The (Not So) Innocents Abroad

Ein Prosit and Happy New Year!

2009-01-01T21:35:00.000-08:00

No sadder sight than an empty mug.

I hate to think that I should have ended our lovely travel blog on such a serious and somber note so, with the new year, I give you a few new (last) pictures from our final days in Munich.

Ein Prosit!
At the Augustiner, our favorite bierhall in Munich.
There's plenty for everyone!
The famous Haufbrauhaus
Merionplatz, in the heart of Munich.

The best sauerkraut is to be had at the Augustiner.

Until next time, my friends...

Au revoir.

Guten Nacht.

Buona Notte.

Thank you.

"Work Shall Set You Free"

2008-11-16T17:23:00.000-08:00

On our final day in Munich we took a few hours to see the infamous concentration camp in the nearby town of Dachau. The train ride was a quick one from the Munich Hauptbahnhof (main train station) and we sat in silence the whole way. It seemed eerie to be riding a comfortably modern train along the same tracks which bore so many people to their terrible fate.

As meteorological fate would have it the town was heavy with mist, all but obscuring the houses and roadways surrounding the "concentration camp memorial site".

I shivered as the modern world faded away and the camp came out of the fog like some sort of ominous Brigadoon.

The original guard house still stands along with the beautifully wrought front gate, bearing the proclamation "Arbeit Macht Frei" ("Work Shall Set You Free").

Dachau was the first concentration camp established inside Germany (1933) and the only one to be occupied for the entire reign of the Third Reich. It was used primarily as a work camp and though executions were carried out on a regular basis, mass exterminations did not occur here until near the end of the war. Aside from the guard house and barracks, not much remains of the original buildings, though a replica of one of the prisoners barracks was constructed in the 1960s.

The camp is mostly barren aside from the usual monuments and artist's tributes to the suffering of so many.

We had no desire to visit the crematorium and so, after viewing the museum exhibit inside the guard's barracks, we made our way back to the bus to return us to the train station. Along the way, I wondered how must it be for the modern townspeople of Dachau to go about their normal lives with such the solemn burden of history.

Never forget.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig!

2008-11-07T15:22:00.004-08:00

We arrived back safely in the land of Sunshine and Silicone yesterday. I am combatting the jetlag with work and the hopes of later opening the bottle of Calvados I shipped from France. My liver is hanging on by a thread, but I think it will tolerate this last indulgence.

Hang on until Sunday, Dear Readers, for the account of our trip to Munich.

Prost!

PS The Snick did not run to greet us after a three and a half week absence. Oh, no. She waited ten minutes before sauntering out of the bedroom and then regarded us with a "where the f*ck have YOU been?" look.

The Hills are Alive with the Sound of Money

2008-11-03T09:16:00.020-08:00

As it were, Joe and I skipped the “Sound of Music” bus tour (37 Euros each) and went right for the “Mozart Dinner Concert” (about the same price, wine not included).

Salzburg is a sparkling clean and efficient city.

It was fairly quiet when we arrived on Friday from Venice

and even quieter on Saturday due to the holiday. We walked the silent streets that morning, heading toward the old city and the fortress, which rises above it.

A hasty funicular ride brings you directly to the fortress

offering an amazing panorama of the city.

By the time we returned to the bottom of the hill, the tourist trade picked up considerably and the old city was filling with people.

We passed the ubiquitous souvenir hawkers, now selling Bavarian hats and plastic busts of Mozart. We resisted the former but picked up the latter for our library shelf. Mozart himself was busy shilling chocolates throughout the city and, judging from the dismayed look on his face, he thought it quite undignified for a musical genius.

Already thinking of food, we bought a huge soft pretzel to munch while considering our dinner options for that evening. The night before, we had eaten in Salzburg’s oldest beer cellar, the Pitterkellar, which was conveniently located in the cellar of our hotel.

Tonight we considered St Peter’s Stiftskellar, central Europe’s oldest restaurant est 843. We headed to St Peter’s to do some recon and when we arrived at the restaurant we spotted the sign advertising dinner and music.

Always happy to kill two birds with one stone, we signed right up.

We passed through the lovely Mirabell Gardens on our way back to the hotel

and our afternoon nap. That evening, we arrived at St Peter’s and were seated at a table near the front and with another American couple, Ann and Jim from Michigan. A string quartet began the evening with selections from Don Giovanni and two singers of decent voice sang various selections from this and other Mozart operas.

Between, we had our food, the first being an interesting lemon cream soup with cinnamon and the main course of the usual five pounds of meat with a tablespoon of vegetables

(OK, I’m exaggerating slightly). Dessert was slight and not too filling – just the way I like it.

The bill arrived and we’d found that, due to the wine and the bottles of mineral water, we had more than doubled our initial expense for the evening.

Somewhere, Maria von Trapp is laughing.

Fifteen Years and One Day

2008-11-01T00:24:00.059-07:00

When I first visited Venice with my father back in 1989, I was enraptured by the city and vowed someday I would someday return with the man I loved. Thursday was Joe’s and my fifteenth wedding anniversary and we got to spend a glorious, sunny day in lovely Venice.

Of course, when we arrived from Rome Wednesday afternoon, the sun was not shining at all as we had brought the rainy weather with us. Luckily, the walk from the train station to our hotel was a short one. We arrived, mildly wet and bedraggled, at the front desk of the Hotel Principe. I had found the Principe online, once again through booking.com, and splurged on a room with a canal view in honor of our anniversary. It was worth every penny. Our jaws dropped when we saw our accommodations and we ran madly around the room taking pictures and videos.

The balcony, though wet, was immediately toasted with the remains of a bottle we brought from the train.

After Rome, a mild drizzle was nothing to us and so we ventured forth to explore our neighborhood, the Cannareggio district. Despite the weather, vendors were out hawking the usual cheap souvenirs, plastic statues of David were now replaced with Carnevale masks and Murano glass.

As always, we stocked up on fresh veggies, salume (duck proscuitto, oh boy!)

and wine. Lots of wine.

We crossed the Canal Cannaregio and to my left I spotted the Hotel Biasin where Dad and I had stayed all those years ago. The Biasin looked as though it had seen better days and I suspected it was hanging onto its remaining star by a slender thread.

As I looked on, the chandelier was briefly illuminated in the room where we had stayed and for a moment the old girl looked grand once again. My throat got tight and I turned away. Joe and I held hands and continued our walk.

Avoiding the main streets and the restaurants offering “tourist menus”, we scoped the side streets and alleyways for some restaurant possibilities for the evening. We came up on a small place, Taverna Ciardi, and noted what looked like graffiti on the front door. Upon closer inspection, we discovered handwritten messages from various diners, extolling the culinary virtues of Taverna Ciardi and its kitchen. We made note of the location and decided to check it out later.

We came back to the hotel and prepared our usual low-cholesterol afternoon meal. The drizzle had stopped so we ventured out on our balcony.

A couple on the adjoining balcony were also enjoying the late afternoon view and, after introducing ourselves, we made friends with Charlie and Anita from Shrewsbury, MA. They had just got off a cruise ship the day before and decided to spend one more day in Venice before heading back to the States. We shared some fruit and chatter for a while and then went back in for a nap.

That night we returned to the Taverna Giardi and were waited on/entertained/fed by its owner/waitperson/chef de cuisine, Guilio. Guilio spoke perfect English (and French) and kept us enthralled with his stories and his food. I had a spicy Venetian variation on pasta e fagioli

while Joe had spaghetti with assorted shellfish. Yum.

We had a carafe of local wine, of course (there was a nearby store that had casks of wine – you just went in with an empty bottle for a filler-up),

and for a dessert a tiramasu with a layer of amaretto floating on top.

Delicious. Guilio invited us to return for our anniversary dinner on Thursday – the chef would whip up a special just for us – but we remained non-committal. As wonderful as our dinner had been, we wanted to explore other options closer to St Mark’s where we could “hop on” a gondola for a romantic and obscenely priced ride. We bid Guilio and his friendly staff goodbye and went back to our hotel to crash.

The next day….SUNSHINE! Woo-freaking-hoo!! After a hearty breakfast in the hotel dining room,

we headed for the nearest vaporetto (water bus) stop to buy a day pass and head to St Mark’s. Along the way, we snapped pictures of a Venice in what seemed to be a constant state of repair.

Scaffolding covered many buildings and we heard the constant whine of saws and electrical tools. The city has been slowly sinking for years and many sections had been abandoned completely as the rising water made it uninhabitable.

Now it seemed Venetians were being proactive and working to preserve a city which depended on the tourist trade for its livelihood.

We docked at St Mark’s and rounded the corner into the square only to find most of it impassable. As is always the case this time of year, St Mark’s Square was flooded

and a system of wooden walkways cris-crossed the plaza ferrying the hordes of tourists from point A (Doge’s Palace)

to point B (St Mark’s Basilica).

We stood in the middle of the square and watched the multitudes shuffle by. So much for my theory that Venice would be slow this time of year. There seemed to be plenty of Americans about taking advantage of the strengthening dollar overseas and ignoring the dire financial news back home. We sat for a bit at a café and ordered a ridiculously expensive cup of coffee and enjoyed the ambience.

A couple from Marina Del Rey sat next to us and we exchanged snapshots.

After paying the bill (holy sh*t),

we walked away from the square and into the high-end retail district. I window-shopped (couldn’t even afford to step in a store, never mind buy anything) while Joe snapped away. We found the little restaurant recommended by our friends Rob and Jane in Vermont and put it on our list of possibilities for the evening. Walking further, we came upon a small square and the stately Hotel Bonvecchiati with its lovely terrace restaurant. It seemed like the ideal spot for a romantic anniversary dinner and we put it at the top of our list.

The afternoon sunshine convinced us we should take advantage of our hotel balcony

and so we returned to the Principe to lunch in private.

We had some wine with lunch.

More cheese and more wine. There was definitely more than one bottle.

The sunset over the canal was spectacular and even in our slightly sodden state we managed to get off some pretty good shots.

Eventually we decided a nap (ie “sobering up”) was in order before dinner that night so we pulled the curtains and laid down for a nap. Joe set his alarm for 8 pm and we zonked out. Joe awoke first and checked his phone – the alarm never went off. It was now almost 10 pm and the restaurants (including the Bonnevecchia) were closing. Our prospects for a post-dinner gondola ride were fading. Dressing as quickly as possible, we scooted over to Taverna Ciardi to see if Guilio would let us in. Of course!

They were serving until midnight. Pleased to see us again for such an important occasion, Guilio brought us a complimentary bottle of wine and some suggestions for dinner. We put ourselves in his hands and let him and the chef choose our dinner.

First, he brought us a primo platti of spaghetti with mussels flavored with saffron

and a spaghetti con vongoli with the tiniest, sweetest clams imaginable.
Finger licking good.

For the secondi, we had a fritto misto of clams, mussels, calamari, sardines, shrimp and vegetables.

The misto was fried in palm oil, which gave it a lighter and slightly exotic taste. Yum. For dessert, we had our tiramisu with amaretto once again along with a taste of a homemade chocolate liqueur made with grappa. Yowsa.

I think there was another bottle of wine in there as well. Guilio sat down to join us as it was now late and we were his only customers. We talked and laughed and drank.
(I recreated my reaction earlier when Joe's cell phone failed to wake us)

Joe blessed the restaurant and offered communion.
Finally, I got up to visit the WC and saw the chef and barman patiently waiting to close up so I began to prod Joe along. He and Guilio were having a grand old time but I finally got us all moving and we headed for the door. One last picture of the Ciardi staff was taken

and Joe and I added our own tribute to the messages on the front door. Joe and I agreed it was a wonderful evening and we could not have asked to find a better place to celebrate fifteen years of marriage.

Guilio looked at his watch, noted the time and said “Fifteen years and one day!”

We walked back to the hotel in the early morning, the deserted streets of Venice all to ourselves.

When In Rome You Do as the Romans Do: Part Two

2008-10-31T09:39:00.017-07:00

More rain.

We awoke Tuesday morning to the sound of thunder (we went to sleep to the sound of thunder as well) and dressed appropriately. Joe found a flier for a bus tour that allowed you to “hop on, hop off” at various sites around Rome so we decided to spend the 36 Euros and utilize the transportation. We were getting weary of legging it everywhere and thought, what with only one day to spend in Rome and it being a wet one at that, we should give ourselves a break. The concierge at the Hotel Ciccerone front desk took our deposit, handed us a receipt, and pointed us in the direction of the nearest stop at the Pont D’Angelo. We slogged off through the wet in search of our bus.

Along the way, we were accosted by various street vendors selling umbrellas. I was determined to avoid what I deemed a frivolous purchase and, pointing to my trusty LL Bean all-weather coat and Joe’s plastic poncho, waved them off. We arrived at the bus stop a few minutes before our scheduled pickup and joined several other damp tourists, all waiting for their buses. Pont D’ Angelo, across the Tiber from the Castel Sant’Angelo, was a “hop on, hop off” point for several bus tours. Aside from the blue sign for our tour company “Ciao Roma” there were three others, all with pretty much the same route through Rome: Vatican, Sant’Angelo, Villa Borghese, Colosseum, Forum, etc etc. However, our bus company sign was the only one with a soggy notice attached: “Tour Itinerary Subject to Change Due to Social Demonstration”.

Hmmm. Could be problematic, but we were willing to give it a shot anyways. Beats sloshing through the rain, even if we miss a few sights along the way.

Our appointed pickup time came and went but we continued to stand patiently in the pouring rain waiting for our bus. Traffic was indeed heavy with the morning commute and the weather playing a factor so we figured we would give the tour company a break and wait it out.

We continued to wait. We noticed green buses and red buses for the other tour companies came and went. No blue bus. The next pickup time came and went. Still no blue bus. I was starting to get seriously soggy. I was also getting cranky with the aggressive umbrella salesman who kept coming over to me every few minutes, insisting I buy. I glared at him and he retreated before I could grab an umbrella and smack him over the head with it. Finally, after 45 minutes, the mythical blue bus was nowhere in sight so we decided to return to the hotel. Along the way I slipped and landed on my butt in a puddle so I was not in a happy mood when I confronted the concierge who set us up on the Bus to Nowhere. She was quick to give us a refund.

After a break in our hotel room, we regrouped and headed off for the 15-minute walk to Vatican City.

There was a slight break in the weather and the feeble sun bounced off the wet street leading to St Peter’s Square.

It also shone on the hundreds of people standing in line to enter the great basilica. What the hey?

After a few inquiries, we discovered that the line was for the security checkpoint. Good lord (really). Joe and I have been to the Vatican before (where there were no lines except to the confessional) and so we decided we didn’t need to see it again. Off to the next sight.

It started to rain again, so Joe and I decided to give the bus tour another try. The green bus for “Tour Roma” was stopped at Vatican City so we forked over our Euros and “hopped on”. The ticket seller gave us a set of headphones we could plug in to our seats and we listened to the sonorous voice of some British actor explain the history of whatever soggy landmark lay to the left or right of us. The bus crept its way out of Vatican City and across the Pont D’Angelo (still no blue bus to be seen!). It crept a few meters beyond the Pont D’Angelo and then pulled over. Break time! The bus driver, tiring of the traffic logjam, needed a cup of coffee. Luckily the sun broke through again, this time with more strength, drying the seats on the upper (open air) deck of the bus. Joe and I went above and waited to get moving again. But no standing on the top deck!

After 20 minutes or so, the bus made its way back into traffic and we made the slow, torturous circuit around to Villa Borghese and down Via Veneto.

It was now an hour and a half since we left Vatican City and we’d gone perhaps three or four miles. On the Via Veneto we came to a full stop once again, this time with a stand of orange trees tantalizingly out of reach.

We were hungry. The demonstrators were approaching our street and all traffic was being halted until they passed. The bus driver advised people to get off here and leg it to the Trevi Fountain and Spanish Steps because God knows when the bus was getting there. The bus emptied except for us and a few others. The bus driver announced that as soon as the parade passed, the bus was skipping the next few stops and going directly to the train station. Yay for us – I needed to make train reservations for Venice.

Once the demonstrators had marched by (still don’t know what it was all about) we made relatively good time to the train station, “hopped off” and took care of business. The Colosseum didn’t seem so far so we decided to leg it rather than take our chances with the bus again. We made the walk, spotted the ancient walls and promptly sat ourselves down at a Colosseum-side café where we polished off two sandwiches and a bottle of wine in record time.

And waited (once more) for the rain to stop.

The demonstrators passed by the Colosseum (they were following us!)

and, after snapping a few pictures of them, we decided we’d had it with the weather. Time to find our bus for the ride back to the hotel. We made it to the bus stop just as there was a (brief) break in the weather and were rewarded with a photo of the Colosseum with rainbow adjacent.

As soon as I snapped the picture, the skies blackened once again and a torrential downpour began. After a half hour, our green bus appeared amidst the cheering of many tired and wet tourists. We “hopped on” and made the slow, torturous circuit back in the direction of Vatican City.

It was now getting dark and the afternoon commuter rush had started. Apparently, the demonstration was STILL going on and, you guessed it, they were blocking our path once again. The bus inched up the road. Joe plugged his headset back in to see if he could find something to listen to. He found some classical music, interrupted occasionally by our tireless narrator who intoned that, just to the left and through the foggy window and pouring rain, we could see the site where someone may or may not have been killed a few hundred years ago. Near Piazza Navarro, the bus pulled over yet again and the engine was shut down. The bus driver got out and walked off down the street. Uh…..HEY! Where the hell are you going? He returned after a few minutes and announced the bus would be parking here indefinitely. He and the ticket seller helpfully pointed out where we were on our maps and we “hopped off” the bus and headed off into the rainy darkness hoping to find some familiar landmark.

We had made friends with some American tourists on the bus and we all decided to hike together – safety in numbers and all that. Maps in hand, we marched off in the direction of what we hoped was Vatican City. At one point, one of our group swore our bus had just passed us but we decided it was a hallucination and kept going. Stepping through puddles and avoiding homicidal motorists, we arrived at our destination, Pont D’Angelo. Congratulations all around.

Joe and I didn’t go far for dinner that night, just downstairs to the hotel restaurant.

And it didn’t rain once.

When in Rome You Do as the Romans Do: Part One

2008-10-30T00:53:00.018-07:00

We arrived in Rome from Genoa Monday afternoon. (Note the blogger hard at work)

I had splurged a bit and booked us a hotel in the Piazza di Spagna, in a room overlooking the famous Spanish Steps. Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck were long gone, but the romance of the place still hung in the air. Or maybe it was just the smell of zealous tourists, all jostling for a spot on the massive staircase where they could take a photo of all the other tourists taking photos. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.

Our taxi driver deposited us in the piazza after extorting 20 Euros for a 5 minute ride from the train station. We found no. 20 and shook up to the fourth floor on the ancient lift (one at a time – as there was only room for one person and one suitcase). After sending the lift back down to pickup my husband, I tried to discern the reception desk in the shadowy hallway. It seemed unusually dark. Once we gathered our things and headed down the hallway, I saw the problem: no lights on. The owner, on verge of tears, greeted us at the reception desk and explained to us that not only were there no lights, there was no running water as well. Oh. She pulled out a map and showed us where she had booked us another hotel across town by the Vatican. She assured us the same rate with four stars. She bid us a tearful farewell and we went off in search of Hotel Cicerone.

Unwilling to risk another fleecing by a Roman taxi driver, we began what turned out to be a pleasant 15 minute walk to our new hotel. The owner of the previous hotel had not lied: we were not disappointed. The sprawling Hotel Cicerone catered to the (English-speaking) tourist trade and was a little large for our tastes but a huge room with full amenities, a king-sized bed, a Jacuzzi, and a full “American” breakfast for $143 a night? Um…yeah. We’ll take it.

We were a little hungry and thirsty (shocking, I know) so we went off in search of a neighborhood grocer to supply up. We passed block after block of fashion retail before stumbling on the Rosticerria Franchi.

Holy moly, what a find. Cases of prepared foods. Displays redolent with cheeses I had yet to sample. Long racks strung with salume and twenty different kinds of proscuitto

and from the ceiling hung the Mother of All Great Cured Meats: Jamon Iberico from Spain.

I’ve bought this meat before for special occasions in LA and it is spectacular. The meat comes from a special breed of black-footed pig in Spain and is just now becoming available in the States. Imagine proscuitto with 10 times the intensity of flavor and you have jamon iberico. It carries a hefty price tag as well – about $135/lb. Bianchi had five of these haunches hanging above, each weighing a good 10 to 15 lbs apiece. That’s a lot of meat moolah.

We grabbed a hunk of soft pecorino romano, a long link of some sort of hard salume, couple bottles of wine and headed out. We selected some enticing red peppers and fruit from a street vendor as well.

Back at our room, we laid out our treasures and feasted.

And napped. And blogged. And napped again.

Let’s Go had recommended a couple of restaurants over by Piazza di Spagna so we made our groggy way to Trattoria di Settimio all'Arancio around 8:30. Note: Only two weeks in Europe and we were already eating when the locals did.

Despite the late hour, the restaurant was still waiting for its evening rush, as indicated by the number of “reserved” tickets on the tables. Still they squeezed us in and we enjoyed a simple dinner of vegetable soup (for Joe) and spaghetti alle vongole (for me). The soup was rib-sticking thick with zucchini blossoms, onions and garlic, dusted with what tasted like fennel pollen.

My vongole was tasty and generously portioned and I gobbled it right up since, you know, I hadn’t eaten in 2 hours or something.

Joe passed on the wine (true story – I was there) and stuck with water while I had a nice glass of house red. Note: Two weeks in Europe and I haven’t had a bad glass yet. Nice way to end the evening. I even found a short-cut back to the hotel!

Final note: I snapped this photo of The World's Ugliest Purse for my pals Nancy and Crys:

Blesse mon coeur d'une langueur monotone

2008-10-29T14:00:00.010-07:00

Note: Though these photos are from last Thursday in Caen, I couldn’t think of what I could write that would properly convey the awful grandeur of Omaha Beach and the American Cemetery there. I let the pictures speak for themselves.

How can you look on this and not be moved?

Lupo Antica Trattoria de Menochette – Genova

2008-10-27T10:20:00.017-07:00

When you’re eating and drinking your way through The Continent you always hope to stumble on that little out of the way place, the family restaurant, the one where the sons are in the kitchen and the family works the front of the house. Where the décor is eclectic and entertaining. Where the food is spectacular. Joe and I were lucky enough to find such a place for dinner last night in Genova, which was particularly welcome after our disappointment in Marseille.

The trattoria was right next to our hotel, Hotel Agnello d’Oro, another great find through my new favorite hotel booking engine, booking.com. We were starved after our trip from Marseille and were tired from the (milk run) train we took from Ventimiglia to Genoa aka Genova (A Word to the Wise: Never take an Italian inter-city train that runs only second class accommodations. Deadly). After checking in, we grabbed a bottle of wine and a few goodies from a local market then stopped at a hole in the wall for a small pizza to go. The pizza was mediocre but we were famished and polished it off in about 5 minutes. It would tide us over until the trattoria opened at 7:30 pm.

After a little blogging and a nap, we rolled out the door and 15 feet up the street to the trattoria.

There wasn’t more than a few minutes wait before we were escorted to a table right next to the dessert table, where I got an eyeful of the torte della nonna and a small bowl of black truffles. No, not the chocolate kind but the mushroom kind. What they were doing on the dessert cart I have no idea but I enjoyed having a place of honor next to what looked like $400 worth of truffles.

We started with a cold bottle of rosé

and ordered an appetizer of shaved Serrano ham with smoked raw fish, and an insalate. (Note: Sorry there are no complete pictures of any of the dishes. We started eating before either of us remembered to take a picture)

The owner/waiter/host slid by our table with an amuse bouche (divertire bocca?) that included fresh peas in herbed cream and little squares of fried polenta. Nom nom nom. We were craving pasta and the Lupo did not disappoint us with their selections. I had a plate of round paste (begins with an “L” – I should write this stuff down) with a rosemary pignoli cream sauce.

Joe had ravioli stuffed with spinach and ricotta with a Bolognese sauce made with chopped fish instead of meat.

We tried not to scarf it down in one bite but it was fantastic food and we were famished. Luckily, we managed to grab a few pictures before we cleaned our plates completely.

After a digestivo, we thanked the owner and his wife,

took a few more pictures, signed the guestbook,

and rolled out the door and back to our hotel. All of that for 83 Euros.

Molto bene.

Escape from France or How We Put One Over on SNCF

2008-10-26T11:08:00.006-07:00

Joe and I have been traveling since 9:30 this morning and are on our third train of the day, heading along the northern coast of Italy and into Genoa. Just now, the conductor checked our train tickets – a first today.

We lumbered into Marseille last night around 9:30 pm and went directly to our hotel (very nice – a great boutique hotel I got very cheap and last minute through booking.com).

We hoped to make it down to the Vieux Porte and have ourselves some bouillabaisse but we were thwarted by the late hour and the prices (59 Euros per person!). Instead, we returned to our ultra comfy room with its queen-sized bed (luxury!) and snacked on fruit and nuts, resisting the over-priced items in the mini-bar. We took care to turn back the time on our cell phones as Daylight Savings Time was ending in the European Union. Our plan was to get a good night’s sleep and make it to the train station to catch the 8:37 am train to Ventimiglia and then go on from there to Genoa, arriving mid-afternoon. Ah, the best laid plans…

The alarm went off at 6:30 am and I thought it seemed very light out for that time of the morning. An hour later I discovered that AT&T had also turned back the time on my cell so it was an hour later than we thought. No time to make the 8:37 train. There was a train at 9:37 but…. oy … it was a TGV. We decided to take a chance and see if we could get a reservation. We cabbed it to the train station and got there at 9-ish only to discover a huge line of people waiting to make reservations. And there was only one ticket window open. Great. I stood in line for about 20 minutes, sandwiched between two people reeking of garlic (I imagine I don’t smell so great, myself) in a train station that reeks of piss. Piss and garlic. Great combo when all you’ve had is a couple cups of coffee and a sandwich in the last 24 hours.

Realizing I’ve got no chance of getting a reservation before the train pulls out, I ducked out of line, grabbed Joe, and we headed for the train. Screw the reservation, we’d take our chance on the train. What’s the worst they could do? Put us off at the next stop?

We found a couple of empty seats in the first class car and rehearsed our story. We lost our reservation. No… we forgot to get one. No… we didn’t know we were supposed to have a reservation. Joe promptly went to sleep, confident that his wife, with her shaky French, could sweet-talk the conductor. The conductor who never came. Yep, I waited nervously for three hours rehearsing my speech for a conductor who never checked our tickets. Sweet!

I figure that between this and the free Metro ride in Paris, we’re up 14 or 15 Euros. That'll get us another good bottle.

Caen et Joseph

2008-10-26T10:47:00.005-07:00

No, not my Joseph. Our Joseph.

Joseph is the day desk clerk at the Hotel Etap in Caen and the sweetest fellow you can imagine. He was born in Senegal, educated here in Caen, and hopes someday to find a job more rewarding than day desk clerk at the Hotel Etap. He loves his iPhone. He is a huge follower of basketball and the NBA and is probably Allen Iverson’s biggest fan outside of the US. He speaks excellent English aside from his native French. He knows good wine. He was a great help to us on our trip through Caen.

First, Caen. Caen is the capital of the Normandie region of France. Caen is known for its Calvados (apple brandy), its history (William the Conquerer to the D Day Landings) and its weather (Seattle with better booze). So it rained, we drank Calvados, and we visited Omaha Beach. Check Caen off the list.

In between, we found some good eats (Joseph with restaurant suggestions),

visited the Memorial du Caen Museum (Joseph printed out a map with the bus route),

got a really good deal on our budget hotel (Joseph gave us a break on the price),

and bought a couple bottles of Calvados to mail home (Joseph is bringing them to the Post Office for us on Monday).

Seriously, I’m sending this guy an Iverson jersey.

SNCF Can Bite Me

2008-10-25T14:47:00.003-07:00

I’m ready to leave France. One week here and I’m alternately annoyed and enraged with France’s national railway system.

Joe and I have 21 day Eurail passes, good for unlimited travel within most European countries. These were not cheap. On heavy travel days (weekends and holidays) we’re encouraged to make reservations ahead of time on the most popular train routes. On the TGV (bullet train) routes, you can’t travel without a reservation. OK, no problem. I learned my lesson after Luxembourg: I’m making reservations.

When we arrived in Caen on Thursday, we solidified our travel plans for the next few days. I went to the train station in Caen to make reservations for Saturday travel on the TGV. Our goal was to make it to Southern France (Marseille) late Saturday afternoon/early Saturday evening. There are about 6 or 7 trains from Paris to Marseille every Saturday morning/early afternoon and there must be two seats in 1st class available, right? Wrong. Oh, there are plenty of seats available, all right, but only a limited number are open to Eurail pass users. Just like the airlines and frequent flier travel, you are limited in your travel options. Pisser. So now we’re not getting into Marseille until after 9 pm and if I don’t get any freaking bouillabaisse tonight, I’m going to be irked.

/end of rant

Update: No bouillabaisse. Pffffft.

It's a Long Way to Caserne Maginot

2008-10-24T01:27:00.022-07:00

Joe lived in France from 1954 to 1956. He was a young man, just out of high school, and signed up for the US Army so he could “go kill bad guys”. Instead of shipping off to Korea he was sent to the tiny outpost of Verdun, France and the Caserne (Fort) Maginot. Utilizing his skills as a “Remington Raider”, the army gave him a desk job and a place on the honor guard, which entitled him to perks unavailable to your average PFC. Plenty of weekends free to travel four hours to Paris, or four hours to Luxembourg, or four hours to Switzerland. Nice work if you can get it.

Verdun is an ancient town in the Argonne region of northeastern France and was the scene of one of the most famous and bloodiest battles of the First World War. As a matter of fact, a few weeks from now (11 November to be exact) will mark the 90th anniversary of the Armistice which ended the Great War. The local newspaper has put out a special edition, trumpeting “Merci, Amerique!”. See? They still like us.

When we first started planning our trip to Europe, Verdun was the only “must” on Joe’s list. It’s an intriguing idea to return to a place you have not visited in 54 years. We took a train out of Paris Tuesday am (with time to spare!) and traveled through Metz to Verdun, arriving around two in the afternoon. After securing a hotel, we put on our coats against the light rain and ventured into town. At the train station, Joe spotted the crumbling monument to the Voice of Liberty (La Voie de Liberte).

It was the first of several in a city Joe remembers as a “city of monuments”. We made our way into the center of town, passing the ancient town gate,

the grand monument to Verdun,

and many other memorials.

After crossing the River Meuse, we grabbed a glass of wine and a jambon sandwiche at a café. Note: grabbing a cheap bite at a bar in France is not the same as grabbing a cheap bite in an American bar. Fresh bread, local cheese and tasty sweet ham make a delicious meal. Nothing premade or (gasp!) microwaveable to be seen.

The next day, the hotel concierge pulled out a map and attempted to point us in the direction of Caserne Maginot. Apparently there are now two Casernes in the area and she wasn’t sure which one we were looking for. After assuring us a maximum 20 minute walk to our destination, the concierge waved goodbye and Joe and I headed out into the cold and damp. Following her map, we walked for a good half hour before realizing there was no Caserne anywhere to be found at this end of town. At least we managed to take some nice pictures along the way.

Retracing our steps, we asked directions again in another hotel and were sent in a different direction. Ten minutes later, we still could find no signs to any Caserne. We stopped at a small café in the neighboring town Thierville,

ordered a café au lait and tried to get directions once again. The proprietor pulled out a map and, with the help of an ancient barfly, determined that the Caserne we sought was one just a few blocks up the road.

Joe recognized the outbuildings as soon as we crested the street leading to the Caserne

and we happily took pictures in front of the deserted main gate.

A regiment of French Infantry now man the caserne, but there were no guards on duty at that gate, just a security buzzer. We were surprised no one approached the two suspicious-looking Americans taking photos of a military facility. See? This is how the Germans got in last time.

Once we got all the required photos of Joe’s former office and living quarters (from behind the fence, of course)

we headed back to our hotel for a long afternoon nap. That evening, we walked back to the center of town and discovered the medieval fortress standing sentry at the riverbank.

We also discovered a local brewpub and sampled their fresh brews. Several times.

Dinner was at the Coq Hardi (insert jokes here) where we enjoyed wine, fish, rabbit

and Calvados (the region’s famous apple brandy) for desert.

Calvados. Yeah, it was a long, long way home.

Escape from Paris!

2008-10-23T07:10:00.005-07:00

As you read this, imagine if you will a small clock is ticking in the lower corner of the screen a la “24” and picture me as Jack Bauer (but better-looking and less adept with firearms).

Monday morning came around cold and rainy in Paris. The travel agency, where I hoped to find my camera, didn’t open until 9:30 am. We needed to be out of the hotel and to Gare de l’Est for a 10:40 am departure. The travel agency was a good 10 minute walk from the hotel. The Gare was a 40 minute cab ride (tres cher but no need to haul baggage up and down Metro steps) or a 15 minute Metro ride (ugh). Now, do the math.

After breakfast and checkout, I bolted out of the hotel at 9:05. Arrived at the Travel Agency at 9:18. Waited impatiently in the rain. The young woman who waited on me the day before arrived at 9:33. Yes! She had my camera! She indicated I should wait there until she went round the back and opened the door. Waited impatiently in the rain. Checked watch: 9:40. Looked through window and saw young woman answer the phone. Waited impatiently in the rain. She opened the door at 9:43. She searched for my camera, found it, and I was out the door at 9:44. I jogged (yes, jogged) back to the hotel. Arrived at hotel at 9:50. Grabbed Joe and we headed out the door and made it a few blocks over to the taxi stand. It was now 9:55 am. End of part one.

We had been warned by the hotel concierge that, this being commuter time, we may have difficulty finding a taxi but at the stand there was one lone driver waiting for a fare. Yay! As we approached, the young Vietnamese man rolled down the window and looked at us inquiringly. “Gare de l’Est, s’il vous plait!”. I made a move to toss our bags in his trunk. Instead of hopping out of his cab to assist us, he smiled sadly, shook his head, and rolled the window back up. What the hell?

There were no other taxis around. OK, time to go to option #2: The Metro. Although we stood right next to a Metro stop, it went to Austerlitz and not Est. We would have to walk (jog?) over to St Michel and grab the #10 line to Est. It was now after 10 am and our train was leaving in less than 40 minutes. We arrived at the St Michel Metro station at 10:10, rolled our bags down two flights of stairs and made our way to the turnstiles. But where was the ticket machine? The only machine at the turnstiles renewed passes – not what we needed. I went back to the Metro entrance and looked around. No ticket machine. No ticket kiosk. No exceedingly helpful Metro clerk waiting to assist me (/sarcasm). I went back to where Joe was waiting with the bags. The clock was ticking and we had absolutely no idea what to do. Just then, a young man rounded the corner, winked at us and, in one graceful motion, vaulted over the turnstiles. Joe and I looked at each other. Screw it.

There was no way I was vaulting anything, but I saw that I could easily squeeze under the turnstile. I did so and then Joe passed our luggage through. Now it was his turn. My hubby is 6’2” and there was no way he was squeezing under anything. Vaulting was not really an option either, but before I could say anything ex-ironworker Joe began to climb up onto the turnstile, over the door, (using my luggage as a step-down) and to the other side. That’s right, my 73 year-old husband ditched the turnstile like some punk-ass kid from the Bronx. Awesome. We giggled on the subway all the way to Gare de l’Est and made our train with time to spare.

Awesome.

Paris: Tres Cher

2008-10-21T06:03:00.025-07:00

I seem to remember, from my three years of high school French, that the expression “tres cher” (“very dear”) can imply affection or expense. In the case of Paris, it implies both. Luckily, we were armed with this knowledge beforehand and thus our daily budget was stretched accordingly once we reached the City of Lights.

Monday was a beautiful day in Paris. Perfect fall weather with blue skies and temperatures in the low 70’s. It was just the pick-me-up we needed after a disappointing end to our baseball season (upside: no longer getting my tired butt out of bed at 2 am). Though it had been some time since either of us had been to Paris, we felt we knew the city well enough so that we could skip the usual tourist attractions and just stroll the city on our own.

Our hotel (Le Marignon, 13 Rue de Sommerard) was within earshot of Notre Dame so we made that our first stop Monday morning. I was surprised that there were so many foreign tourists about given the time of year and the global economy. We dodged the cameras and souvenir hawkers and ducked into the beautiful cathedral for a few pictures and a moment of quiet.

The sunny day called for a stroll along the Seine, so we made our way to the Pont Neuf

along the river walkway below street level. Along the way we passed commercial boats, tourist boats

and a lovely wooden-masted sailboat in the midst of renovation.

A group of Canadian tourists obliged us with a few photos.

After crossing the river at Le Pont des Artistes, we walked through the courtyard of the Louvre and into the plaza where I.M. Pei’s beautiful and much-maligned glass pyramid marks the entrance to the museum.

It seemed like a good place to rest and so we pulled out some fruit and a bag of walnuts and spent some time people-watching.

Rather than head through the Tuileries Gardens, we decided to take the Rue de Rivoli , which is just a block from the Louvre and would take us to the Champs Elysees and our final destination, l’Arc de Triomphe. Rivoli is packed with cafes, cheap souvenir stalls, and fast food joints (note: next time the French bitch about the invasion of American fast food, I’m going to show them this photo of a McDonald’s on the Rue de Rivoli, packed with le Francais on their lunch break).

I bought a cute hat (6 Euros!)

and resisted the Eiffel Tower refrigerator magnet. Rue de Rivoli was also the scene of our first (attempted) tourist scam. A pretty young woman ran up to Joe, handed him a heavy gold ring, cried “Bon Chance!” and disappeared into the crowd. Joe and I examined the ring closely and I noticed that it still seemed warm from someone’s hand and/or pocket. As we debated what to do next, the young girl reappeared, asking if we would give her some money to buy a Coca-Cola. The light dawns! I handed her back the ring with a cheerful “Bon Chance!” and we continued on our way. Hey, I might have been born at night, but it wasn’t last night.

As we made our way up the Rue de Rivoli and past the Place Charles de Gaulle, the shops and cafes became noticeable swankier. At the Place de la Concorde, where Rue de Rivoli ends and the Champs Elysees begins, the US Embassy stood heavily fortified against terrorists and creeping socialism. This end of the Champs is tree-lined and pedestrian-friendly but as we made our way to the other end, the trees disappeared and were replaced with a sea of people pouring out of their offices and down the boulevard in search of lunch.

After a stop at the Adidas flagship store (where I replaced my pretty-but-not-meant-for-a-three-mile-hike shoes with a pair of ultra comfy – and tres cher – running shoes) we decided to take a wine break at Café Georges V. Vin rouge, Salade Nicoise, and a half hour off my feet was just the refreshment I needed.

On to the Arc!

We considered finding the nearest Metro Station

and zipping back to the hotel but in the end we decided to walk back the same route except for a detour into the Tuileries. As we got closer to Notre Dame, we became considerably fatigued but the prospect of a glass of wine and a nap was the carrot dangling before us. I noticed a Thomas Cook travel agency along the way and decided to pop in and see if we could make our TGV reservation for the next day (not going to make that mistake again!). Sorry, said the nice young woman manning the desk, you have to go to a SNCF (France’s national train service) office or one of Paris’s 7 main train stations. Poop. I gathered up my belongings and we headed homeward once again.

The clerk at hotel directed me to the Metro line, which would bring me to the Ste Lazaire station. I got our reservations and made it back to the hotel within a half hour. Joe was napping (those five flights of stairs are a workout) so I sat at the MacBook for my afternoon wine and photo download session. First, I grabbed his camera, downloaded and edited the five thousand photos he takes each day (OK, slight exaggeration) and made a folder for them. Then, I went to my backpack to grab my camera. Not there. Perhaps I put it in my purse for the trip to Ste Lazaire? Not there, either. OK, I must have left it on the bed or in my suitcase before I left for the Metro. Nope. For the next ten minutes, I searched the backpack, purse, suitcase, and hotel room. Over and over. Panic set in. What the f*ck? Where did I put it? I could have sworn I had it with me when we returned to the hotel. Perhaps I left it at the ticket counter at St Lazaire when I got my wallet out?

The front desk staff at Hotel Marignon speaks English, which is very helpful when one is making reservations or is in need of directions. Given my shaky French, I thought the clerk in charge might be able to help me with a phone call to the ticket counter at Ste Lazaire. No dice. She informed me (in perfect English) that the train station was like Grand Central and it would be impossible to reach the correct sales desk. It would be best for me to go back and ask for the lost & found. With a heavy heart, I returned to the Metro and made my way back to Ste Lazaire. Along the ride, I retraced my steps over and over again. If the camera was not at the train station, the only other possibility was I had put it down at the travel agency. As I suspected, my camera was not at Ste Lazaire. Back at the hotel, I again asked the clerk if she would make a phone call for me, this time to the travel agency. Again, no dice. Better to go myself, yada, yada, yada. Thanks, bitch. I’ll remember this when I give my hotel review to Let’s Go.

Since it was well after 7 pm and the travel agency was now closed, the only consolation lay in food and wine. On our way back to the hotel earlier, Joe and I had come down a side alley that showed many promising food and wine possibilities.

And a piano bar. Piano bar! Anticipating some decent piano or maybe even a jazz trio, we decided to make the piano bar our “happy hour” destination. At 8 pm, a bored young man made his way to the piano, arranged his music, and launched a deadly version of Elton John’s "Your Song" (“It’s a little bit funny...”). Funnier than you know, buddy. Joe nearly choked on his Pinot Noir when I brought up the Bill Murray lounge lizard character on SNL. Not to be outdone, a young woman grabbed the microphone for the next song (the Beatle’s “Yesterday”) and, with fractured English, managed to hit a solid eight on the Unintentional Comedy Scale (“I’m not half the man I used to be!”). Fabulous stuff. If I had the nerve, I would have taken some video right then and there, but it looked like her father was sitting at the bar as the fellow glared at me every time I stifled a giggle. Time to go!

As it turned out, this particular stretch of cafes was geared toward the tourist traffic (fixed price menus featuring snails, frog legs and duck a l’orange) so we decided to return to the Café Metro,

scene of last night’s delicious dinner. Once again, I had the Nicoise and Joe the Crudites. It was getting chilly and windy so we decided some onion soup was in order as well. And a second glass of wine. With that, our food budget for the day was at it’s breaking point. Coupled with a new pair of shoes and a possible loss of one of our cameras?

Paris: Tres Cher.

You Can't Get There from Ici

2008-10-21T05:50:00.006-07:00

The TGV is France’s high speed, or bullet, train. It runs north to south, east to west and is the most popular way to travel from outlying locations to the Center of the Universe, aka The City of Lights, aka Paris. Every guidebook suggests that you always make a reservation ahead of time, especially on peak travel days. Especially if that day is Sunday. Especially if it is the only train to Paris from Luxembourg.

Our original plan had been to travel to the small town of Verdun on Sunday (scene of Joe’s last foray into France circa 1954) but the Thomas Cook Timetable showed no regular train service on Sunday. This I discovered about 5 pm Saturday night. So, after a mad scramble to change our schedule and find us a decent hotel in Paris, we made plans to take the early afternoon train to Paris on Sunday. Alas, these plans did not include a reservation. Imagine my moment of panic when I went to the ticket desk at the train station and was informed there were no seats available on any train that day from Luxembourg to Paris. At least not directly. About ten minutes after I had stopped hyperventilating, I went back to the ticket desk and calmly asked if there were a less direct route that did not involve the TGV. As it turned out, we were able to reroute through Metz. Thanks for not suggesting that to me in the first place, officious-and-entirely-unhelpful-ticket-desk-clerk. Now I had to assuage my fears with a beer or two in the train station bar (see above).

As it was, we made it to Paris before dark, found our little hotel by Notre Dame, hauled our luggage up five flights of stairs (no elevator!) and headed to a local bistro for a bite to eat.

C’est Paris.

A Day in Luxembourg, A Night (morning, actually) in Tampa/St Pete

2008-10-19T12:39:00.020-07:00

I have always depended on the kindness of strangers. Especially if that stranger has a Slingbox and gives me his IP address and login so that I may watch some playoff baseball at 2 am, local time. Say what you will about crazies on the internet, but I can vouch for the fine folks at SurvivingGrady. Especially complete stranger Ben who so generously gave me the ticket to watch the game last night, and my friend John (in New Zealand) who gave me his MLB.TV account info as a backup. Sox fans are the best, no matter what Chip Carey and the rest of the asshats at TBS might imply. By the way, I have a message for Ted Turner: Next time you televise an important playoff game, make sure to pay your electric bill first.

Yesterday afternoon was spent exploring Luxembourg City’s lovely streets and parks. The weather was a cool and damp and we turned back from our first attempt to walk about at 9 am. Once the morning fog burned off, we headed out once more to wander about this ancient city with its medieval fortresses. I had been here once before with my father some 20 years ago (GI Joe last was in Luxembourg sometime in the mid-50s) and took the tour of the battlements. This time, Joe and I decided to skip the guided tour and follow our map, with a few suggestions from Let’s Go Europe.

Like many European cities, Luxembourg sports various monuments and tributes to the allied liberators of the Second World War. La Place de la Constitution borders Ave. FD Roosevelt and along the walk to the city’s cathedral we found many plaques honoring members of the local resistance movement.

The walk along the fortress walls, or casements, offers a spectacular view of the city. Beneath lies the Valles Petrusse, or Petrusse Valley, a lovely park that cuts right through the center of Luxembourg City. We had packed a lunch of cheese, fruit and wine and, being thus fortified, hiked our way down the steep steps of the casements and into the Petrusse.

The afternoon sun (and le vin rouge) kept us just warm enough to sit on a park bench and picnic for a good hour.

The park is well-used on a Saturday afternoon and we watched as bike riders, joggers, and families made their way past. We encountered a group of American students as well, on a semester abroad from Miami of Ohio. They chatted with us for a bit and offered many restaurant and nightclub suggestions before continuing on their way. After stuffing ourselves, we headed back to the hotel, resisting temptation along the way.

After our extensive afternoon nap, we once again made our way to the center of the city, this time to explore our dinner options. Let’s Go was enthusiastic about an unusual restaurant off the Rue du Nord called Chiggery. Legend had it that the restaurant boasted a wine list of 2300 (no, that is not a typo) selections. Booyah! After a gander through the Place d’Armes and it’s many sidewalk cafes/restaurant, we found ourselves at Chiggery. Once we stepped through the door, I suspected that this place was not quite our cup of tea. It had a loud, funky vibe – very Venetian (as in CA) and its wildly painted walls were lit with black light. Hmmm. Despite its reputation for fine wine and cuisine not to mention the amazing selection of homemade vodka infusions,

Joe and I made the executive decision to eat elsewhere. However, I was still intrigued with the idea of the Holy Grail of wine lists: why not have a glass before we leave? We settled in at the bar and ordered two glasses of red. I was excited at the many possibilities: perhaps a local treasure or the remains of some diner’s Chateau d’Yquem left behind? I watched the bartender reach into the wine cooler and pull out a bottle for us.

He came up with a bottle of Woodbridge Merlot.

That’s right, folks. A bartender at a restaurant in Luxembourg, known for its exotic wine list, pulls out a bottle of crappy California Merlot. $7.99 at your local Safeway. Feh. We drank up and headed out.

Everywhere in Luxembourg were the posters “Les Moules a arrivee!” (the mussels have arrived) and so Joe and I looked forward to sampling some coquillage. We made our way back to la Place d’Armes and found a traditional bistro, Café Francais. Here we ordered said moules, along with soup and a nice bottle of Pouilly Fume. Tres delicieux.

The brisk 10 minute walk back to our hotel sobered us up somewhat before we napped once again before the game. A game worth staying up for, though I must admit I spent the later innings lying in bed with one eye barely open.

Sunday night is Game Seven. Pardon me if I don’t pick up the action until the middle innings. I need sleep lest I do a faceplant at the Musee d’Orsay on Monday.

One last picture before I sign off. I know my friend Hayes will enjoy this:

I'm always running behind the times, just like this train

2008-10-18T01:02:00.000-07:00

I noticed yesterday that Blogger is having trouble putting the correct date stamp on our blog entries. I guess I'm supposed adjust the date/time according to wherever we are at the moment. Hell, that's just too much to ask. Believe me when I say that it's Saturday morning and we're in Luxembourg. I think.

Yesterday we took an unexpectedly spectacular train ride from Frankfurt to Luxembourg. When I selected this particular train schedule, there was nothing to indicate it might be as scenic as it turned out to be. It was a four hour ride, with an hour layover in Koblenz.

The first hour was a quiet ride through the outlying suburbs of Frankfurt and into the German countryside: small towns, farms, the occasional vineyard. We occupied an almost entirely empty first class car (love that Eurail pass!) and spent a significant amount of time arranging luggage, exploring the amenities,

and trying to figure out if the seats would accommodate some napping.

Suddenly, the vista expanded and the Rhine River valley opened up before us. Wow.

Castles.

Vineyards.

Just beautiful.

Worth writing about, oui?

Frankfurt: Where the Elite Meat

2008-10-16T23:47:00.000-07:00

I just had a salami sandwich for breakfast. What kind of crazy sh*t is that?

First of all, I'll have you know that Joe and I were up and about at 4 am due to 1) monumental jet-lag, 2) a snoring transvestite in the next bed (true story), and 3) over-indulgence in meat and beer the night before. Since I was awake anyways, I checked the Sox score on my iPhone, saw that they were down 7-0 in the 7th, and decided to go down to the hostel common room and hop online to commiserate live with my pals over at Surviving Grady. The hostel staff were up and about at 5 am, brewing coffee, putting out muesli and slicing more meat for breakfast sandwiches. Who has wurst for breakfast? Well, the Germans do, apparently. So, when in Frankfurt, etc etc etc. In the excitement of following the Sox EPIC comeback online and three thousand miles away, I think I might have consumed a lot of meat.

Urp.

Last night Joe and I wandered around Das Roemer*, the old part of Frankfurt. It was a damp night and I began to regret my decision to rough it without an umbrella. Still, we managed to walk between the raindrops until we wandered into the Wertheym Restaurant.

No, neither of us had the monumental slab of pork pictured at the top of the page but we did indulge in a bit of schwein. German meals seem to consist mostly of meat, potatoes, and a miniscule portion of vegetables. (Right now it feels like a slab of concrete has taken up residence in my stomach. I have no doubt I'll be needing a defrib once I get to France and start shoveling down the brie.)

The Wertheym is an old school German restaurant, but not tourist-y in the least. Aside from a few businessmen in town for the book fair, the restaurant hosted a steady stream of locals who arrived in hungry groups of four or more. As a matter of fact, Joe and I were lucky to get the only unreserved table in the (tiny) place which we then shared with a couple of Brazilian businessmen (Mario & Marcillo, pictured above). Then came the bier - a sharp local pils - and the afore-mentioned meat. With tons of potatoes. And a very tiny salad. Still a delight. And check out the decor!

By the way, we weren't the only ones fascinated with the photogenic meat.

* Until someone tells me how to find the foreign language spelling app on the MacBook, we shall be umlaut-free here.

Willkomen, Bienvenue, Welcome...Come on in!

2008-10-16T04:52:00.000-07:00

Zwei bier, bitte.

Boston (if you please) Massachusetts

2008-10-15T06:24:00.000-07:00

A bird pooped on me yesterday - that's a sign of good luck, right?

Joe and I headed downtown to Faneuil Hall after our post-flight nap, looking to catch up with old friends. First among them was Hizzoner, James Michael Curley, who we met up with near Quincy Market.

Hizzoner did his best to maintain his dignity, despite being covered in bird poop and bothered by passing free-thinkers. As I snapped this photo, I got a direct hit from overhead myself. My first thought was "Bird poop is good luck! Sox will win tonight". My second thought was "I'm covered in bird poop, dammit". Well, the Sox didn't win and now I have to do an unexpected load of wash this morning.

Before dinner we stopped for a Guinness at The Black Rose and a glass of wine at La Dolce Vita (this place looks like it may be worth a try sometime - it was packed with happy diners and the wine selection looked intriguing). Dinner at The Daily Catch was everything we expected. My usual linguine and calamari was delicious and Joe had a wonderful monkfish marsala. After dinner found us at Caffe Vittoria where we they still don't accept credit cards but have moved into the 21st century with the addition of a couple of large screen HDTVs. Aside from us, the only other customers were a group of businessmen sipping cappucinos and studiously ignoring the score of the Sox game. We sat across from them, drowning our sorrow in anisette and cannolis.

So....I'm a little woozy this morning.

Take Me....Take Me....Take Me

2008-10-12T18:46:00.001-07:00

Since we announced our travel plans two (two? TWO!) years ago, the first response from family and friends has been "I wish I could go with you!". Well, it is our second honeymoon so...no, you can't come. But you can travel vicariously through the miracle of blogdom.

We spent most of the day today packing, cleaning, drinking wine, re-packing, figuring out the MacBook and how to download/upload pictures, and drinking more wine. The cat seems to sense something is out of sorts, and she follows us from room to room, occasionally napping in whatever location will hamper our progress. See above picture.

Take me.

Let's Watch Some Slides!

2008-10-11T08:30:00.000-07:00

Thank God for technology. Now, instead of holding you captive in our living room while we watch 40 slides of the same "un-named church in Krakow", you get to browse our blog at your leisure (ie goofing off at work).

Check out my Dad's outfit at left. You know my spouse would be rocking that combo if I let him.