country they are visiting. Most women, let’s face it, like to shop. So for a few days we played tour guide to some of France’s beautiful villages, and dropped the lot off in Bordeaux for a day of high end shopping. While they explored Bordeaux, we drove to the coast at Cape Ferret, home to Europe’s largest sand dune. The beach is dotted with old World War II bunkers, in varying states of disrepair. Some rest where the waves lap the beach, and others have only begun to fall from the dunes. In another century or so all remnants of the war here will be gone, forever resting on the sea floor.

March brought a friend from work and her husband, and my Mother also came for a visit.

We were able to explore towns we had not yet seen in the Dordogne. We visited underground caves and the medieval town of Sarlat. Our friend Leigh held a special screening of the film Syriana for us, and we also did the prerequisite pineau tasting. At the end of my Mother’s visit I accompanied her to Paris for four days of sightseeing. Unlike past trips to Paris, I fell in love with the culture and café life. My Mother and I roamed the streets, soaking up Parisian lifestyle. We dined well, visited the Louvre, and spent each night resting our feet for the next day’s adventures. On our last day in Paris students staged the largest of many protests that had been taking place to demonstrate against a newly proposed labor law. Thousands of people took to the streets, and the atmosphere was all at once exciting and on the verge of chaos. As I walked to the Gare to catch the train back to Chauffour, I swelled with emotion as I watched students and union members alike shouting their disapproval of unfair labor practices through the streets of Paris.

Between visitors one of the cats, Elvis, managed to get into a pretty serious fight with a neighbor cat. After repeated attempts to get him into a crate for a visit to the vet, we finally had Dr. Bonvalet come to the house. We have become quite familiar with the local vet, as he has been treating Petey for a heart murmur and hypothyroidism. He’s a nutty professor of sorts, somewhere between Peter Sellers in the film “The Party” and Dr. Doolittle. On our last visit to the Dr. Bonvalet’s office he conducted a blood draw on Petey, and by the time the dust settled I couldn’t tell who had been pricked more, the dog or the vet.

Post treatment, Elvis the innkeeper’s cat had a nearly bare back. Hairless and lanky, we kept him in the barnhouse to try to keep him in one piece until the owner’s return from South Africa. While on lockdown, Elvis became a most affectionate cat, and I would spend long hours with him in the evening, stroking his remaining fur and watching the show ‘Medium’ on satellite television.

Cilla on the other hand, sister to Elvis, has grown so accustomed to being around Petey that she thought sharing food and water bowls with Petey would be okay. Needless to stay, Petey was not exactly gentlemanly. We watched as he began to guard his food and water bowl with vigor, and would laugh as we watched Cilla sneak to his water bowl when he was sleeping and lap up whatever water remained. For someone who never cared much for cats, I’ve grown quite fond of Elvis and Cilla, and venture to say that they remind me more of dogs than the cats I’ve come into contact with in the past.

During our final week Andy’s family came for a visit. We visited all the local haunts and each night brought a new gastronomical delight. Luckily, we covered so much territory on foot in each town visited that we earned the right to eat like kings each night. One of the highlights of the visit was a trip to a working walnut farm. The owner provided a personal tour and tasting, and the typical French hospitality was evident from start to finish. Almost every evening ended by the fire sampling Pineau’s we had purchased. It was a truly memorable five days, as Andy and I were able to spend true quality time with his side of the family.

As we prepared to leave Chauffour excitement began to build. We wondered where our adventures would take us. We knew we were destined for warmer weather and sandy beaches. We bid farewell to our five month house-sitting job and hit the road. Our first night was spent in Carcassone, a lovely walled city in southern France. At dusk we walked inside the city walls and wondered with amazement how the massive stone structures and fortress had been built. What had life been like there in the year 1000? As we walked the winding, narrow streets, we imagined townsfolk pounding the pavement we now traveled.

The following day we crossed into Spain and began to drive the toll free roads along the aquamarine coastline. We stayed one night in Badalona, a staging point for a visit to Barcelona. The campground was run down, and the beach, while only 100 yards away required crossing a major highway and local train line tracks. Not exactly welcoming. On the short drive to Barcelona we decided to stop at an auto glass shop to repair a chip in the windshield sustained during the drive from France to Spain. We left the shop three cell phones light, minus a Lingo translator and address book. We realized the loss after we parked in Barcelona and were preparing to head out for a day of sightseeing. Needless to say, our spirits and mood were dampened. I had no interest in seeing Barcelona, instead opting to drive back to Badalona (how appropriate a name) and confront the shop manager. I spent over an hour going back and forth with the manager about the theft, and while my Spanish proved much better than I ever thought it was, no resolution was to be had. With my conscience clear, having vented all of my frustration at the repair shop, Andy and I left the Catalan region quickly, opting for the swift paid highway system. We sat in silence in the car, with only the realization that we had been robbed after just two days on the road to fill our minds.

With a soured attitude we rolled into a campground in Vinaros, Spain. We have our good fortune (and a good guide book) to thank for making a bad situation better. At first glance the campground was nothing special, just another stop in a beach skirting town with a name that would be soon forgotten. Oh, how wrong that assumption turned out to be. The pitches were large and the restrooms better equipped and more lavishly decorated than some high end hotels I’ve frequented in past years. Yet, still it seemed nothing could shake the bad feelings left from our detour in Badalona. That was until we were returning from the office where we booked one night’s stay. As we turned the corner onto the gravel road leading to our campsite, a welcoming group of British snowbirds greeted us, and within five minutes we were sharing an evening of stories and sweet Spanish wine. All six people we met spent the winters here in Vinaros, and could not speak higher of the place. Tony and Pat (Tony looks like the suntanned brother of actor Dennis Franz) are a British couple in there early sixties who live to laugh and are quick to fill your wine glass and keep spirits merry. David and Linda are a couple in their late forties. David works for an auto rally team and whisks off to exotic destinations to meet the racing team, and Linda used to work in Banking in the UK. Rhina and Johann who round out the group are from the Netherlands, and are a Harley Davidson riding couple who say more in glances than some do in words. We swapped stories until the sun set on the Spanish sky and then we moved into Tony and Pat’s RV for mince pies and more conversation. By nights end we had decided to book a weeks stay and the following morning our new found friends showed us around the small fishing village of Vinaros by bicycle. We spent the afternoon sipping drinks from a beachside café and learning the tricks of the trade for sun chasing caravanners.

On Monday the campground celebrated a ten year anniversary in what can only be described as the film ‘Cocoon’ meets ‘Sexy Beast’ (see the flicks and you’ll know what I mean). Vinaros campground is loaded with 70 plus year old folks from the Netherlands, Germany, Great Britain, and Belgium. So far, the Netherlands has the largest population here, and most spend the entire winter and spring, heading back up north in late May. The anniversary party brought nearly two hundred people together. People of all shapes and sizes, and speaking too many languages to count. There was one common theme; drinking sangria and having a good time.

Our new friends welcomed us again to their flock, and we danced and sang the afternoon away. After the party we returned to the office to again lengthen our stay. At just over eleven dollars a night, with electricity, clean hot showers, and good company…it’s a bargain.

So that is where we are now; spending lazy days reading at our campsite, with the occasional visitor stopping by eager to talk about past and upcoming travels, and planning trips to the beautiful covered market to purchase fresh fruits, vegetables, and fish for our evening meal. We have the occasional invite to a neighbor’s pitch for dinner; last night was lasagna followed by a dessert of fresh pineapple soaked in a sweet Spanish dessert wine. And if there’s time left in the day, we may take a nap in the lounge chair, feeling the cool Mediterranean breeze coax our cares away. Who knows…maybe we’ll extend our stay here again.

For all of you that have been following our log, we thought it might be interesting to read about our travels from a different perspective. My father visited at the beginning of December and the following are his daily journal entries…

BRO GOES ABROAD
France 2005

Thursday, December 1

I left the house at 8:55 AM. Pat dropped me off at San Leandro BART. I arrived at SFO at 10:25 AM (there was a tracking delay) and took the airport train to the terminal. I packed two bags. The heavier one barely made the no charge limit at 48.6 lbs; the maximum allowed is 50 lbs. American Airlines pushed off at noon through wind and rain. I arrived at NY@ 8:30 PM, transferred planes and departed JFK @9:30 PM.

Friday, December 2

I landed at CDG @10:30 AM. The regular gate was not available so we parked on the tarmac, deplaned by stairs and were bussed to the terminal. Took the Air France shuttle bus to Gare Montparnasse. Traffic was horrendous. I made my train with only 5 minutes to spare. I was so pressed for time I did not stamp my ticket. The TGV train left the station at 2:10 PM; it was a non-stop trip Angouleme arriving at 4:15 PM. As I walked on the platform toward the station, Leah came to greet me. It was so good to hug my daughter again. As we approached the van, Petey did a double take. When Andy opened the door, out Petey flew—he was excited.

The ride home was scenic, through rolling hill country dotted with villages in the Donne river valley.

The main crop in this area is corn. There is also a lumber mill near Leah’s place. Petey has a platform bed between the two front seats, so he got lots of strokes on the ride home to Gite Chauffour. Leah served cold cuts and pate for dinner.

Jet lag set in, and it was time to hit the sack!

Saturday, December 3

A short drive to Riberac for baked goods. We had soup at a country club where a crafts fair was being held.

We then went to Aubeterre, a classified “Most beautiful French village.”

Built on limestone cliffs overlooking the Dronne River, its main attraction is a historical church hewn into the limestone cliffs.

While we were sightseeing, wood was delivered to Gite Chauffour. In winter that is the main source of heat. This area of France has electric rationing for residents in the form of price differention. A blue day is normal charges per KWH. A white day is 4X, and a red day is 10X normal. A device hooked into the telephone line displays the week’s schedule. The aim is to prioritize use for industry and (I learned later) to sell excess power to Italy. The living room (wood heated) can be 80◦; The bedrooms 45◦.

That evening we ate an excellent 5 course price fixe for 24 euros in Riberac. At anytime of the day, food, especially foie gras, is important in the Dordogne. Even more so now, since truffles are in season. My kind of visit! On our return home, we had a closer of Pineau, the drink of the Perigord region. It is a combination of white wine and cognac, running about 18% alcohol.

Sunday, December 4

Leah and I walked Petey on roads and through woods in rain suits. A hunter and dogs greeted us. On Sunday, everything closes in this part of France. Hanging out by the fire we watched an off the wall British TV show “Little Britain.”

Monday, December 5

Travelled to Cognac for a private tour and tasting at the Remy-Martin distillery headquarters.

Three hours of education and tasting with food parings. Much learned including the difference between VSOP, XO and EXTRA. It’s the years in the cask and the price. XO is 50 to 100 years old. EXTRA is over 100 years old. The “legs” in wine are called “tears” in cognac. An EXTRA cognac called Louis XIII is in excess of $1000 Euros.

A different brand of Remy-Martin, named “Club”, is marketed in Asia, Remy’s #1 market. It has a red label and an 8 sided bottle and cap because the color red and the number 8 are considered lucky among the Chinese. This Cognac is supposed to be more spicy, although it was hard for me to detect. Our tastings were paired with food. One included cognac in a shot glass, both right out of the freezer, paired with a blini topped with smoked salmon and capers. Look for it in future advertisements.

Upon our return, we did a quick change and went to dinner at Leah and Andy’s friends’ house. They are two transplanted British couples who live in France permanently. We had good conversation, a formal dinner (coq au vin was the entrée) and good wines. A very comfortable and warm (literally & figuratively) setting. One couple also own a home in Tampa, FL that their parents use. Brits come here for 3 reasons: warmer weather, cheaper prices (consumer and housing costs) and superior health care through the social security system.

Below is a picture of the family dogs, a source of entertainment throughout the evening…

Tuesday, Dec 6

Finally, sunny and blue skies appeared. Drove to Bergerac area for winetasting on our own. We concentrated on the Pecharmant area, considered the best reds of the Bergerac appellation. Visited Domaine des Costes, run by a female winemaker who recommended a restaurant. Then to lunch in the old city of Bergerac, once a Protestant stronghold.

Leah and I had whole sautéed fish, Andy had beef. EXCELLENT! On full bellies we dutifully returned to the wine trail.

We visited Chateau D’Elle, another small operation run by a noted female winemaker. Pecharmant wines are either half Merlot and half Cabernet Franc with 5% Cabernet Sauvignon. The more Merlot, the fruitier. However these are DRY wines with tannins. Chateau E’Elle was pricey (13 & 22 Euros) for the two wines they produce, but the best tasting of the day. Next was a larger winery (15,000 cases) Haut au Pecharmant. Cheap wines, readily available in wine shops (CAVES). Lastly, was Domaine Les Galineaux. The wife opened the cellar for us. They had good wine for 6 Euros. We returned to Bergerac and walked the city into the night. The Medieval area is very picturesque.

Wednesday, December 7

Another overcast day for our trip to Saint Emilion. We picked up the guide, Isabelle, at 8:30 AM and drove to Saint Emilion, considered the holy grail of Bordeaux lovers.

The tours, tastings and lunch were a Hannukah gift from Leah and Andy. Our first visit was to Union de Producteurs of Saint Emilion, a huge co-op of 250 producers. A 2 and 1 half hour tour of a modern stainless steel facility. Not quite the quaint, rustic winery I expected.

We had lunch in St. Emilion, a town that overlooks vineyards in all directions.
We toured Chateau Clos Le Fourtet next. It was the highlight of the day and the closest vineyard to Saint Emilion.

This Chateau produces Grad Cru Classe – “Best of breed.” The owner’s son was easygoing and informative.

His father sold an office supply business in Paris which enabled him to purchase the Chateau in 2001. There are three levels of wine cellars, but only the top is in use. Basically, these are built out of limestone caves created when the stone to build Saint Emilion was quarried from them. My camera batteries ran out in the cellars but Leah took some great photos.

Clos Le Fourtet makes 7000 cases. Cheapest bottle is 46 Euros. We tasted in a grand room built in the 1700’s. Next we went to Chateau Laramand where the facilities are new and the winery is owned by one of France’s largest insurance companies. The manager and winemaker is a woman; the only female to hold dual positions among the grand chateaux. Laramande produces around 10,000 cases. They are doing cutting edge technology: square stainless steel vats, temperature controlled with 4” liner of clay insulation. The tasting was in the lab since the tasting cellar had suffered some water damage. We returned to the town and strolled the streets past dark. Again, very picturesque.

Thursday, December 8th

Today we are off to Oradour – sur – Glane. On June 10, 1944, German SS troops massacred the entire village. They machine gunned the men in a field and burned the women and children in the church. A total of 642 people died, including 200 children. The next day the Germans destroyed the town hoping to erase evidence of their crime. The town is as it was on that day, totally preserved as a WWII memorial.

A large modern museum was built into the hillside with translations in English and German. It had a fairly thorough treatment of the rise of Nazism, the SS, the National Front (French Nazis) and the SS unit that committed the atrocity. The museum presentations and self tour of the village took about 3 hours. Quite moving, especially the cemetery.

A docent told me 13,000 students come through annually. A high school group in attendance while we were there seemed very moved as well. We debriefed on the ride back, stopping for dinner in Riberac. We had a down home Prix Fix 5 course meal with big portions. I had a hot minced duck gizzard salad that was over the top. With a liter of wine & Leah’s Orangina it came to 64 Euros for 3. Oui, le repas le dinner. Etait est bon!

Friday December 9th

Left the house at 8:30 to visit the Riberac Friday market. A wide variety of produce, meat, cheese, pates as well as clothes, cookware, plates, etc. An indoor hall held shelves of duck, goose and parts thereof. Amazing how large the goose foie de gras are. Truffle sales were also taking place. Observed how quiet and seemingly secretive are the negotiations between buyers and sellers. Next off to Perigeaux, capital of the Dordogne region. Perigeaux dates from Roman times and the medieval part of the city is a bustling retail and restaurant area. We toured the cathedral, had a good lunch and walked the streets.

It was a beautiful crisp, clear day. Life is good. On the road out of town is a large Limoge china outlet. Bought a couple of inexpensive pieces which I hope weather the trip home. In Riberac we stopped at a large E Eclerc supermarket. They have a much bigger selection of foods than the largest Safeway I’ve been in. Leeks are sold 2 feet high in onion style bags, for 3 Euros per kilo. Endive is also extensive; 1.50 Euros per kilo. Incidentally at the morning market, endive was presented with the root on. On our return home, Leah and I walked a 3 mile loop with Petey. Whenever we are on tour Petey walks with us. At sites and restaurants where he cannot accompany us, Petey stays in the van which has a propane heater to keep him comfortable. That evening we had fish & chips at a British hangout owned by folks the kids know. It’s not French cooking…..

Saturday December 10th

Leah and Andy had heard some dripping above their bedroom during a rainstorm a few days earlier. A Brit came in the morning to evaluate the problem and was able to reset some roof tiles that had slipped using a ladder and a long stick. He’ll return tomorrow with scaffolding to reset those he was unable to reach. High winds & low flying military jets can cause the tiles to slip. The roof is symptomatic of the problems many of these older residences face. They need constant repair, especially roofs—and a number collapse. It’s been clear with frost on the ground the past couple mornings.

Markus is flying in from Zurich to Bordeaux in the AM. He and girlfriend Barbara arrived at 2:30 PM.

We spent the rest of the day catching up, drinking wine and consuming pates and cheeses Leah laid out. Markus looks great and Barbara is a delightful and attractive lady. I feel a special relationship with Markus. Though we don’t see each other often, when we do it’s like having family return. That evening we dined at Le Commensal in Riberac. Without a doubt the best meal I ate in the Dordogne. We did a prix fix at 24 Euros. Everyone started with a demitasse of pumpkin soup with walnut oil. I followed with a rectangular plate of fois gras pate done 4 different ways. The most unusual was a creme brullee pate. Exquisite! I spoke with the chef after the meal and he explained the recipe. My entrée was minced duck in a dark sauce covered by truffle flavored mashed potatoes. This was plated as an inverted mold of gradient color. Excellent! Desert was a ginger pear tart with a demitasse of ginger infused heavy cream on the side. Unfortunately, I did not bring my camera, for every presentation was a work of art. The chef and maitre de trained together and worked in Montreal and Dubai before coming to Riberac a year ago. A civic asset!

Sunday, December 11th

Leah and Andy laid out a great breakfast in the dining room. The roofer arrived as we were eating. Leah and Andy soon helped him.

Markus, Barbara and I drove to Brantome, “The Venice of Perigord”, about 45 minutes away. It is a beautiful town tucked in against limestone cliffs and criss-crossed by waterways.

On our return we stopped in Bourdelles for a glass of wine and witnessed folk dancing to live music, very similar to French – Canadian country reels. After pausing to say goodbye, Markus and Barbara drove on to Bordeaux to catch a flight back to Zurich. Leah and I walked the 3 mile loop under clear skies and a cold wind. Frost is still noticeable in the shade.

Monday, December 12th

Cold and foggy. Since Petey may need a place to hunker down during the day, we took the van to Bordeaux rather than the train (dogs are allowed on public transit in France). We parked along the Gironde River opposite downtown, then took a tram into the city center. Cool and clear weather made walking enjoyable.

Bordeaux, an attractive city, is the second largest in France. For four hours we strolled the Quartier Pierre, which includes very upscale shopping areas. This part of the city is pedestrian friendly, with streets restricted to trams or service vehicles.

At one large square we shopped a traditional Christmas market. Good quality items and good food. Instead of returning by tram, we walked across the bridge to the van. Petey was a trooper all day and, dressed in his brilliant red coat, drew complements from passersby.

For the first time since Paris, I see significant diversity in the population. Leah cooks up dinner and we drink more St. Emilion wine. This is the life!

Tuesday, December 13th

Drove to Angouleme to take the TGV to Paris. Leah, Andy and Petey hung out on the platform until my departure. I’m sad to leave but ready to return to California. Leah and Andy need a rest too, for I’ve been pushing the sightseeing button every day. Petey, my bed mate will be missed. When I checked into my hotel opposite Gare Montparnasse, I was told that renovation of my room was not complete and I would be taxied to a hotel across town in the St. Lazare/ Opera House area. This contains one of the finer shopping areas of Paris. I strolled Boulevard Haussman and adjacent streets all afternoon. The window displays at Galarie Lafayette and Printemp Dept. Store were incredible and so were the crowds. The displays are theme based and use computer programmed string puppets. It is riveting, especially for children. After dinner (which included my first Nouveau Beau- joulais of the season). I headed back to Blvd. Housmann for the lights and to see the displays again. Bummer, I forgot the camera. After rural Chauffour, the diversity and sheer number of pedestrians in Paris is a shock. Bordeaux is a sleepy town compared with the capitol.

Wednesday, December 14th

Up at 5AM. I taxied across town to Gare Montparnasse to board the Air France shuttle bus. Traffic to the airport is horrendous (but not as bad as inbound) due to RER train labor slowdown. My seatmate is returning to UC Berkeley and lives 4 months of the year in Jack London Square in Oakland. A physics researcher, he shopped at the “old” Berkeley Bowl – Small World!. My seatmate on the plane was a delightful young woman from Guatemala City returning home for holiday. She is a doctoral candidate in Economics at Univ of Paris. The plane arrived 15 minutes late in Dallas. We passed through customs there and the procedure was woefully understaffed. As a result, half the people were too late to reboard the plane. We were booked on a flight leaving 2 ½ hours later. Some Sound advice: do not come back to the U.S. through Dallas. Took BART back to San Leandro, a number of the Paris passengers were on the same train.

Home at last at 10:45 PM, I was 7 pounds heavier. I enjoyed every mouthful and glassful. Vive La France!

After crossing the border we drove to the Dordogne region to see if we could locate the property where we would be staying for the next five months. The map the innkeepers had sent us contained many road markers, but no road names. The directions provided included turns based on road marks such as, “Look for the cemetery, then make a left at the yellow house.” Writing directions that contain, “Go past the house with the barking dog and make a left at the wood pile” are not uncommon here. We drove for what seemed like forever and never really found the place. But, we knew we were in the right area, and that their house was within a kilometer or so of where we had driven for hours in circles.

With all of the campgrounds in the surrounding areas closed for the season, we decided to go to Bordeaux. We had two nights before we were due to start our house-sitting stint and Bordeaux provided the opportunity to hit a large supermarket to stock up on supplies before returning to Chauffour. The travel time to Bordeaux is about an hour and a half from the Allemans (the village closest to the hamlet where we will be staying). We camped in a bustling suburb of Bordeaux, close to the National Wine Museum. It was at this campground that I got a taste of what it’s like to lack the language skills necessary to communicate a message. From the moment we pulled into the campground, a progression of language follies ensued. For the most part, Andy and I have been able to get by with a series of hand gestures and pointing to get our message across. For some reason I decided that I should attempt to communicate in the native tongue. I flipped through my trusty travel dictionary and wrote what appeared to me to be a perfectly coherent paragraph. I handed it to the manager of the campground, he read it, and looked at me quizzically. When I realized that he did not understand what I had written, I tried to bow out gracefully. But, true to the friendly French form, he took me around the campground to each occupied site and handed my indecipherable note to each camper. Most got the gist of what the note said, but lost in the translation was the true intent. Basically, instead of communicating an appreciation for an earlier recommendation the manager had provided, I was expressing my need to go to the recommended place. What little English was spoken by fellow campers led to statements such as, “We can drive you. We go in the morning, yes?” What a mess I had made. There was no way to back out gracefully, and my level of frustration grew with each passing minute. So here I was in France, a country I would be living in for the next five months, unable to do what I most accustomed to doing…talking. I instantly grew shy of encounters, and walked with my head down to avoid any possible interactions. It was obvious we would need to look into French lessons.

For the next 24 hours I immersed myself in a book Andy had in our small traveling literary collection. From the moment I picked up the novel, I was completely engrossed. The name of the book is Kite Runner, and I highly recommend it to anyone looking for a good read. My introverted demeanor changed on the second day, when we met an Australian couple camping next to us. We shared drinks in the evening at our campsite and swapped road stories.

The following day as we were preparing to leave for Chauffour Andy met a young British fellow who is biking his way across Europe and Africa. He is traveling with a small tent and single burner stove. Hearing about his itinerary made me envy his ability to throw discretion to the wind and travel anywhere his heart delighted. But, the more experienced side of me was glad those days of not knowing the next stop were long gone. The luxuries of heat and the convenience of a refrigerator that our home on wheels supply is a welcome ‘mainstay’ of our life on the road.

We went to a Carrefour Super Center (a giant Wal-Mart like store) and stocked up on enough goods to last us for the first week or so of our stay. Then, we drove to Chauffour, feeling anxious the whole way. Would they like us? Would we like them? Would Petey get along with the cats? Would we be bored out of our minds for the next five months? Only time would tell.

With our eyes heavily concentrating on the map of icons they had provided, this time we were able to find the place. We drove down a gently rolling hill, past two farms with cows grazing the deep green pastures, and an older woman plowing a garden vegetable patch. We turned at a bend in the road and saw a gate with a sign hanging that read ‘Chauffour Gites’. We had arrived. Massimo came quickly from behind the gate, said hello, and immediately began asking about our van. After a few moments discussing our vehicle he led us into the property. There, his wife Tracy met us and we began an hour long tour of the houses on the property. Next, Tracy said that they would leave us to settle in, and that we could meet them that evening for drinks at their place.

It was during our evening drinks and appetizers (margaritas and goat cheese melted on crostini) that we found out that they would be leaving the next day. It seemed we would be on our own rather quickly, and Andy and I spent the night coming up with a list of questions for the innkeepers to answer before their departure. Early the next morning we met again for a few last instructions and before we knew it, we were waving goodbye to the innkeepers from their own driveway.

For the first two days we occupied our time walking and biking the local area, and investigating every last nook and cranny of the houses.

We attempted to bond with the cats (at feeding time of course) and enjoyed the unusually warm weather. The sky was bright and sunny and the 80 degree temperature made Chauffour feel like the Indian summer we’re accustomed to in October at home.

We obtained the number of a local French language teacher from a poster hanging at the St. Severin Pharmacy and made arrangements to begin lessons that same week. We had a private lesson with our instructor on a Thursday, and on Tuesday we joined the class for a weekly two hour lesson. All of the students in the class are British, as is the instructor. It seems that 95% of the properties being sold in this area are purchased by British individuals. So, chances are you have an equal likelihood of encountering French people as British folks when out for a day in the village.

By day three we were itching to do some real exploring. We went to the small village of Aubeterre, perched on white stone high above the valley floor. We walked the tiny cobblestone streets and admired the window displays of the numerous art galleries lining the town’s main square. The air was crisp, and we sat on a bench overlooking the town to absorb the suns rays to warm our bodies.

At our next French lesson we had a ‘the world is ending’ scare. Our lessons are most civilized, breaking for tea and biscuits at the half-way point. During the break, we were socializing with classmates when we heard an approaching noise. The noise grew louder and louder as whatever it was drew closer. From all my years of attending California schools and participating in earthquake drills, my first inclination was to dive under the table. I resisted the urge and followed suit with my classmates. Andy and I locked eyes as the rumbling shook the house and thundered past. Our classmates must have seen the terror in our eyes and went on to explain that the French military conduct flying exercises in the valley. Andy told them that he thought we were being bombed. I sat, my mouth agape. As many times as I have been at the Oakland Coliseum attending an A’s game where the Blue Angels flyover, I have never heard a sound so loud. We literally thought France was being invaded. It was this encounter that made me realize how valuable having contacts is when staying abroad. Our instructor and the people attending French lessons with us have a wealth of knowledge about the area that is invaluable to those new to the area.

Over the next few visits with our French teacher, we learned more about the area. First, I found out that the large centipede looking insect I saw at the innkeeper’s house one night while on the computer is indeed as threatening as it looks. Apparently, they are a nocturnal bug that likes to hide in toilet paper spools and other dark places. The bite from one of these insects is painful and contains venom that leads to a flesh eating wound. Felicity, our instructor told us to, “Kill them on the spot!” Needless to say, I check under the covers every night before entering the bed. Yet, according to our instructor’s son, the insect only bites when provoked. Yeah…right. You know my luck.

Next, we learned that the gunshots we hear daily in the morning are from local hunters. Now of course we had assumed that the shots we heard being fired were from hunters, but little did we know that the hunters have the right to wander onto your land when chasing prey, without a property owner’s permission. So, we’re careful to accompany Petey when he’s out in the yard. We wouldn’t want him being confused for ‘prey’. A morning walk can prove challenging too, as you must be aware of what field in your walking path contains hunters. We are at the beginning of hunting season now, so we have been told that the morning shots will die down sometime mid-winter. For now, the shots fired work as a smashing alarm clock!

Our next area lesson was accompanied by a stern warning. Andy saw a mouse in the kitchen and we asked Felicity about how do deal with a field mouse that had gotten into the house. She told us that we could buy humane traps or the ‘snap your neck’ kind. She went on to say that it didn’t matter what type of trap you used, but that you must be diligent and tackle the problem head on. “Mice multiply like mad”, she said. So, we purchased a humane trap and decided we were going to catch the creature that Andy had referred to as ‘pet like’. That was ten days ago. So far, we have caught ten mice. That’s right, ten mice. It appears our cute little friend has a whole family interested in the sweet little cake we leave for bait. According to the locals cheese never works, cake or bread is best. Andy thinks that we may have reappearing offenders, so he has taken to spray painting the little guy’s tails red to identify any repeat customers. Oh, the joys of country life.

With an eventful first week and a half of ‘Green Acres’ living under our belts, we decided it was time to get out and meet the locals. Felicity recommended that we try to immerse ourselves in local culture and head to a pub. Well, I don’t drink much (if at all), but I understood the intent of her message; if you want to learn French, you need to meet French speaking folks. She set us up with her son Ian (who is Andy’s age). He accompanied us to two local pubs where, surprise surprise…we ending up chatting with the locals…a bunch of expatriates from Britain. We did not practice our limited French as planned, and to make matters worse, everybody here smokes. So there we were, sitting in a French bar gasping for air in the smoke filled lounge, listening to Ian’s brother Hemish go on and on about how much he despises America. The picture I had painted in my head of sitting at a café or bar with a smile on my face and a scarf around my neck, sipping a cappuccino and engaging in witty banter with a local evaporated. Andy and I vowed not to repeat the same mistake and visit another bar heavy with smoke laden air, but our curiosity got the best of us and we tried again the next week. This time, we ventured to Riberac and hit a lively local bar. While we enjoyed spending time getting to know Ian, Andy and I decided we could no longer frequent these establishments (if not for the health risks alone), and that we were better suited to entertain at home.

We went to town today and found a local video store that rents DVD’s. We signed up for a discounted package and browsed the store looking for movies in English. The selection is somewhat limited, but we were willing to forgo the new releases to find some cinema entertainment to pass the chilly nights. The local movie theatre plays only French movies, so until we have a bit more of the French language mastered we won’t be going out for a night of theater. Renting DVD’s is a pastime we are quite familiar with. At home, we had a Netflix subscription and not a month would go by where Andy and I hadn’t screened at least ten to fifteen films. Somehow, the membership at the local video store makes this place in France feel like home. I guess we’re creatures of habit…

We left Luzern and headed to Lausanne to begin to acclimate ourselves with the French way of life, as we would be leaving for our winter stay in France very soon. The drive to Lausanne from Luzern has too many tunnels to count and the extensive length of the tunnels makes one think that Switzerland may also have underground communities in addition to the above ground ones. When you enter a tunnel such as the St. Gottard, you begin to have a true appreciation for how difficult it once was to manage travel throughout this mountainous place, not to mention the shear engineering feat of carving the tunnels into the mountains. Once we dropped from the narrow pass we’d climbed to reach the Canton Vaud, it was apparent why the area is so popular with tourists and the Swiss alike. Lausanne is a lovely city nestled between rolling hillsides of vineyards.

We again camped by a lake (a constant running theme when camping in Switzerland), and were pleased to be one of very few campers at the place. Day one brought another trip to the store. This time we were well equipped, and were even able to use the parking dial that Heidi had given us the day we left. In Switzerland, meters are rare and most cities and towns use an honour system for parking time limits. One need only purchase a small blue card that contains a dial and is marked with the parking icon. You simply set the dial to the time you parked and the dial tells you at what time you must return to your car. With the permit, parking in blue spaces is free.

On our second day in Lausanne it rained and rained and rained. It poured for twelve hours straight and we awoke to a tent full of rain. We usually set up our commissary in a screen room outside the van, and the rain had drenched the tent and all of it’s’ contents. Andy spent the next few days devising ways to structure the tent so that the rain would not get in.

In the afternoon the skies cleared and we went for a ride through old town and toward the southern end of the lake. We began to notice people walking by with distinct reed mesh bags attached to their backs and went on a quest to find where the bags were coming from. Our walk led us to the registration tents for the Lausanne Marathon. We watched as news crews set up the press stands and teams of workers constructed the finish line, complete with a huge stopwatch. It will probably be the only time in my life that I cross the finish line of a marathon, so I glided through without breaking a sweat. Actually, I’ve always fantasized about running in a marathon. The discipline of training, the stamina required, and the satisfaction of completing in the event has all entered my thoughts at one time or another. But, I never had the drive. I left the marathon finish line no more inspired than I had been before we stumbled on the event preparations. I guess it’s a goal that will have to wait for its time…or maybe I am forever limited to being a spectator. Only time will tell.

We took a drive the next day to two museums that peaked our interest when we read about them in the tour guides. First, we drove to the Art Brut Museum. The museum houses one man’s collection of works collected throughout the 20th century and contains art from criminals and the mentally disturbed. The art work is interesting and the design of the museum building only enhances the experience. Most striking is the similarity between pieces done by an individual artist. Works often repeated patterns from piece to piece and one couldn’t help but think that the constant isolation suffered by many of the incarcerated artists led to the repetitive nature of their works. The specific ailment or crime committed by the artist is listed in a short biography that accompanies each piece, and the stories are often as interesting if not more interesting than the pieces themselves.

From the criminal art museum we drove to Vevy to visit the Food Museum. Nestle, which has been headquartered in Vevey for many years opened a museum in the former corporate headquarters, a beautiful early 1900’s mansion located on Lake Geneva.

The museum traces the history of food consumption around the globe and uses hundreds of interactive exhibits to teach museum goers about the nutritional value, production methods, and preparation of food. There are also cooking demonstrations scheduled throughout the day where you can follow along with Nestle chefs and create edible museum souvenirs. Andy and I enjoyed looking at displays that featured ‘dinnertime around the globe’ and an exhibit that dispensed mint sized tablets that you consumed and then tried to guess the flavor or taste. You could even sample flavored waters dispensed form a toy like machine that kept you guessing as to what had been added to the water to give it its taste. I think broccoli was one of the flavors. The interactive exhibits kept you guessing, and I realized just how ‘unfinely’ tuned our taste buds actually are. Travelling through the food museum feels a lot like being in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, fun for all ages. Oh, and yes…they do have a chocolate dispensing exhibit. You had to try to guess the texture of each mini bar dispensed. Needless to say, I mastered that test!

Halloween was fast approaching and we noticed American style decorations in many of the local shops. We met a young Swiss couple at the campground that had a carved pumpkin illuminating their campsite. Probably one of the best jack-o-lanterns I have ever seen. They were eager to talk about the holiday with us and practice their English too.

The following day, we decided to leave Lausanne and drive to the border. We were concerned that the border crossing may pose difficulties for us, as legally we can stay in France only three months without a visa. We planned to be in France for five months, so we were hoping that the borders were ‘open’ as we had been told by many friends and the innkeepers of the property where we will be house-sitting. At the last exit before the border we decided to exit to fill our gas tank (we heard that gas was far cheaper in Switzerland than France) and a few right turns, and suddenly we were in France. We passed through an unmanned check station (so inconspicuous that you wouldn’t know what it was unless you were purposely looking for it) and I said to Andy, “I think we are in France.” He said, “No we’re not.” But, as I drove on, he soon came around to the realisation I had as soon as we had passed through the arches of the closed guard house…we were in France. So, a simple detour for cheap gas resulted in an undetected border crossing for us…what a bonus! It took a few hours to find the autobahn again, and soon we were on our way to Bordeaux to spend a few days camping there before we were due in Chauffour to start our housekeeping stint.

We left Tenero just as the weather began to change. We drove north to Luzern and camped along the lake at Campground Lido. Luzern was chilly and overcast, but nothing could diminish the beauty of the city. We walked the old city, stopping for hot chocolate to warm our bones. The architecture and character of Luzern are a perfect blending of old world charm and big city personality.

During our stay we visited the Transportation Museum, which warrants an entire afternoon. We walked along the lake, and ventured into town on bicycle to take in local culture.

On our last day we visited Alice’s cousin Hans and his wife Ann, who live just outside Luzern. Hans once worked as a guard at the Vatican, so he has many interesting stories to share. He doesn’t speak English, but his wife Ann does, and she was more than happy to attempt the translation. We had a wonderful time at their home. They had invited us for lunch, and what was supposed to be a simple lunch date turned into an all day affair. When they found out that I knew how to play the Swiss card game ‘Jass’, three spirited rallies ensued. We stayed so long that Ann made us dinner and then later sent us on our way with a care package of goodies. They are most generous people, and they kept us laughing all day with their quips.

We left Uetliburg bright and early the next morning bound for the Ticine region of Switzerland. We drove for a few hours on the autobahn (after picking up a permit of course!), and found our way to Locarno. Southern Switzerland has warmer weather and is considered a Swiss Riviera of sorts. The weather was mild and the sky dotted with clouds.

Before checking in at the campground we stopped at a Migros (a large supermarket chain) to pick up supplies for the week. Shopping at grocery stores in Europe is quite different than in the states. First, you must always remember to carry a franc or two to leave as a deposit for the shopping cart. If you don’t have the proper change you’re stuck with a hand held basket, which can make a large shopping trip quite tedious. Next, you have to remember to bring your own bags. Bags cost money here, so recycling is a must. If you forget you bags (which we did the first few times), you end up putting all of your groceries back into the cart after they have been scanned, and then packing them loosely into your car. It’s a real hassle. Finally, I’ve made the mistake of being caught day dreaming as I stand at the checkout stand watching as the clerk scans all the items. In Europe, you are responsible for bagging your own groceries. So you better stay on top of the pile from the second the clerk begins. Otherwise, other customers in line can become impatient as you quickly try to shuttle all of your items from the belt to your cart. There’s a learning curve here, and I’ve been a little slow on the uptake.

The campground we stayed in was in Tenero, a five-minute bike ride from Locarno. Campgrounds in Switzerland are clean and usually come with amenities. The campground we stayed at had a lovely lakeside swimming pool, restaurant, and bar. The facilities look like upscale trailer parks, with grassy lots for each tenant and communal dish cleaning areas, showers, and a laundry room. The resort like atmosphere comes with a price. At most campgrounds in Switzerland you pay a fee for the site, each adult, your dog, and power (sometimes billed by the hour). Total cost, forty plus dollars a night! Not cheap, considering you can still camp in the states for about fifteen dollars per night.

We set up camp and then decided to try to connect the van to the outlet box. BAD IDEA! I was in the van and heard a loud popping sound. I called out to Andy a few times, and when I heard no response I quickly headed outside. Andy said that the power converter he had purchased in the states had not worked, and that a breaker had tripped. He said that he would make sure the converter worked by using the converter with our hair dryer in the restroom. Five minutes later Andy returned to the campsite with a blackened hand and a story of flames shooting out of the wall. So, the power problem was solved…we would have no power. Luckily, our van has two marine batteries, so we can power the appliances for two days without having to start the car to recharge them.

The following day we went for a bike ride around the lake. It was a beautiful, warm day. Andy stopped for a kabob from a street vendor and was delighted with the flavour. We walked around town searching for an internet café, and I ducked into a newsstand to pick up a Sinalco (a bubbly orange drink like Fanta, only less sweet) and a pack of my favorite Swiss chocolate wafer cookies.

At the internet café we did some research on power transformers and checked our e-mail. Then, we telephoned a family friend and Andy’s relatives to make arrangements for our upcoming visit to Luzern

Back at the campsite we met our neighbors who asked if we always drove with our bikes attached to the front of our van. When we responded in the affirmative, the man looked amused, while the woman looked horrified. She insisted on calling a police friend of hers to verify the legality of driving with bikes attached to the front of a vehicle. We received from our neighbor the news we had been expecting. It is illegal to drive with bikes attached to the front of your car, and the penalty if caught is five hundred Swiss francs. Pretty steep penalty if you ask me. The man gave us advice we had heard from others before…play dumb. The woman, on the other hand, gave us her number should we “need any help during our stay.”

One of the benefits to exploring a country as small as Switzerland is that the drive time or train ride between destinations is relatively short. You can cross the entire country in a few hours drive time, and many of the ‘must see’ destinations are close to each other.

With another of Heidi’s excellent breakfasts in our bellies, we departed for a day of sightseeing.

First stop was Liechtenstein. As one of the smallest countries on earth, Liechtenstein’s main draw is the castle belonging to the royal family. Frankly, I was expecting more. First of all, you cannot go into the castle. Second, major renovations are currently being done on the exterior, so the view isn’t quite what one would expect. For a quick stop off the autobahn, the visit to the castle is a five-minute detour, max!

With a simple entry onto the freeway we were once again travelling in Switzerland, and we headed to St. Gallen to find the restaurant of a Swiss friend of Dad’s named Markus. Markus runs several establishments in Switzerland. He has a few bars, social clubs, dance clubs, and restaurants scattered throughout Switzerland. We decided to try the restaurant US MEX, to see how Mexican food fared in Switzerland. At first, we were unable to locate the restaurant. But, it didn’t take us long to find the place. A quick stop of a young pedestrian on the street provided directions to the correct street. With a point of finger, we were on our way.

When we arrived, there was a handful of guests dining on Mexican fare and having what appeared to be a relaxing late lunch. We asked if Markus was in and the waitress replied that he was not. Less than five minutes later, Markus came trotting down the stairs. Markus passed us initially, then did a double take and swung around to our table. He said, “I just sent you an e-mail.” Next, he asked us if we ordered, motioned to the wait staff that we would all be dining in the back room, and waved us back to a large, well-lit dining room.

We passed the afternoon with conversation of politics, the price of gas, smoking bans in Europe, and more politics. Markus gave us a few protocol pointers, and sent us on our way with full stomachs and for me, a yearning to spend time with others willing to break social taboos and talk about the ‘not so easy subjects’. I’ve always thought politics and religion could be discussed frankly. I have never seen the need for avoiding subjects that may lead to debate. I guess I’ve always felt that if you are willing to engage in conversation about “sensitive” subjects, then at the very least you are a critical thinker, able to argue your point while attempting to have a grasp on your counters’ philosophy.

Out time with Markus passed quickly, and we left to return to Uetliburg for dinner with Heidi and her family. As we drove out of St. Gallen, Markus had a good laugh as he watched us drive the wrong way down a one-way street.

When we returned to Heidi’s house, a phone call from the shipping agency informed us that our van would arrive tomorrow. We made arrangements for the shipper to pick us up at the train station in Basel and drive us to the shipping yard.

The following morning we had breakfast with the ladies; Ruth (Heidi’s sister), Alice (their mother), and Heidi.

Next, Heidi drove us to the train station for the two and one half hour ride to Basel. Petey stayed behind with his new best friend Heidi, known to Petey as “the lady who gives me yummy wet cat food”.

The train ride to Basel was picturesque. We travelled along Lake Zurich before turning toward our destination. For the most part, the occasional town broke up cows and countryside. One of the most striking developments along the ride was a massive nuclear reactor. The reactor looked as if it had been dropped from the sky, with no method to determining the location of its’ resting place. Now, I’m not saying that nuclear reactors look normal anywhere, but this particular reactor rose from the ground of idyllic little Switzerland, smack dab in the center of a village. Not far out in the country, or in a deserted mountainous region, as one would assume. Instead, the reactor looked like a prop from a toy train set, resting near the tracks with a quaint village on the ground, dwarfed by its’ massive shadows. A gentle, (or not so gentle) reminder that the globe continues to be dependent on nuclear power.

We were met at the station by the shipper, a French man who drove us a total of 50 yards to the storage facility where the van had been unloaded. It took us about an hour to complete and inventory and re-pack items that had been stored inside the van for shipment. The shipping agent told us to remember to purchase an autobahn permit (or play stupid if we were pulled over by the police). Then, he looked at Andy strapping our bikes to the front of the van and asked if we planned to drive with the bikes on the front. We replied yes, and he mentioned that he thought it was illegal to drive with bikes loaded on the front. His advice for us? Same as before…play stupid. With those parting words, we were on our way.

Little did we know, that little comment would start what would become weeks of people telling us the same thing. First, as we drove through Zurich on the way back to Heidi’s, random pedestrians on the streets suffered from whiplash as they swung their heads around to look at a van with bikes strapped to the front. Some even shook their heads in disgust or made a face of complete surprise. Our laughter at our current predicament (do we try to find another bike rack to purchase or keep driving with the bikes strapped to the front) was only broken up by the sudden appearance of a number of Hassidic Jews. There were Jews walking the streets everywhere. And, just as quickly as it began, it stopped. It was hard for me to believe we had just stumbled on a Jewish neighbourhood in Switzerland, but my surprise was short lived as they had gone as quickly as they had come. It was like we had travelled into some type of time warp, a wrinkle of time and space that lasted only for an instant. We were brought back from our moment of perplexing people watching when we were waiting at a red light and saw a strip club on the street named ‘PASCHA’s”. The club had a peek-a-boo, complete with the customary sultry red-lit window. We laughed and tried to grab a picture before the light turned green. It’s a rare occasion when you find an establishment bearing the name of my sister. And if you do, the name is usually spelled differently.

We drove on the autobahn back to Heidi’s, with me praying that we would not get a ticket for lack of the freeway permit. When we pulled into Heidi’s driveway, she looked over her balcony and stared at the bikes. The first thing she said to us was, “You drive with the bikes on the front like that?” With a shrug of the shoulders we said, “That’s the way we do it at home.”

We had a farewell dinner with Heidi and her family, and dusk was marked with one last beautiful sunset. If I ever move to Switzerland, it will be to Uetliburg.

The flight to Zurich passed quickly as we entertained ourselves with the onboard entertainment system. When I rose to stretch my legs I moved to the back of the cabin to ask a stewardess about the pets in hold in cargo. She assured me that Petey would be resting comfortably in a cabin with a steady temperature of 65 degrees. With my mind at ease, I returned to my seat and continued to pass the time listening to music and feeling excitement pulse through my veins.

We touched down at Zurich airport in a blanket of fog. The plane was at the gate in no time, and Andy and I deplaned and moved with the other passengers toward the shuttle that would take us to baggage claim. Within minutes, Petey was delivered to us through a small opening in the wall reserved for oversized baggage. He didn’t look any worse for the wear, and the man who handed his kennel to us mentioned that Petey was sleepy.

First stop after baggage claim was Immigration. Andy handed the immigration agent our passports and within seconds they were handed back to us unopened. We knew Customs would be the next stop, so we didn’t think twice about the fact that the agent didn’t bother to open our passports. We weaved through a short hallway and Andy saw the people picking us up through a glass barrier separating those in wait from the passengers clearing customs. Next we turned a corner and saw the exit door. We looked at eachother quizzically, shrugged our shoulders and headed for the door. It appeared the customs station was unmanned. We were nearly to the door when a man dressed in plain clothes said, “Whoa.” He came toward us, and for a moment I thought maybe he was going to ask us if we needed a cab. Instead, he said, “Where are you coming from.” I said, “Boston.” He said, “United States?” I answered yes. He then looked at Petey’s kennel and asked if he was our dog. We answered in the affirmative. He went on to ask one additional question. He asked if Petey has always been our dog. We said yes, and then he extended his hand and showed us the door to exit customs. That was it. No real stops, no questions about length of stay or reason for visit, or how much money we have, or even , “Did you vote for Bush or Kerry?” We were on our way.

A family friend and her sister greeted us with the traditional three cheek kiss at the door, and we were on our way. A couple of stops from the terminal to the garage for Petey to tinkle and we hit the highway bound for Uetliberg, about an hour outside of Zurich.

Heidi, our host, has a home high on the hill overlooking the valley, with a view of Lake Zurich. Her sister Ruth lives just two doors down. The views are stunning, and the green lush landscape of the valley becomes overshadowed by only one thing, the presence of the immense snow covered mountains. Heidi put us up in her home in posh digs. We have a beautiful room with private entrance and bath. She cooked traditional fine Swiss food for us the first night of our stay, and served a hearty breakfast the following morning.

Breakfast was followed by a hike that took us to the top of a hillside overlooking the next valley. The weather was warm and the clear blue skies allowed you to see for miles.

Later in the day we drove to a neighboring town to run errands and visit Heidi’s sister Ruth, hard at work in a travel office. Our first visit to a grocery store left me wide eyed. The Swiss run their grocery stores with precision. Not an item is out of place, and labels are arranged with exacting care. Each aisle left me with more and more questions. I would point at items and ask Andy or Heidi what the packages with indiscernible labels contained. The visit to the store was too short, so on the way out I tugged on Andy’s sleeve and said, “We have to come back again soon, when we have time to just walk the aisles and browse.” Heidi had already gotten us hooked on an exceptional tasting yogurt and a zesty horseradish cheese spread. Future visits to the store would prove fruitful, especially if we stuck to the itmes we’d had the fortune of sampling at Heidi’s.

The next few days brought sightseeing in a lakeside town call Raperswil and nights of good food. Heidi and Ruth served a wonderful fondue one night and an absolutely delicious bratwurst meal another. Heidi’s husband made the brawts, and they were yummy! Many of the foods we have dined on here are homemade, and time would be well spent watching how the two sisters cook. For example, Ruth made a pasta sauce this summer that we dined on one night. The red sauce was fresh and zesty, a true treat.

While we were thoroughly enjoying our visit with Heidi, the time came when we needed to check the status of the van. Andy telephoned the company and was told that the van would not arrive until Monday. According to the company rep, a strike in Antwerp was causing the delay. Heidi told us that we should take her car and recommended that we make a trip to Samedan to visit Andy’s Uncle. She made arrangements for a two night stay at a rooming house owned by her husband Jack’s cousin in Bever, handed us the keys to her car, and we were on our way to the mountain country. Her car is really cool, and I began to entertain thoughts of shipping one back to the states…

The drive to Samedan takes just shy of three hours, but the time passes quickly as you become mesmerized by the scenery. When we reached the highest point of the Julierpass, views of snow covered mountains stretched for miles and miles. As you begin your descent, Lake St. Moritz comes into view and the scene is idyllic. One can easily see why the rich and famous flock to this winter skiing haven. As we drove through town, the lake walkway was busy with walkers and picture takers.

Samedan is only a ten minute drive from St. Moritz. The picturesque city is quaint, with cobblestone streets and charming traditional Swiss houses. We arrived in early afternoon. We stopped at the Coop (one of the chain grocery stores) and picked up a baguette, horseradish cheese spread, smoked sliced beef, blood orange juice, and an apple tart for dessert. We walked to the town fountain and ate our lunch filled with the clean fresh air of Andy’s father’s hometown.

After lunch we visited Andy’s Uncle Fleury, who resides in an assisted living facility. He is 93, speaks five languages (including English) and has a wonderful sense of humor. During our stay we visited with him three times at the home’s café. He always ordered a mini bottle of wine for himself, and said that, “My doctor says it’s good for me.” Clearly he is doing something right.

On our second visit the three of us drove to the town cemetery, high upon a hill overlooking Samedan. Uncle Fleury walked us by each of the family graves and told us about those buried beneath, sometimes sharing family stories. At the edge of the cemetery we rested against a stone wall and Fleury pointed to the mountains, named them for us, and told us of childhood ski adventures.

After returning Fleury to the home, Andy and I finished the day with a respectable meal at a local hotel. We took a moonlit walk with the pooch and retreated to our guest house for a well needed nights rest.

We have been suffering from horrible jet lag for the past four days, staying up late into the night and rising in the afternoon one night, followed by early morning the next day. Our internal time-clocks are a mess.

On our last day in Samedan I walked with Petey from Bever to Samedan to meet Andy at the care home. Samedan and the surrounding villages are all linked by Wanderwegs (walkways). The system of trails is immaculately kept, with many resting benches along the way. They even supply bags for refuse and cans to dispose of dog waste and trash. You can take the trails high into the mountains, or stay grounded in the flatlands. Either way, you are sure to find a restaurant along the way, a nice place to stop for a cold drink to refresh your spirit. I vowed to return in the wintertime to snow shoe the walking paths and watch the bright winter sun cause the snow covered ground to glisten.

At the care home, we said our goodbye’s to Fleury and headed back to Heidi’s. She continues to feed us tasty local foods and I tell her that she should consider opening a bed and breakfast. We would gladly pay for her fine meals and lavish accommodations.

We spent our first day back in Uetliburg on a long hike with dog, cut short only by the fact that Petey rolled in an unidentifiable pile of dung. We returned to Heidi’s, hosed him down and sat in the warm sun to dry. Later Heidi returned with her mother, who lives in another town. We had tea and cookies in the garden, and I took stock of my surroundings and sighed a giant sigh of contentment.

Another call to the shipping company returned more bad news. The van is delayed another day. We are told it will arrive Thursday, and Heidi has told us to make ourselves at home and use her car to visit friends. So, tomorrow we will visit Dad’s friend Markus’s restaurant for Mexican food. Yes, Mexican food in Switzerland.

Shortly after Labor Day we hit the turnpike bound for the shores of New Jersey. Well, not really the shores. More like the shipyards. It’s time to drop off our van to the docks for delivery to Switzerland. Driving from Maine to New Jersey is just shy of 6 hours and we planned to move quickly, with as few stops as possible. The shock of gasoline prices has finally worn off, and now we are simply in search of a gas station where gasoline is priced as close to the three dollar mark as possible. A service stop off the turnpike yielded gas at $3.15 a gallon, a steal compared to the stations we’d passed earlier. At a previous stop I was able to take a snapshot as the gas station attendant was changing the price. When he noticed he was being photographed he was quick to tell me that this wasn’t the first, nor would it be the last time he would change the price this week.

With the van and Nicole’s car gassed up, we continued on the toll roads heading south. As Californian’s we are not accustomed to toll roads. By the time we reached New Jersey, our wallets were lighter and we were grateful for the true ‘freeways’ we have at home.

Finding the shipper’s drop off point proved challenging. The directions we had led us away from the waterfront, and into a town forgotten by business and industry. Each turn of a corner in Avenel, New Jersey moved us from boarded up buildings to streets lined with abandoned motels and dilapidated strip malls. The streets were dirty and the air thick with pollution. We were hoping to just make the drop and head right back to Maine. Oh, if only that was the way the day would go…

Instead, we turned into the culdesac that housed the shipper’s headquarters and were shocked to see a prison across the street, complete with prisoners working out in the yard and armed guards atop watchtowers. The shipyard turned out to be a small warehouse, where the van would be loaded into a container and then trucked to the freighter. When we approached the warehouse we were greeted by a motley crew, a group of four men who bore an uncanny resemblance to characters from a popular HBO series…take your pick, Sopranos or The Wire. They were gangster looking types who turned out to have the smarts of the three stooges, only there were four of them. They peered into our van, and walked around the vehicle looking at it with the eyes of men who have helped themselves to goods not their’s before. I was uneasy leaving the van with them, and by the look on Andy’s face, he wasn’t excited about handing the van over to them either. The lead idiot said to us, “All you need to do is leave me the keys, the car, and the title to the vehicle.” Yeah right, I’m going to hand over the vehicle that has been my home for the past two months to four thugs eyeballing it in a way that told me the second we left the warehouse the van would be mysteriously ‘lost in transit’. No way.

So, we told the crew that we were going to go get the van ready for travel, and we made a beeline for a telephone to contact the shipping office in New York. Claudia, the company representative we had been working with didn’t sound surprised when I voiced our concerns, and she said she knew how it appeared. But, she reassured me that the container service they use is reputable and that our one worldly possession was insured for the full value of the vehicle should something happen. It was at that point, sitting in a car in front of a state prison debating our options that Andy and I realized there really wasn’t much we could do. We had to put our faith in the journey. Either the van would make it to Swizterland intact, or it wouldn’t. From the time we dropped off the van until the time we pick it up in Basel, worrying wouldn’t help the process.

We decided to take the van to a carwash and thoroughly clean and pack the car for travel on the high seas. Little did we know that this task would prove so difficult. The first carwash we ventured to was filthy, kind of an oxymoron for a car wash. In addition, there were dead birds littering the carwash stalls. Next, we found a clean, well kept carwash where the cleaning nozzle actually contained REAL cleaning products. We set to washing the car, inside and out, and began to repack the vehicle when a man with a gun in a holster strapped to his side walked over to us and said that he was the owner. The man informed us that he had noticed we had been there awhile, and that we were in a bad neighborhood and would need to leave as soon as the night lights went on. He went on further to say that two recent homicides had occurred in the area. No further notice was needed. We packed our things and were on our way.

That night we stayed in a hotel in a town bordering the city where we were to drop off the van. At $185.00 per night, this city was definitely a step up from the digs we had seen in Avenel. The next morning we woke up bright and early, dropped the van off, and with nary a look back drove across the bridge into Manhattan.

Once in Manhattan, we stopped at the administrative offices of the shipping company, wrote a check for the passage of the van, and headed to one of my favorite New York deli’s for a pastrami sandwich and a Dr. Browns black cherry soda. Katz’s deli is an institution of sorts, and since it was Andy’s first time, I sent him in to pick up our lunch. I think he liked the look and feel of the eatery as much as I do. We ate in the car as we drove to northern New York to visit the grave of Andy’s namesake. All seemed to be going smoothly until we received a call from the shipper that our van did not fit into the 20 ft. container. Apparently the van could be driven into the container, but it’s size did not leave enough room to allowing for strapping the vehicle. It would cost another $745.00 to ship the van in a 40ft. container. We were at the mercy of the shipper, as we were now on a deadline, and so we agreed.

With that bad news in tow, we drove to Connecticut for a free two night stay at a Sheraton (a way to cut lodging costs for a few days), and then we drove to Cape Cod for a five night stay. Our Cape Cod hotel was located in Hyannis, about a two minute drive to the beach. We walked the town main street, visited the beaches, ate some semi-decent Thai food, and drove one day the length of Cape Cod to Provincetown.

We both enjoyed Provincetown quite a bit. The bustling main street is lined with interesting shops, and the laid back atmosphere and liberal townspeople were a welcome sight. I especially liked the Portuguese influence, which could be seen in the local food, portuguese malasadas and linguica and beans. Yum.

We also found a shop that specialized in Portuguese ceramics. The owners were from Portugal, and when I shared that my sister’s and I always wanted to open a shop like his, he remarked, “Not in Provincetown, right?” I guess he’s not too eager for the competition.

During our walk on Commercial Street, we stopped for a mango granita and admired the gelato at a shop owned by a local woman. Seeing the gelato made me long for Italy, and I grew exctied for our upcoming trip to Europe.

A view of the harbor at sunset, and the day was complete.

One interesting development that took place while in Cape Cod was our booking a place to stay during the winter. Andy had begun to worry that the van would become too cold to live in during the winter months, and began looking for housesitting jobs in Europe. He found a bed and breakfast in the south of France that needed caretakers for the winter. The owners travel to South Africa to run their other property in Cape Town during the winter and need someone to stay with their cats. We were able to secure the place for five months. We will be staying in a 16th century farmhouse with all the amenities of a fine bed and breakfast. There is room to sleep twelve, so we hope that many friends and family will come for a visit.

With a rather relaxing five days under our belt, we continued on to Boston. We spent four nights in Wakefield, a suburb of Boston. While in Hyannis we had telephoned Morton and Joan in Brookline and made arrangements to meet them for dinner. On Friday we met them at their home, a beautiful domicile draped in art and fine furnishings. They took us to a local Thai restaurant that had food with the most amazing flavors, Asian infused with American subtleties. Absolutely delicious. A welcome change from the camping fare we were now used to. Good food was followed by great conversation, as Morton and Joan shared many family stories. It was wonderful to spend time with family and feel so welcome, and at home. Morton and Joan made several walking tour recommendations, and we spent the next few days crisscrossing the city on foot with ease.

On Sunday we went to an A’s vs. Red Sox game. Oakland led the entire game, so you could hear a pin drop at Fenway. The fans were none to pleased with the outcome of the game. Overall, the fans were friendly. I was wearing Andy’s A’s jersey, as he didn’t have the nerve. Once seated in the bleachers, a fan tapped me on the shoulder and promised not to spill “too much beer” on my jersey. We all had a good laugh. The most stunning of all developments at Fenway was the fact that the young man seated next to us was from San Jose. He went to Bellarmine and now attends UC Berkeley. We both chuckled at the irony of being seated next to eachother so far from home. It was a great way to spend the day at the ballpark, watching America’s favorite pastime.

One final note about the game…as we left the park and walked back to the car we encountered a half dozen fans wearing A’s insignia gear at the player’s gate. As we approached, one of the fans pointed to my jersey and said, “There’s another one!” I responded with “Oaktown in the house!” All the fans fell silent and stared at me curiously. I guess they weren’t true hometown A’s fans. Who doesn’t know the A’s are from Oaktown?

Monday morning put us back on the road, and we drove to Old Orchard to find a pet friendly, cheap motel on the beach for the remaining two weeks before our flight to Switzerland. We were lucky to find a hotel located “on the beach”, where the owners were eager to make us a deal for the two week stay. We booked the room, which came with a kitchenette to ease the strain eating out has on the pocketbook. From day one, I fell in love with Old Orchard. As this is the quiet season, tourists are gone and you can walk the beach for miles and only pass a handful of people.

So, that’s what I did. I spent the days walking Petey on the beach, and he spent the days playing with the many dogs that roamed the shoreline. It was great for both of us. Exercise and socializing combined. Perfect! Well, almost perfect. About two days before Petey was to go to a veterinarian in Portland to get a ‘clean bill of health’ certificate for entry to Switzerland, he go into quite a tussle with a very large German Sheperd. He ran to the sheperd on the beach and went straight for it’s neck. After a few minutes of circling the leashed sheperd, the dog grew tired of Petey’s persistence and grabbed him by his neck and began shaking him like a dog toy. Andy and I tried without success to free Petey from the other dog’s clutches. When all was said and done, it looked as if Petey had come away from the skirmish unscathed. But, when we got back to the motel, we noticed a bloody puncture wound on Petey’s neck. We waited to see if it would stop bleeding (as we were concerned if we went to the vet, he would not pass the health exam needed for travel). The wound seemed to scab over, so we decided to skip the vet that day, and wait for his appointment scheduled for Friday.

Every other day we would head into Portland to visit with Nicole. She continued to show us the sights of Portland and we made two road trips. First, we went to Freeport to stock up on long john’s (per Morton’s suggestion). Then, the following week we drove to Auburn to visit with Aunt June and Adele Silverman.

Also during our stay, one of Nicole’s friends cooked a full Tex-Mex meal for us, complete with Chile Rellenos. Between days by the sea and sightseeing with Nicole, the time passed quickly. After running some last minute errands, including stocking up on toiletries and goods for the pooch, a visit to the veterinarian for a health certificate, and stopping to pick up some new clothes, it was time to say goodbye. Nicole took us out for a lovely dinner, and then the next night she came to Old Orchard one last time. We walked the beach together and spoke of how the time had passed so quickly. The sun set, and she was off for home.

The next morning we awoke early to drive to Sutton, Massachusetts to get Petey’s health certificate endorsed by the USDA (what a racket that is!). One office claims you need two signatures, while another tells you that you don’t even need a health certificate. We decided to play it safe and pay for BOTH signatures. Then, we went to a hotel near the airport in Boston to rest up for the flight. Oh, and if only we could have rested. But, instead we spent the better part of the afternoon giving Petey a flea bath to get rid of the infestation he received at the “pet friendly” motel. Then to make matters worse, the flea treatment appeared to loosen the scabbing on the puncture wound, thereby leaving a gaping, bleeding hole on Petey’s neck. So, we were off to the vet again. We were lucky to find a vet in town who called Petey’s condition an ‘accident’ instead of a bite, so he could still travel. She irrigated his wound, prescribed antibiotics, and gave us a sterile solution IV bag and needle so that we could irrigate the wound for the next three days. It was an absolutely nervewracking ordeal, and I was glad when we were able to get Petey’s wound camoflauged and ‘customs inspection’ ready. Next, we were back to the hotel to quickly pack and leave for the airport.

At the airport, I gave Petey a last walk before placing him in his kennel, went with him to be inspected by the Transportation Authority, and then handed him over to the airline (the whole time praying to the big guy above that everything would go smoothly). Then, Andy and I cleared the security checkpoints and made it the to gate in time to watch Petey’s kennel be carried onto a conveyor belt on the tarmac and loaded onto the plane. It was with great relief and a huge smile that I witnessed his loading onto our plane. With that weight lifted off my shoulders, I had now only to worry of his fear during the flight. Shortly thereafter we boarded the plane and were bound for Switzerland, the mystery of what lies ahead merely a buzz in my ear.

Andy and I arrived back onto American soil to a rather bittersweet homecoming. For the two of us, closing the door on the Canadian portion of our trip came too soon. I had fallen in love with Newfoundland and Andy was drawn to the shores of Cape Breton. We took the high speed catamaran from Nova Scotia to Bar Harbor, Maine and the short travel time afforded us some prime whale watching. I saw a total of three whales off the starboard side of the vessel and couldn’t help but be drawn to the sea looking for more of the majestic whales that swim along the cape.

When we reached land…well, that’s a different story. For those that have been keeping up with my logs, it will come as no surprise that we were stopped at customs. However, this particular border crossing led to our being detained for longer than past crossings. We were first questioned by a portly old man who seemed to ooze Maine friendliness. After he told us they needed to question us further, the Department of Homeland Security brought out the ‘big guns’. The younger, slicker, and much more intimidating agent that handled us from that point on informed us that our vehicle had been ‘flagged’. We were asked many questions pertaining to our travels and were required to submit multiple forms of identification and vehicle registration paperwork. The agent questioned us three separate times and during his final round of questions said that he did not know why we were in the system. He made copies of all of our paperwork and after forty-five minutes, sent us on our way.

A quick drive through Bar Harbor was all we needed to see that the tourist destination was not for us, and we rapidly made our way to the interstate bound for Portland. By nightfall we arrived in Portland and checked into a large camping resort in Scarborough. Nicole picked us up at the campground and we went to a Portland eatery for a late dinner.

The following day Nicole took us around town to run the many errands we had to complete before we leave for Europe. One of the less glamorous parts of ‘on the go’ travel is the constant replenishing of supplies and restocking of the RV. Pit stops in larger towns makes the chores easier, but spending a whole day running around driving errands can become quite tedious.

After we circled Portland and South Portland at least twice purchasing goods for the trip (dog food, a pet carrier, and various other sundries), it seemed that the day had disappeared into night. All of the running around wore us out, and we elected to get take-out Thai for dinner. We took the food back to Nicole’s charming apartment and Andy and Nicole watched the Notre Dame game while I checked online for a pair of shoes that I had no luck finding during the days shopping. Next time I looked at the clock it was approaching midnight, Andy was dozing in a chair in front of the television, and Nicole’s eyelids were heavy with exhaustion. We left for the campground and agreed to pick Nicole up the following day for a tour of Cape Elizabeth.

The next two days brought sightseeing stops that made Maine appear the ideal place to live. The small town feel, coupled with the beautiful weather, bustling port, and good food left us feeling right at home. But a comment from Nicole brought me right back to reality. As we looked out at the Atlantic from Cape Elizabeth, Nicole expressed a feeling of impending change. It seems she is relishing these last days of summer leading to fall, for the winters of Maine are harsh. For a moment I had forgotten about the deep snow and temperatures hovering near zero. Right here, right now, Maine seems an idyllic place. A first time visitor would never expect that ‘old man winter’ is right around the corner.

Visits to the Portland Head Light (a fancy way of saying lighthouse) and the famous Lobster Shack completed the New England ‘feel’, and I felt happy for my sister that she has chosen this little piece of east coast land for her home. She seems happy and content here, and the walks around town and fresh air seem to have brought with them a contentness in Nicole I hadn’t seen in years.

For the Labor Day weekend holiday we visited Nicole’s friend Michael for a barbecue at his 18th century home on thirty two unspoiled acres of Maine farmland. He has been working tirelessly for the past ten years to restore two homes built on the property, and his dedication to the restoration process and his attention to detail is evident. He knows the history of the house, and every turn of a corner brings with it a story. We were appreciative of his hospitality and our short time with him passed as it would with a life long friend.

Two of Michael’s friends joined us for dinner. Don and his partner Mike live on a farm in Standish about ten miles from Michael and have been of great support to Michael with the learning curve associated with restoring an old house and taking care of a large piece of land. They run a true ‘small family’ farm, complete with animals, groves of fruit bearing trees, and rows of fresh vegetables. I picked their brains all night with questions about farm life. I left there more knowledgeable about living on a farm than I had been before we met, but still know nothing of the trade. On the ride home I found myself thinking of more questions to ask should our paths cross again. I can say without hesitation that meeting these three men was by far one of the most interesting experiences of the trip.

After Labor Day, Nicole returned to her job with the court, and Andy and I took a day trip to two of the places I had been looking forward to visiting for years. First we visited Old Orchard Beach, the summer playground of Bubbie’s family. When we crossed the Old Orchard Beach town limit I called Bubbie for the address of the house her father built in the popular beach resort town. When she answered the telephone and I told her where we were, she said, “Oh for heaven’ sake!” She gave us the name of the street and then said, “I’m so excited.” And I was excited too. We found Seabreeze and walked down the center of the street as Bubbie’s voice guided me toward and then away from house after house. Bubbie stated that her father had built two homes, identical in façade and both having screened in porches. Even with her perfect descriptions, I still couldn’t find the houses. Finally, an older couple appeared on a balcony above the street and I asked them if they knew where the houses might be. When they asked if the family homes I was looking for had belonged to a family from Auburn I said yes, and moments later I was pointed in the direction of two homes at the corner of SeaBreeze and Puffin Streets. You see, when Bubbie was a young girl Puffin Street didn’t exist and the homes didn’t have numbers. So, by today’s mapping, the summer homes of the Meltzer’s exist facing Puffin Street.

The houses are a stones throw from the beach, and I can understand why Bubbie loved this place. Andy and I walked across the street and within 10 yards we were at the beach. The path from the alleyway to the beach looked like it had always been there, beckoning adults and children alike to the sun and surf of Old Orchard. I wondered if this was the path that Bubbie took, and somehow I just knew it was.

It was a gorgeous, sunny day, and the beach extended for what seemed like miles. Few people were on the beach, as the summer crowd was now gone, and I couldn’t help but be reminded of Bubbie’s visits to Stinson Beach. All my life I have been drawn to the ocean, and I have shared many memories with my family at the beach. For the past few years Bubbie has joined my father and the rest of our family at Stinson Beach for a week or so each summer. Recalling those few days during the year when I can stroll with my father and grandmother along the white sandy shores of Stinson always bring a smile to my face. We are a beach loving family, and many special memories have been made along the coast, whether east or west.

To continue my stroll down the memory lane of my family, Andy and I drove to Auburn to see Bubbie’s favorite house. When we reached Dawes Avneue, no house number was needed. I spotted the house instantly. A gardner across the street mowing the lawn of the neighbors house noticed that I was looking at the house and asked if I needed any help. I responded that I was here to see the house where my father grew up, my grandmother’s house. He smiled and in true Maine fashion said, “That’s a lovely house.” He was right, it is a lovely house.

Another call to Bubbie to inform her of our progress brought stories of life in the house and city of Auburn from many years ago. She spoke of neighbors she remembered and where she worked. After Bubbie told me how close the high school where she worked was, I decided to stop by for a visit.

Edward Little High School is a short drive from Bubbie’s old house. Students were racing all around, and the school was alive with learning. I stopped at the office to see if the school had kept any archives from past years. The school secretary went to the school vault and emerged with arms full of yearbooks. Instantly I found a Smalley, though not the Smalley I was looking for. I found my father’s senior picture with a caption that caused an instant smile to come across my face.

After leafing through another six or seven yearbooks I found what I had come for, a picture of Bubbie.

As usual, her radiant smile filled the photo. A sense of family pride brewed within me, and I was glad we had taken this drive along memory lane.

With the afternoon nearly gone, we headed back to meet Nicole at her office. We went for an early dinner down by the wharf. J’s Oyster filled our ‘catch of the day’ needs, and we headed back to the campground to rest up for the long drive to New Jersey the next day. We will drop off our van at the shipping company on Thursday, and head to Cape Cod for a few days of rest and relaxation.

Back on Cape Breton we quickly left the ferry terminal bound for Lunenberg. Now that we were back in Nova Scotia, we planned to explore some quaint fishing villages. Now, while most of my previous journals have been rich with language of picturesque seascapes and friendly locals, the mood shifted the moment we pulled into port.

We found a Walmart in Sydney, about a twenty minute drive from the ferry terminal. It was late, so we got situated and hit the sack. Throughout the night, local teenagers were doing burnouts with their cars in the parking lot, taking advantage of the slick roadway the recent storm had left. To further compound the noise issue, for the entire night a barrage of elevator music was being piped out of the exterior Walmart speaker system. Needless to say, I did not sleep. On the other hand, Andy was still able to saw logs.

The following morning I took Petey for a walk along the perimeter of the parking lot and was drawn to a small gravel walkway located by the shipping dock at the rear of the Walmart. A short ten foot walk led you to a large stone statuary with an engraved plaque that had a message I was not expecting. Apparently the land behind the shopping center had been used as a burial ground for mental patients from Cape Breton’s mental institution from the years 1903 to 1956. No head stones to be found, just a single marker. Now I don’t know about you, but unknowingly walking on an unmarked graveyard first thing in the morning is not my cup of tea. To make matters worse, something out of the corner of my eye caught my attention, and the somber mood of the moment was suddenly broken by fear. A man sat not ten feet from me, locked in an upright position, with his eyes closed. I had missed his presence when I first walked into the memorial, as his stillness had kept him hidden behind a hedge of greenery. I said, “Good Morning”, to no response and for a moment I thought he was dead. I stared and stared and he didn’t move an inch. Finally I tuned around and walked the path back to the lot.

We drove all day to get to Lunenberg, a small town settled by German and Swiss settlers fleeing religious oppression in their home countries. The drive took us through many small fishing villages and signs for a particular historic site caught my eye.

The small town of Sherbrooke has gone to great lengths to preserve the village that was first settled in 1655. Sherbrooke Village, located within a gate on the east side of the town is essentially a small village circa 1800’s. Once you pay the $9.00 fee, you walk through the gates and are taken back in time via a working village. First stop is the blacksmith, next the post office (which still delivers letters and mails packages, an operating print shop that prints logo bags and recipe books on a 100 year old printing press, and much more. As you stroll the village streets you can stop in at most of the buildings (which are on their original foundations) and a costumed guide tells you what purpose the building served and some sell the wares they are making. It’s sort of like sightseeing ‘Fantasy Island’ style. It was good for an hour stroll, and Petey was allowed to go into all the buildings. So, for us it served a dual purpose…a walk for the dog, and a tourist attraction.

Continuing on Highway 7 signs on the side of the road advertising the ‘Lobster Shack began to appear. We were anxious to try lobster rolls, as neither of us knew what they were but had seen them advertised throughout the fishing villages we were passing through. . For 50 kilometers we watched as the signs for the ‘Lobster Shack’ dotted the roadside. When we finally reached the destination, it was somewhat of a letdown. The lobster roll, a sandwich roll stuffed with lobster salad (basically a mixture of lobster, celery, and mayonnaise) lacked the namesake ingredient. The lobster was so sparse, you had to look for the pieces. And the price….well let’s just say that I don’t even want to mention it here. Only the fact that I paid in Canadian dollars gives me any relief. On the brighter side, the owner makes the signs for the restaurant that dot the roadway. He must spend more time working on the signs than he does on the food, because I counted at least 20 of them.

Just before Lunenburg we passed through the quaint village of Mahone Bay, a small town that lies right at the coast and has brightly painted buildings housing shops selling all of the keepsake type items travelers pick up to remind them of their journey. Lunenberg is an older town, from the 1700’s that has a genuine old main street and some of the most amazing Victorian style architecture anywhere along the coast.

As we pulled into the campground, which sits atop a bluff above the bay, the fog began to roll in and heavy, punching winds started to pound the bluff. At the top of the hillside next to the campground a monument has been erected to remember the original settlers of the village. Sure enough, the Swiss connection continues. The granite tablets mark the names of all who came over and first settled Lunenburg. Of course, a Grass was amongst them. I wondered if they were of any relation to Andy’s family, and that evening we talked about how his family came to the states.

Later that evening I spoke with my sister in Maine and learned that the remnants of the storms associated with the hurricane that hit New Orleans were expected along the eastern seaboard. I figured we were next. Sure enough, by the next morning a storm came into the town dumping buckets and buckets of water. We spent most of the day in our van surfing the web looking for alternative accommodations for the next month. Originally we planned to stay with my sister Nicole in Maine during the month of September and take several small sightseeing ventures with Portland as our home base. Our van ships from the east coast in about a week, so the stopover at her place would have allowed us to both explore New England and take care of any final preparations that needed to be made for the journey to Europe. Yesterday we found out that her landlord won’t allow a dog in the unit, so now our plans have changed. The timing of the unfortunate weather system left us plenty of time to decide what we want to do for the month.

We also spent some time looking at the hurricane disaster as reported on various websites. As I viewed photo journals on the NY Times website my heart sank. I was overcome with a feeling of total disbelief and sorrow. The fact that our nation can be in another country under the auspices of ‘protecting’ democracy while our own citizens fight for their lives with little or no assistance sickens me. I cannot put into words how unsettling it is to know that Americans cannot count on the ‘powers that be’ to provide them assistance when they really need it. For a brief moment I entertained the idea of shifting our trip plans to include a volunteer ‘aid worker’ layover in New Orleans. But, it seems that lawlessness has made the area unsafe, and for now trying to get people ‘out’, instead of ‘in’ seems advisable.

For us, the only impact of the hurricane we have felt is a huge increase in fuel costs. That may not seem like a big deal, but for two jobless folks on a fixed income, an increase of 30 cents a litre puts a real crimp in our wallet. At one point, we were in a gas station as the price was being changed. Today, the prices that we saw as we passed from town to town went from 1.09 a litre to 1.50 a litre. Huge difference. The radio reports that the prices will only go higher as the week progresses.

So, for me things were starting to look bleak. So far, I had seen a weird guy at an unmarked graveyard, found out our accommodations for the month of September are a ‘no go’, got caught in a storm to end all storms, felt the penny pinch at the pump, and saw the power of mother nature level one of the most intriguing cities in the states. But, that wasn’t the worst of it. We left Lunenberg by late afternoon to drive to Yarmouth in preparation for our Cat ferry ride to Bar Harbor on Saturday. At the campground we decided to launder the bag of overflowing clothes we’d been towing since Quebec. The campground laundry room was quite old and loaded with every kind of spider and flying insect you can imagine. Now I’m no arachnaphobe, but it looked like someone was starting an insect museum in this place. Literally the biggest spiders I’ve ever seen were crawling all over the place. I was careful to check the machines for bugs before I put the clothes in (one contained a moth), and was horrified when the water that filled the basin was a rusty brown. All of the loads, five of them in total, came out dirtier than when they went it. Brown spots littered our shirts and pants, and everything smelled of potatoes. We rewashed some of the clothing (to no avail) and headed for the dryer. After sinking about two dollars into the machine we realized that a few of the dryers weren’t working either. That was pretty much it for me…my upper lip started trembling, and I began bawling like a baby. I guess the stress of not knowing how we’re going to get by for the next month (where we’ll be, how much it will cost, etc.) and the possibility of all of our clothes being ruined, combined with growing gas prices and the absolute disgust at the lack of response to the hurricane affected areas was all it took to bring me to my breaking point. Andy offered a good strong shoulder to cry on and words of encouragement, and by the next morning all was right with the world. Now the clothes on the other hand, well that’s a different story. We’ll be visiting a department store as soon as we’re stateside.

By the way…a wrong turn off the highway led us to the small town of Shag Harbour. The diversion was worth it, if for only to have seen this sign…

I guess the folks of Shag Harbour, Nova Scotia thought a UFO skated along the waters of their bay back in the 60’s. If you ask us, a little moonshine and a school of glowing jellyfish could have just the same effect.

We’ll be in Maine by late this afternoon, and I’m looking forward to seeing all of the places that my Dad has spoken about all of these years. Nicole will be our guide, and for that I am grateful.

To say that our Newfoundland experience was spectacular would be an understatement. From the moment we disembarked from the ship, Newfoundland’s landscape welcomed us with luscious green forests and calm seas gently lapping at the coastline. We drove north along the coast for a few hours before dusk forced us off the road for the evening. Guide books, locals, and folk singers alike warn of driving at dusk and dawn as Newfoundland has 110,000 moose that tend to be drawn to car headlights.

Early the next morning we continued on the TransCanada to Gros Morne National Park. Gros Morne tied for second place with Cape Breton as top national parks to visit in North America. The top three slots were all Canadian parks. Parks are rated on a number of features, including beauty, heritage, activities, and number of tourists that visit. Gros Morne is considered a gem because few make the journey to this unspoiled land. If you want to walk the beach alone, you can. If your pleasure is hiking among the millions of years old tabletop mountains, you can. And, if you want to just sit back and breathe in the fresh sea air, you can do that too.

Of the campground choices available within the park, we decided to stay at Shallow Bay. Shallow Bay campground is situated alongside a pristine stretch of white sand beach. Dunes separate the campsites from the 3km beach, and the water is clear out 25 yards from the shore. As soon as my toes touched the water, I knew I was hooked. I went for a swim (Petey did too) and spent the remainder of the afternoon relaxing on the beach.

On day two we ventured into town on bikes to check out Cow Head. The small village of Cow Head is located just outside the campground entrance and has a population of about 500, down from the 1000 that lived there before the fishing industry collapsed on Newfoundland. While in the local grocery store we noticed a sign on the community bulletin board for a poker tournament to be held at a local tavern on Sunday afternoon. We rode our bikes to Linda’s Place and inquired with the barkeep about the tournament. She said that her nephew was holding his first ever tournament at her bar and he would welcome out of towners. The buy-in was $20 (abut $16 US), so we decided to give it a go. We spent the rest of the afternoon learning how to officially play and score darts at Linda’s Place and talking with local fisherman who are proud of their homeland and discouraged by the restrictions put on their livelihood.

Later that evening we went to a show at the local theatre company. The Gros Morne Theatre Festival is an annual event held during the summer months. The festival draws people from all over the island and beyond and has a wide offering, from cabaret style shows to locally written plays recounting village heroes and island tragedies. We opted for a night of Newfoundland music and comical sketches. A troupe of six guided us through an evening of enjoyable music, with the plight of the fisherman as the constant theme. Midway through the show we won a prize as we were the people in the audience who had traveled the farthest. The prize was a gift bag from Dark Tickle Company a local company making jams, syrups, and teas. Our gift bag contained squashberry sauce and blueberry tea. We split the prize with a couple from Portland, Maine. They were the second farthest from home, and I felt obliged to spread the wealth.

The following day brought more exploration of the shoreline, as Petey and I walked along the beach to Small Head Point, a mixture of rocky beach and meadow covered cliffs. As the dunes disappear behind you, the shoreline becomes littered with fishing debris (smashed lobster cages, broken buoys, and empty crab nets). It’s only then that one realizes why the coastal villages are guarded by lighthouses. The rocky coastline can wreak havoc with boats and it was not unheard of at the turn of the century for locals to come to count on wood from wrecked boats to burn for heat in their homes.

By late afternoon we were preparing for the tournament, with Andy reminding me the order of poker hands. We ventured back to Linda’s Place and both lasted a few hours into the tournament. I went ‘all in’ with three aces and was beaten by a flush. I was hoping the turn card would bring forth the ace I needed for a four of a kind. Either way, I thought it was a strong hand. We met a jack russell terrier outside of the pub named Nemo, and he and Petey played around for a few minutes with the sea as their backdrop before heading back to the campsite. That night we talked about how friendly and welcoming the locals are and how they talk openly of the recent depression facing their village. They are truly a warm people, Newfoundlander’s, and they share their jewel of an island with an openness unusual to those of us used to guarding the best kept secrets of our hometowns. When you express to a Newfoundlander that you are enjoying their homeland, they look at you with a twinkle in their eyes, a smile on their face, and a nod of agreement as they acknowledge the beauty you have just witnessed. I tell you, I have never felt as at home as I have felt on Newfoundland. I miss family gatherings and chats with those I love less, and for a few days my mind was at ease as I started to know a place where, as the sign at Linda’s Place reads, “You are only a stranger but once.”

We decided to extend our trip a day and take a boat tour of the Western Brook Pond, an inland freshwater pond that was once an inland fjord. To get to the boat dock you must hike 45 minutes from a park parking lot. The short hike passes through bogs and meadows, with the split mountain range beckoning from ahead. Once at the dock we boarded a small passenger ferry and started the two and a half hour tour. While on the water we explore the pond, where 2200 foot rock mountains drop to the pond with little or no vegetation lining the banks. Massive rocks, cut by glaciers millions of years ago leave an impression as you crane your neck upward to see waterfalls dropping from the tops of mountains. Few fish or birds live in or around the pond as the pond supports very little life due to a lack of algae and minerals. The scenery was amazing and when we reached the end of the tour Andy and I spent the walk back to the car talking about how amazingly unspoiled and geologically fascinating Newfoundland proved to be.

On the drive back to the campground we stopped at the Cow Head Museum housed in the home of local leader Mr. Payne, a lifelong teacher and Bishop who had been the town’s wiseman of sorts. The museum tour came with a private guide and she took us from room to room pointing out artifacts of interest. Highlights included an axe used in a double murder (extremely uncommon on Newfoundland) and a seven hundred year old walrus head. We stayed and chatted a bit about Cow Head, and Glenda our guide spoke of preserving local heritage and keeping the town traditions in place. This is one village that I hope the sands of time can pass untouched.
Today we left Cow Head bound for the port to take a late afternoon ferry back to Nova Scotia. Leaving Newfoundland was bittersweet. I am excited for our upcoming European adventure, but hope to spend more time in the future on the island of Newfoundland…and island that springs youth eternal.

Once back in Nova Scotia, we plan to take a few days to explore the western side of Nova Scotia and then take a ferry to Bar Harbor, Maine.