“YOU JUST CAN’T MISS IT”

We do not want you to think we went to Belgiumjust to eat, but someone had to do it. For so small a country, it sure offered many a culinary delight, and we planned to savor them all.

Even though mussels were not in season, we managed to have our share in Brugesand Brussels. We had no idea that mussels even had a season, but apparently they were at their peak, just like oysters, during months whose names have the letter “r,” and June just did not qualify.  We also had to order them by size, such as jumbos, who knew?? Nonetheless, they were delicious, especially at Belle Époque, where they were served in a pink sauce with baby shrimp, yummy. And what accompanied those mussels better than crisply fried, fresh French fries? There was no better receptacle to wipe up those succulent juices. Served in a huge black enamel pot, there were enough mussels to feed an army, yeah, an army of two, Fred and me. And for Fred, what better way to wash down those mussels and fries, but with a frothy Belgium brewed ale.

In hot pursuit of the perfect beer, we visited Brouwerji De Halve Maan, or the Half-Moon Brewery. This establishment had been turning out Belgium’s finest since 1546. Still in operation, right in the middle of the old city of Bruges, it had just recently won first prize at several international beer competitions. After touring the facilities, we were rewarded with samples of frosty mugs of beer on tap. As we sat and sunned ourselves in their charming courtyard, we reveled in a tasty treat with a jolt, especially since the Belgian beers can have an alcohol content of as much as 12%. 

What was a person to do when they needed a waffle fix at eight o’clock in the evening? It seemed Belgians only ate waffles as a mid-afternoon snack. But we had eaten a late lunch, of mussels of course, in Brussels, and upon returning to Bruges,  craved a snack. Luckily for us, Laurenzino, the little take-away ice cream stand, around the corner from our hotel, was still open and, thankfully making waffles. The sizzle and pop of the batter when it was ladled on to the cast iron pan was music to my ears, because as everyone knows, I was a waffle gal. As I watched all the tiny, crunchy squares being slathered with a creamy white chocolate sauce, I just knew I was in for a genuine treat.

At the traditional Wednesday market in the old Mrkt   Square, there was a constant buzz of activity from buyers and sellers alike. We grazed through the maze of stalls, snacking on samples of herring, (with chopped onions and sliced pickles, quite tasty!), wild strawberries and Belgian cheeses. But the tastiest treats were at the fish market. While there, we gazed at the mongers as they skillfully boiled up huge cauldrons of snails in a fragrant spicy concoction. Undaunted that we had no plates or proper utensils; we purchased a bagful, sat ourselves down by a canal, and feasted. 

For our last day in Belgium, we vowed to eat nothing but chocolate. After purchasing the BrugesChocolate Walking Tour, we spent many a delightful hour as we strolled the narrow lanes and alleyways and discovered each and every chocolatier in the city, and sampled their wares. From praline to raspberry to white chocolate ganache and coconut fillings, we happily licked our fingers and devoured them all. 

But our favorite goodies came from the Chocolate Line. With an extremely creative chef at the helm, their dainty treats could not found elsewhere.  Their offerings included chocolate with lemongrass, wasabi or chili. Surely, these were not for the faint hearted. But we did admit that if they were really going to pack a punch, they needed to kick up the spice factor. Here we also found our favorite and strangest chocolate encounters. The chocolate margarita consisted of a tiny bite sized pot of dark chocolate, stuffed with caramel, rimmed with sea salt and loaded with a dropper filled with tequila. Priced at four Euros each, wow, it was an awesome but costly treat. And in keeping with the name of their shop, they offered a cocoa snort. Sold in tiny, clear glassine packets, (but no mirrors or razor blades), there was enough chocolate to guarantee your sugar high. Assured that even Mick Jagger had tried it, (but what hadn’t Mick tried?), we purchased our stash and brought it back to our room and gave it a try, or should I have said a snort?  I could not attest to a buzz, but we did have a lingering faint taste of chocolate in our throats, and for the next few days, whenever we blew our noses, well you got the picture.  

Bruges was a picture postcard, perfectly preserved 13th century medieval village, with swans gracefully gliding through narrow canals, and picturesque views around every corner. We had debated whether to stay here or Brussels, and we were so glad we made the right choice. At the Onze-Lieve-Vrouwekerk, (Churchof Our Lady), there was even a rare piece, of Madonna and Child by Michelangelo, one of his few to be found outside Italy. It was a thorough delight for the eyes as well as the tummy. To sweeten the pot, we even threw in several pictures of Brussels too.

The next best thing to being part of a family is being treated as if you were. On the Greek Island of Crete, we had the good fortune of staying at the Oasis Hotel, on the north shore, equidistant between Chania and Iraklion, in Skaleta.  Recommended by Mariam Rosenboom’s, (my former student) mom Irene, it was simply decorated and furnished, and not as close to the beach as we had hoped, however, the Oasis was just that thanks to the warmth and hospitality of  Harry, Costa, their mom, dad and sister.

Upon arrival, in order to make sure we did not get lost, they had their friend George, pick us up at the airport in Chania and drive us the one hour to the hotel. Sure enough, as soon as we reached the arrivals terminal, there was George, with a big smile and strong, firm handshake. A transplant from Georgia, in the former Soviet Union, all George did was rave about was Harry, Costa and company, and the wonderful friends they had all been to him, something we soon found out for ourselves.

When we finally reached the Oasis, everyone rushed out and greeted us, with lots of hugs and kisses all around. Like long lost relatives, they made us feel at home immediately. Even though we arrived at almost 10:00 PM, after twelve hours of traveling, they knew we were exhausted, and quickly whisked our bags to our room, and seated us at a comfortable, candlelit table on their terrace,  high up on a hilltop above the Aegean Sea. In no time we were nourished with their mom’s delicious food and a much needed large carafe of wine. From mushroom soup, to Greek salad, dressed with their own olive oil, made from olives picked from the trees on the grounds of the hotel, (we were even presented with a bottle to take home), to grilled fish and desert, everything was lovingly prepared by their mom, in their own kitchen.  

What followed was eight days of Harry and Costa generously sharing their Cretewith us. From Costa’s wonderful greeting of, “Kali Mera,” each morning, to Harry whipping up Greek frappes, (decaf for me of course), to their dad  picking fresh apricots off their trees for us to eat, to sharing shots of raki, (a very strong Greek alcoholic drink), and sending us off to their favorite, off the beaten path beaches, like Mali and Preveli Palm River, (boy was that a trek when we had to hike up!), they carefully planned each day’s adventures. Providing handwritten maps, (Harry was meant to be a cartographer), in order to make sure we did not get lost, they generously spent hours with us, thereby insuring the ultimate Cretan experience. And for that, we could never thank them enough. Also we did not care about the raves that Santorini’s sunsets got, our best ones were right here, from our terrace at the Oasis Hotel!

Looking nothing like we had envisioned, Crete was huge, by Greek island standards, in fact it was the largest one. In retrospect, if we had planned properly, we would have split up the week, and spent several days at different locations around the island. As much as we loved staying at the Oasis, we spent way too much time in the car, especially in 100+ degree temperatures. There were some days, when we drove over two hours each way in order to reach our destination. And even though the coastline, littered on both sides with stunning pink and white sfakas, (wild flowering bushes), was gorgeous, with hidden coves and beaches aplenty, the massive interior sections, which seemed to go on forever, were a rocky desolate wasteland. With nothing but an occasionally taverna in sight, (there was always a taverna someplace, but for whom we could not figure out), there was absolutely nothing. When I said nothing, I meant, not a tree, not a house, not a shop or other car in sight.  In fact in Skeleta, we were so far from the western and eastern coastlines, that we could not even make it there and back in a day. All we can say was….there is always next time.  Harry and Costa, we will visit you for a few days, but then we are sorry to say we will have to move on. 

In the middle of August 2001, we visited Santorini for the day, as part our cruise of the Greek Isles. At the end of that day, when Fred dragged me back to the ship kicking and screaming, I was so disappointed because I felt like a kid at the candy shop with my nose pressed against the window. I was on the outside looking in, and I was not a happy girl! As I ran up and down the narrow alleyways, snapping photos as fast was I could, I was in awe of the amazing vistas before me. At that point I swore two things to myself. The first was that I would return, but the next time I would stay for one week, at a small intimate, whitewashed hotel overlooking the rim of the caldera in Ia, (or Oia, depending on which book or sign you happened to read) with an infinity pool, which in the candy shop were the ultimate treats. And after suffering from a debilitating case of heat stroke, I would never return to that intense heat again. Well I guess I was going to have to settle for 50-50. 

This time, we visited in the middle of June, when we had been assured the weather would be more comfortable, (so much for promises). We swept into Greece along with the Mediterranean Heat Wave of June, 2007. By the time our ferry glided into Santorini harbor, the temperatures soared well over 43 degrees Celsius, or about 105 F. And even though I spent most of my time clad in nothing more than shorts, and a sleeveless linen tank or a bathing suit, the cloudless, bright blue sky and scorching sun were relentless. During the early morning hours, after we strolled the fifteen minutes into town, by the time we returned, our clothes clung to us like drenched leaves on a rainy day. When we visited the black beach at Kamari, as we laid out on sun beds, (they were not called lounges in Greece), totally surrounded by black volcanic rocks which absorbed all that blistering heat as they baked out in the sun, we felt akin to hunks of fresh meat as we roasted on the sizzling rack of a barbeque grill. All we needed was to be basted with a little marinade, and we would have been quite tasty.  After an excruciating day of being skewered at the beach, we returned to our hotel in our UN-AIRCONDITONED rental car. Yes, you heard me right; the car, or should I have said tin can on four wheels, had no air-conditioning. Do not ask me why, I will not even discuss it. But the bottles of water I had the forethought to freeze over night were quite refreshing on the back of our necks, and I guess you could say, we were icy cooled. As we chugged along, we gazed longingly at the Smart cars as they buzzed by and left us in the dust.

And what did we do when we had had it with the percolating heat, and needed a respite?  Certainly there were no movie theaters or shopping malls to cool off in, so we went wine tasting. That was right; Santorini had some lovely wineries, with tiny café tables shaded under vine covered arbors and some pretty drinkable wines. We should know, because we tried them all.

Each morning, we peered down at the harbor far below, where any where from four to eight cruise ships were steaming into port, thereby swelling the population of the capital city of Fira by close to 10,000 people. In the vicious heat, as we attempted to navigate its winding cobblestone streets, we were pressed into a virtual pate of sweaty people. It was bad enough when you perspired, but it was even worse when you were schmeared with someone else’s, yuck!!

Since we were not in the market to lay out over $1,000 per night at one of the really ritzy hotels, (hey we were on a budget, and Santorini was extremely pricey), we settled on Volcano Villas, located just ten minutes outside of Ia. It was practically on the rim of the caldera, however, I did have to sacrifice the infinity pool for just an ordinary one, (oh the hardships I had to face!). The rooms were humble, but tastefully decorated, and each one was equipped with a full kitchen and a most spacious balcony, which afforded breathtaking views. Other than the incomparable vistas, the best part was the fun we had with all the other guests. Faring from mostly English speaking countries, (as the youngsters from Yorkshirenoted, “Long live the Empire!), from honeymooners to retires, we all jelled and had a blast together.  During the day, we split up into groups, depending on the sightseeing choices du jour.  Then by four, in the afternoon, we all reconvened at the pool for Happy Hour. But prior to that, everyone quickly retired to their kitchens and prepared a variety of tasty mezze, (after all we were in Greece). The koukoubagia, (a Cretan type of bruschetta made with ntakos bread), which Harry from the Oasis taught me to make, was a real hit. Accompanied with an assortment of bottles of wine, beer, ouzo, and finally, VIN Santo, Santorini’s own delicious desert wine, and mini baklava, you could be sure a fabulous time was had by all. One night we did not even bother to go out to dinner. We noshed and drank and noshed so much, that before we knew it, it was midnight. Then another day, we had shared a late lunch in Ammudi Bay, with Tasi and Norm from Toronto, (where I snagged and ripped my bathing suit as I slid over the jagged rocks into the wonderfully refreshing, and inviting, clear, cool water. We had several anxious moments, because I knew very well that my custom made bathing suit could never be replaced here. But thanks to Tasi and Fred’s crafty sewing abilities, the day, and the bathing suit was saved.) Knowing we would not have any desire to go out to dinner, we wisely stopped off at the local bakery and gyro joint, picked up some goodies, and later that evening, had a moonlit picnic at poolside.  In fact, we had so much food; a few other couples joined us, and it became a starlit party. Under the full moon, Fred brought out the laptop, switched on some tunes, and what could be more wonderful? 

This may have sounded like a very hot form of paradise, but you knew, there was always going to be a fly in the ointment. For me, it was the dogs. As we traveled throughout Europe, we had never seen so many people with dogs. Big, small, fat, thin, pedigree or mutt, we observed people who walked and accompanied them everywhere, even into restaurants. But in Santorini, they were strays, dozens and dozens of homeless mongrels who wandered the street day and night. There were shops and galleries I simply refused to enter, (and you knew that was the supreme sacrifice for me), because there was a hairy pup lounging across the threshold. Traveling in packs, they stalked the streets, invaded the hotels, drank from the pools, and found shade on the terraces and under the umbrellas. Their feces lined the streets and festered in the intense heat. Ultimately we were forced to change our room because of the stubborn mutts, who planted themselves on our shady terrace, and adamantly refused to move.  While in Ia one night, someone shot off a series of firecrackers, and as the hordes of dogs stampeded, I cowered frightfully behind Fred. Our picnics under the stars would have been perfection, if it had not been for the roving packs of pooches. As my champion, Fred continually stood guard and would, sometimes successfully, and other times not so much so, run them off the hotel’s property. Often I felt like a virtual prisoner, and spent much of my time in a constant state of nervous fearfulness.  

As it was explained to us, visitors who rented homes on the island would bring their dogs. Then when they left, we guessed the pets loved Santorini so much, they stayed behind. And as per our prior photo from Carcassone, dogs copulated with other dogs, and bingo there was your overpopulation of mangy mutts. Truly this was a situation which needed to be addressed, because before too long, the pooches would outnumber the people. And I knew we appreciated Santorini’s magnificence much more than they ever would. Besides, they would NEVER fork over $1,000 per night for one of those classy hotels, especially when they could just hang out at the pool, and nibble scraps for free.

And what was up with the sunsets, or should I have said lack of them? Before we arrived, I truly believed that the sun would set right in front of our hotel, over the rim of Santorini’s crater. Isn’t that what all the travel posters always highlighted? Isn’t that why caravans of tour busses arrived every evening at 6:00 PM, and tourists swarmed like flies through the tiny maze of the town of Ia? We were in for quite a shock when we realized that the sun had the unmitigated gall to set on the beach, NOT cliff side of the island. As ticked off as we were, I could not have imagined what I would have felt if I we had paid those aforementioned huge bucks. I was surprised that all the hotel owners did take up a collection, and arrange for the entire island to swivel, ever so slightly to the east, thereby insuring an excellent sunset at their very doorstep.

Even though we have not explored the entire world……….., well not yet at least, I truly believed that Santorini would always end up at the top of anyone’s list of the most sublime spots on the planet.

When we traveled from Crete to Santorini, there was no problem. We boarded a fast ferry, which left Iraklion at 9:00AM, and got us into Santorini a mere two hours later. Bingo-bango, we were swimming in the pool at Volcano Villas by noon.

However, when we attempted to travel from Santorini to Rhodes, we hit a brick wall of resistance. Everyone told us that you can’t do that, it was impossible, or the craziest of all options, we should take an overnight ferry to Athens, and then another five hour boat back to Rhodes. By God, we were only trying to get from one Greek Island to another, not voyage from the North to South Pole. It seemed the problem was that Santorini was in the Cycladic chain of islands, and Rhodes the Dodecanese, and the two just did not mix. Was this still ancient Greece, and the city-states remained at war, or had they come up with this new strategy to deprive each other of potential tourist dollars?  Technologically, because Greece had not entered the 21st century, in order to solve this complicated travel equation, we wasted an entire day, schlepping from travel agent to travel agent, from Fira to Ia, until we finally found the answer.

Since returning to Athens was NEVER an issue, how else were we ever going to get there? Finally, the answer appeared, we could fly. Rhodes was a mere forty minutes by air from Santorini, however, the plane was an eighteen seater puddle jumper, (yicks), and completely booked the day we wanted to leave. Okay, we would bite the bullet and extended our stay in Santorini for another night. The price of the plane ticket was still cheaper than two ferries. But……… the airline, Jet Express, (who ever heard of them?), only allowed each passenger to bring 25 pounds of luggage on board. And even though we had packed sparingly, that would not even cover the contents of my make-up case. What were we to do? Fine…….we would shell out the dough for the extra baggage, which ended up costing us an additional 80 Euros, or $100, (ouch!). To our surprise, while in flight, the stewardess even served the passengers a snack, (I used the term loosely), a cup of water and sucking candy, (which was a lot more than we were given, gratis, on other airlines). But most importantly, we did arrive safely, and in a very timely manner. 

Upon our arrival, Savas, John Megaris’ nephew was at the airport to greet us, and very graciously drove us to the four star Kalithea Mare Palace Hotel, where he had made arrangements for us to stay. Here we were ensconced in a lovely pool and seafront junior suite, at a most modest price, I might add. 

But it did not take us long to realize that the hotel we were in was really a, “Mommy and Daddy Saga Hotel.” What did that mean you might wonder? For years, my parents had traveled, in Europe, to these all inclusive type of resorts, which they had raved about. However, sadly we were not on the unlimited, wine, beer, ouzo and food package, like my folks or most of the German guests of the resort; but conversely to my delight, we were supplied with as many towels as we required, and as much soap as we could lather on to our poor sun drenched bodies, (thank goodness). Actually, the hotel was quite lovely, and well equipped with three stupendous pools, (one was even an infinity), and a rocky but stunning private beach.

During our all too brief stay, my initial impression of Rhodes, made in August 2001, was confirmed.  It was a wonderful vacation destination. Kalithea was located just a fifteen minute public bus ride south of the amazingly restored, medieval walled city of Rhodes Town, which thereby allowed us easy access to its casbah of exotic shops, Turkish inspired restaurants and historic sights. Even Eric Clapton was there on his yacht, “One More Toy.”  At least that was what some of the local merchants informed us. Not that we never actually ran into him face to face at the corner shish keboberie, or cheesy T.T., (tourist trap). And then, about thirty minutes south, was the stunning seaside town of Lindos, with its Byzantine fortress, topped like a wedding cake, with an ancient Greek acropolis. As we overlooked St. Paul’s Cove, the sparkling blue of the Aegean below beckoned.  At this point, we had really become quite proficient at discretely changing into bathing suits in the car, or at least while standing between the opened front and back doors, and we were able to jump in for a deliciously cool, quick dip after we had climbed up to the summit.

Dotting the coastline drive we had a myriad of beaches and grottos, like Tsambika, to choose from, which on a hot Sunday afternoon, reminded me quite a bit of my childhood days at Coney Island.  Entire families romped in the surf, dug holes in the wet sand, or lounged under colorful umbrellas. I thought next time we must return for an extended stay, and spend more time discovering even more of the wonders of Rhodes. But that time, we would never attempt to mix and match islands, heaven forbid!   

When we selected the Greek islands we were to visit, we made sure that each one would offer distinctly individual personalities, charms and diversions. We opted for Patmos, because of its remoteness, its historical significance, its diminutive size, and principally for the opportunity to do nothing other than relax. 

Patmos could not be reached in a quickie forty minute flight or even a two hour boat ride. It took a five hour long catamaran trip, until we arrived in the harbor side village of Skala. The journey which called at five different ports, from Leipsi, Leros, Kalymnos, Kos and Symi along the way, gave us a brief glimpse into the hidden wonders offered along the way. Then once we disembarked, our first glance at the quaint waterside tavernas and tiny fishing vessels was all we needed to be reassured that we had made the correct choice. Located just a few paces from the dock, the jasmine and bougainvillea covered entrance to the Scala Hotel, and the intoxicating fragrance of its delicate white blooms, immediately transported us to an oasis of tranquility. 

The capitol city of Chora, perched high above the harbor, was located a short five kilometers away from our hotel. With its maze of windy ancient streets, and homes dating back centuries, it stood in the shadow of the Theologos Monastery, (visible from our hotel room far below), and Holy Cave of the Apocalypse. For hundreds of years, religious Christian pilgrims flocked to these sacred sights associated with St. John the Divine, thereby giving the island it aura of spirituality, or at least the presence of lots of bearded Greek Orthodox priests, in long black robes, running around.

On any given morning, within moments we were able to arrive at any of the other small fishing villages on the island, like Grikos, just to the south of us. We roamed at leisure, surveying the sun flushed fishermen untangle their miles of nets, just as they had done for centuries. Then one evening before dinner, from the entrance of our hotel, we were able to take a relaxing stroll, right through the center of the quaint town of Scala, with its adorable, but pricey shops and cafes, through the entire width of the island, to Chohlakas Bay, in order to be treated to one of the island’s radiant sunsets.  

But it was the afternoons which proved the most rewarding. After selecting several delectable goodies from either the ABC Supermarket or pastry shop in the Skala town square, our toughest decision was selecting from Agriolivadi, Kampos or Livardi Geranos Baybeaches. Any of these offered hours of quiet relaxation and contemplation in the silky sand and aquamarine crystal clear water. (Check out the photo of our feet. It was taken underwater!) Sheltered from the sun under striped umbrellas, we read and napped, stopping one of these rigorous activities only for a quick snack or prolonged dip. (For a tiny, remote island, they sure had some high prices. We paid more for lounges on the beach and a rental car here than we had on any of the other islands. So much for everyone’s warning that Santorini was outrageously expensive). But, our bronzed bodies glowed with the most amazing tans, and we reveled in the fact that doing nothing could not have been more exciting.      

Sensory shock was what we were forced to recover from when we flew from Greece to Sweden. The experience was something akin to having arrived on an alien planet. As the SAS flight left the blistering hot soil of Athens, and soared through the shimmering, bright blue skies, what hovered below us was parched, crackled and rain deprived plots of land, devoid of any vegetation, except for the occasional patch of wildflowers. But what awaited us upon arrival in Stockholm was a lush green wonderland of rolling hills and rain splattered, brightly painted profusions of summer flowers, sadly capped by dappled grey, and mist filled skies. After not having seen a single cloud for over three weeks, we were suddenly engulfed by them. Sadly, these ominous storm clouds, and very chill temps, in the mid fifties, followed us throughout our much anticipated visit to Scandinavia.

Then much to our chagrin, we encountered many other surprises. As you all knew, when we left New York, on April 4th, we truly believed we had this European timing thing down pat. And as you also all knew, from day one, we could not have been more wrong. Well by the time July finally rolled around, we would have bet our shirts, that the travel season would be in full swing, and all sights would be congested to the max. And if we had wagered that shirt, we would have found ourselves awfully chilly because we would have been completely topless! 

Upon arrival in Stockholm, we were faced with the disappointment of, “Har Sommarstangt,” or CLOSED FOR SUMMER VACATION, which to the Scandinavians was the entire month of July and into the beginning of August. As we wandered the streets of the wet, windy and cold Swedish capital, restaurants were darkened and empty, shops were locked tight and even the Opera House, where we had hoped to catch a performance, was shuttered shut. Who knew, well certainly not us. 

And those prices……………. our mouths were agape as we perused the neatly stocked supermarket shelves. One single red pepper, from Holland, was priced at an outrageous 54 Swedish Kronors or the equivalent of eight US dollars. As we gingerly lifted it, we were amazed that at that price, sirens did not shriek and armed guards were not at the ready. As we bemoaned the poor malnourished Nordic children, because their parents could never possibly afford to pay these inflated prices, the Swedes whizzed by us, filling their shopping carts, seemingly oblivious to our sticker shock. 

Throughout the trip, our benchmark became the price of wine. As we scooted from country to country, we evaluated the worth of the US dollar, which plummeted with each passing day, with the cost of a bottle of wine. Greek and Sicilian wines could be had for a little as three to four Euros per bottle. Some of those wines were barely drinkable, in fact in Sicily, that even made me down right sick to my stomach, but did that stop me from drinking them……………NO WAY. After all, a girl had her priorities. But here in Sweden, we almost collapsed when we spied the prices. A 750 ML sized bottle of Yellow Tail, was being price gouged for sixteen dollars, while in NY, we never forked over more that eight dollars.  And wines and liquors were not even sold in the supermarket as had been done everywhere else. Then finally once we found the store, which sold our alcoholic beverages of choice, they would not even accept a credit card for payment, so off to the ATM Fred had to go. And speaking of items not sold in the supermarket, or pharmacy or apothecary…………aerosol deodorant. (What was up with that?) This was quickly becoming a shopping treasure hunt. Unfortunately ours had been confiscated at the Athens Airport, prior to boarding our flight, (do not dare ask me why), and there was no way I was going to share a roll-on with Fred’s hairy pits no matter how much I loved him. Therefore, we had to search out an H&M, (there were almost as many of them as 7-11’s), of all places, where we were finally able to make our final purchase. 

When we booked our time in Sweden, we had planned to spend several days in Stockholm, then rent a car and drive up north to the Bothnian Coast. However, when we investigated the cost of a rental car for three days, we could not find one for less than $150 per day, YIKES!! Prior to our arrival in Scandinavia, we had never spent more than $50. How could we rationalize such expenditure? Therefore, we simply roamed the environs of Stockholm more extensively, and spent those extra few days in and around the city. And then when touring became just too exhausting, we even allowed ourselves the luxury of closing our eyes and napping, ever so briefly, on a few select park benches. 

Through the “Green Winter,” (because Sweden was notorious for having two winters, the white one and the green), of rain soaked skies, accompanied by bone chilling temperatures and gusting winds, Stockholm soon became our favorite capital city in Scandinavia. From Gamla Stan to Djurgarden, the Wassa Museum, Vaxholm, Drottningholm Palace and Smorgasbord at the Grand Hotel, where there were more herrings than we ever knew existed, we loved it all. Especially when we were told that we, (at least Fred), must really be of Swedish descent because Glassberg means mountain of ice cream, and for Fred that was so true!        

After spending over three weeks in Sweden, Norway and Denmark, we were thoroughly convinced that summer was nothing more than a myth. And that midnight sun……..as elusive as the Holy Grail, which was something those blonde beauties only dreamt of, or sat on their dear granny’s knees and heard tales of, but never actually witnessed. This was the case no more so than in Norway.

Torrential rains and fifty degree temperatures accompanied our arrival in Oslo. Originally, we believed we had cheated ourselves out of time in the Norwegian, (or Norvegian), capital when we came to the realization we would only be spending a brief twenty hours there, but considering the weather, we left not a moment too soon. After so many days of inclement weather, it was becoming increasingly difficult for us to even dry out. And the darkened, gloomy skies began to take its toll on our moods. How could we have appreciated exploring the outdoor sculpture garden of Vigelandsparken when the rain never seemed to cease?

The soggy weather followed us to the Vikingskiphuset, on the island of Bygdoy, which was a fascinating collection of artifacts, and one of the few sites where there was quite a bit of knowledge about the Vikings, (or Wikings), still extant. But I was confused and confounded. According to the documentation at the museum, all three of the Viking ships on display, were discovered in burial mounds located around the murky waters of the Oslofjord. Because when a member of the community died, they were buried in one of those wooden vessels, which served as their coffin, along with many of their personal possessions, even their horses and pets, which would accompany them into “The Other World”. But in the movie “The Vikings,” wasn’t Kirk Douglas’ body laid to rest in the bottom of just such a ship, and set aflame before it was set out to sea? Shouldn’t the funeral pyres have destroyed any remnants of the wood and reduced them to nothing but ashes? Therefore, where did those mightily constructed Viking ships come from? Hmmmmmmmmmm, I wondered.

Surprisingly once we were over the Arctic Circle in Kirkenes, the clouds miraculously parted and the sun finally took center stage. Not as cold as we had anticipated, our spirits soared along with the warming temperatures. And after partaking of a delectable supper of local Kamchatka king crab, wild grouse and hare, and cloudberries at the outrageously expensive Vine and Vild, (pronounced Wine and Wild), we were treated to the ultimate après dinner treat………the Midnight Sun. Dangling just above the fjord and harbor below our hotel, we sat mesmerized with a sense of wonder at the rounded blaze of golds, oranges, reds and yellows just skirting the tips of the mountain peeks in the distance. (We put a caption below, which time stamped those photos, so you can determine the time of night they were snapped.) With the knowledge we still had four more nights to revel in the spectacle in the sky, finally at 1:30AM, we tore ourselves away from the window and attempted to get some much needed rest. But even with the drapes tightly drawn, and a sleep mask pressed firmly against my face, I still sensed the power and intensity of that omnipotent eye, ever wakeful and observant, and sleep eluded me. But unbeknownst to us, sadly that night was to be our last sunny one.

Rain arrived arm and arm with the following evening, and much to our disappointment, remained for a large portion of the rest of our stay. But it was during those dark, and foggy and inclement days that I discovered what is was that I most coveted. It was then that I knew exactly what it was that I wanted to tuck into my carry-on, and tote back with me as a souvenir, and keepsake of my time in the northern reaches of Europe. As I scrutinized each artistically decorated shop window, and carefully examined the aisles of neatly hung merchandise, there was nothing which exited my interest more than the thought of, bringing back to New York, one of those gorgeous Nordic children! I became obsessed with their cornflower colored silken hair, their eyes as blue as the sky, (well not the sky here because that was mottled shades of grey streaked with black, but the pastelly azure skies of the Greek Isles), their creamy white skin, delicately sculptured features and lightly flushed rosy cheeks. In their vibrantly colored outfits and tiny high rubber boots, emblazoned with familiar cartoon characters, my heart just went pitter patter every time we spotted one of those gorgeous cherubs approaching. And even though there were a few parents who very willingly offered their offspring to us, I knew I would just have to appease myself with the many photos I forced Fred to take everywhere. Please be assured, no Scandinavian child was harmed during the taking of these pictures. Since we did not want to give the appearance of being stalking pedophiles, we kept a discreet distance when taking out the camera. 

 A Hurtigruten, what the heck was that? Could it be some strange concoction cooked up in some sweet Scandinavian mother’s kitchen? No, the Hurtigruten was a fleet of Norwegian ferries which sailed roundtrip from Bergen, in the southwest, to Kirkenes in the northeast of Norway. Every single day of the year, another one of their ships left a port carrying packages, supplies, mail, cars and passengers to any one of thirty-six different destinations, all along the coast, thusly earning its title of the Norwegian Coastal Voyage. And we were fortunate enough to spend six days aboard the Nordlys, (Northern Lights), embarking on one of its southbound journeys.

Prior to our European Odyssey, we had been passengers on several other cruise ships, but even though we had been warned that the Nordlys would not be like any other, we were still not prepared for what awaited us. Firstly, let’s examine our cabin. How can I describe it other than miniscule? Without exaggeration, once we dragged the luggage in, (and we only had four bags in total), there was no room for us. With two lower berths, so close together, that if Fred sat on one bed and stretched out, his feet would easily touch the opposite wall, (see photo).  Very quickly it became clear that some of the six of us just had to go, but whom, or should I say what? Luckily, I was traveling with the packing king, and if anyone was going to squeeze those ten pounds of shit into a five pound bag, it was Mr. Fred. Did you ever witness that man load a dishwasher? For him, it qualified as an Olympic sport. What he finally configured was, squeezing the two small roll-aways into the closet, and one of the duffels was squashed under the night table, protruding outwards between the beds, thereby blocking part of the already narrow aisle. But there was still that one pesky bag left, and since Fred would not agree to wearing the same clothes for the entire voyage, we just had to put it someplace. What we devised was during the day, if Fred made his own bed, which in this case was no more than folding his blanket, we could fit that second duffel right on top of his bed. And then at night, when Fred needed to use said bed for sleeping purposes, it could fit snugly, directly in front of the inside of the cabin door, which was fine except if we were forced to make a speedy evacuation. In that case, we would have to jump hurdles over the luggage in order to reach the door and escape, but that was okay, given the fact that we had an obstructed view, and two giant florescent orange lifeboats hung like Christmas ornaments right outside our porthole, we had those extra few moments to spare.

Just like on other cruises, we had three meals a day included. But that was not true for all passengers. Some had prepaid for breakfast and/or lunch or dinner, and then there were others who stood on line and purchased their food at the cafeteria, which operated twenty-four hours each day. We were offered buffets for breakfast and lunch and a sit-down set three course dinner served each evening. On most other ships, we had always bemoaned the menu’s complete lack of local specialties, but not on the Nordlys.  Here the food was designed strictly for the Scandinavian palate, which equated to lots of smoked fishes, gravlax, herrings galore, salads laden with an inordinate amount of mayonnaise and what the Norwegians referred to as “old cheese”. We could never really discern what exactly it was, but it stunk and tasted so badly that even the cheese lover, Fred, after tasting it the first time, refused to make a return engagement. The choices ranged from an amazing assortment of cold lobster, king crab, crayfish and prawns to incredibly gamey tasting reindeer stew. And potatoes, these people had potatoes with their potatoes. They were boiled, broiled, fried, roasted, mashed, baked, in salads, au gratined, with sauces, and without. Didn’t these lovers of Volvos and Saabs, (Oy Vey Saab Story!), ever hear of rice, pasta, or even couscous? And what was up with the toothpicks on the table? All through those gorgeous Scandinavia countries, no matter what type of restaurant we dined in, from family style to elegant, there was always a little round pot of toothpicks on every single table. And you could well imagine the most popular after dinner activity. Trust me, we never went hungry, but the choices did get old very quickly.

The dress code for dinner, well let’s just call it “early camping”, or extremely casual. As long as your body was covered with some type of fabric, you were considered properly attired, which was not necessarily a negative. Hannu and Hannele, the wonderful Finnish couple we dined with each night, and spent lots of time with, wore jeans and T-shirts, and never being one to make another person uncomfortable, after the first night, we followed suit. It really was very sensible because there were nights when we were just returning from an excursion or tour of a museum in one of the many adorable towns the ship called at, and therefore who had time to change for dinner?

And ports of call, they were made twenty-four hours a day, and lasted for anywhere from fifteen minutes, (could you imagine a mega cruise ship getting cruisers and cargo off and then back on the ship in less than fifteen minutes?), to several hours, and it was our choice whether we wanted to leave the ship or not. For the first day or two, rain or shine, we were out on deck not missing one minute of each of the quaint little seaports, towns and villages, dotted with red Monopoly styled houses. But I must admit, I did put my foot down and adamantly refused leaving the ship past 1:30 AM. 

On the very first morning, we met on the dock at 5:30 AM for our tour of Norway’s North Cape. Luckily once at Europe’s northernmost tip, we were blessed with the sun’s appearance, and were offered unsurpassed views of the rugged cliffs and Arctic Ocean far below. With herds of reindeer running wild, we really could have been visiting Santa at the North Pole. Then on the second day, the sun honored us with her appearance for the better part of the day, but by the time we arrived in Tromso, sadly a thick grey fog had settled in. Therefore at midnight, the scenes of the Arctic Cathedral, (check out the time stamp caption below the photo), built in the shape of a drying flake or “hjell,” used for stockfish, were still gloriously illuminated in a dusky glow, but unfortunately the mountaintops we tucked in for the evening by the thick blanket of mist which had descended. On a subsequent day, at 6:30 AM in Trondheim, the storms were so intense that the forty minute roundtrip walks, to and from the historic Nidaros Cathedral, left us as drenched as drowned rats. The driving gale force winds whipped the rain into a frenzy until it seemed to be falling horizontally. And the air was so frigid that I even resorted to wearing my gloves. But unfortunately, those too became so saturated that I could not even get them on for the return trip to the ship. (Note to self, next trip, DO NO bring leather gloves). Thank goodness for the ship’s laundry room, because by the time we returned, even our underwear had to be thrown in the dryer and my gloves and our sneakers took three long days to finally dry out, (check out the photo of my gloves drying on the wine bottles). But the most surreal port was Oksfjord. It was a quickie fifteen minute stop, and because it was a beautifully sunny day, as the ship approached the dock, all the passengers hung over the railing, jockeying for position to get the best vantage point.  Amongst the scenic fishing village, positioned strategically on the dock, were two adorable Nordic youngsters playing their recorders. They serenaded us with selections from Norwegian folk songs to “Swanee River”. And as each musical piece drew to a close, the Nordlys shook with thunderous applause. But it was when they broke out into a lively rendition of “Hava Nagila,” that Fred and I could not control ourselves. We ran off the ship and dropped a few well earned sheqels into the basket at their feet. To think this tiny Norwegian hamlet had such a large Jewish contingency.   

But the real reason we took the Hurtigruten was the incredible scenery. During any fine, sunny day, we simply spent our time lying back on our lounge chairs, tightly cocooned in our toasty deck blankets, soaking up the amazing 180 degree scenery which unfolded around us. Those finely chiseled fjords, topped by towering snow capped mountains; with their dollhouse sized villages tucked in at their bases left us breathless. Even the rain and fog could not diminish the majesty of Norway’s incredible coastline. As the rain fell steadily, when the captain navigated the narrow mouth and entered the Trollfjord, (site of the Battle of Trollfjord, who were they at war with, the Smurfs?), the decks were packed with eager faces, dripping wet as we all snapped photo after photo, I could only pray that one tenth of the amazing natural beauty which surrounded us could be captured. You will have to judge for yourselves because, luckily I have the real thing safely tucked away forever in my mind’s eye. 

Even though Bergen was infamous for being the rainiest city in Europe, with 300 days of precipitation per year, we were fortunate enough to be blessed by the warmth and light of the sun for most of our stay.  After so many days and nights of dismal and depressing weather, it was a boost of adrenaline to be able to finally see blue skies. 

Our stay in Bergen was going to bookend our adventures into the largest of Norway’s fjords, Sonefjord. And after six days of touring round the clock, on the Hurtigruten, we had originally thought we would spend our first afternoon peacefully doing nothing. But considering the gorgeous weather, we quickly nixed the R&R, and opted instead for riding 320 meters above sea level, on the Floyen Funicular, which afforded us incredible panoramic views of Norway’s ancient capital and the lovely countryside beyond.

On the way, we grazed through the hustle bustle of the Fish Market. With hawkers offering samples of goodies from smoked whale, (which tasted just like beef), to cheeses and reindeer sausages, it definitely made for a tasty mid-afternoon snack. And even though we were staying in different hotels at opposite ends of the city, obviously our Finnish pals, Hannu and Hannele, had the same idea we did, because just as we were reaching over for a second morsel of surprisingly tasty smoked eel, they appeared out of nowhere. 

Since we were enjoying ourselves so much, we opted to dine together one final time. Unfortunately, we had sadly learned that the shockingly high prices we had paid in Sweden were bargain basement compared to those in Norway, so we all decided to eat on “the cheap,” and have fish and chips from one of the local street vendors. After ordering one dinner, one bottled water and one beer for each of us, we almost feel over when the bill came to over eighty dollars per couple. That was correct, over $40.00 for each one of us, not all four. Therefore when we grabbed one of the dockside café tables, where we had to protect our food from the greedy seagulls swooping overhead, we savored every last tidbit of the most pricey dinner of fried fish and French fries we had ever eaten, (excluding Fred’s Dover sole, which he mistakenly ordered in a London pub, but hey that was Dover sole, this was just plain old cod). 

The next morning, the sun god smiled on us once again as we boarded a fast ferry for the most incredible four hour trip into Norway’s most spectacular and longest fjord, the Sognefjord. Even with the sun shining down on us, we shivered as the mighty wind blew in our faces, but undaunted we stood bolted to our spots, on the outer deck, as the amazing landscape unfolded before our eyes. With the biggest smiles on our faces, and tears in our eyes, we knew there would never be adequate words to describe this ice age carved scenery. 

At noon, we disembarked in Balestrand, where we were staying the night at the beautiful Swiss style Kviknes Hotel. We then spent the remainder of that day strolling the streets and back roads of this adorable little town which was tucked in at the very base of the towering fjord. As we sat transfixed for hours on a waterside bench, like thirsty travelers in the desert, we could not drink in enough of the rough hewed mountains iced with patches of snow and serene, crystal clear waters which surrounded us.

Then the next morning as the rays of early morning sunshine peeked through the draperies, we knew that once again good fortune had smiled down on us. At noon, we reboarded our ferry and continued our scenic voyage through the fjord to the tiny village of Flaam. With a steep wall of mountain towering over our heads, we hurried onto railroad cars, where, in one hour, we would climb 866 meters to the town of Myrdal.  Our senses reeled as we zig-zagged through the steep mountain passes and emerald green valleys and raced by cascading thunderous waterfalls. We joined our fellow passengers, (all of whom just happened to be Asian), with cameras poised at the ready, attempting to catch that perfect photo. 

Spending two weeks immersed in the awesome natural beauty of Norway left us speechless, (and for me you know that is one tough feat) and very tiny and insignificant compared to the majesty which encircled us. We could have bored you for hours with more and more and more pictures, because upon careful reflection we knew there would be little else which would ever compare with this. But sadly our other photos of Fantokt Stavkirke, Edvard Grieg’s home Troldhaugen, (but thanks to the internet, we were able to download two images for you to see, not that they were any better than ours!), and Bergen were lost forever, and if you do not yet know why, then you will just have to read Blog #31 to find out.    

We had spent fifteen weeks being completely paranoid. For practically four months, we watched our belongings like hawks. In Barcelona, we locked all our personal belongings, and the few small pieces of jewelry I usually wore everyday, in a safe deposit box, and carried only what could fit into our pockets. Fred donned a money belt, and unaware of how it should have been worn, positioned it under his clothes, but below his waist instead of above. I laughed hysterically the first time I noticed him unzipping his fly to retrieve the Euros needed to pay for lunch. Heaven knows what the cashier must have thought. After visiting Prague, Palermo, Naples, and Milan, some of the most notorious centers for crimes perpetrated against tourists, amazingly we were going to complete our European Odyssey unscathed, or so we foolishly believed. But we were safely in Scandinavia, what could possibly happen to us here?

After several glorious days in Bergen, once again, the sun deserted us and those ominous black clouds reappeared accompanied by cool temperatures and a steady, drizzily rain. But our spirits were undaunted because finally we were in Copenhagen, one of the capital cities we most looked forward to visiting.  At the airport, we squeezed into a cab as the driver popped a Frank Sinatra CD into the player. And ironically to the cords of, “New York, New York”, as we wove in and out of the darkened and damp city’s early morning traffic, we congratulated ourselves on our seamless journey from Norway. Wow, we were pulling up to the Hotel City, it was only 9AM, and we would have the entire day to discover the glories of the Danish capital. If all went well at check-in, we could even get across town, to the Tourist Office, in time to participate in the historical walking tour given by one of my favorites, Hans Christian Anderson, (or at least with the guy from the Bronx who dressed just like him).

The hotel’s lobby was likewise packed with its own sunrise tie-ups, and we were quickly caught up in the sea of humanity hurrying in and out of the bustling entryway. After depositing our luggage in front of the reception desk, I left Fred for a much needed visit to the ladies’ room. The next thing I knew, he was pounding on the door, frantically demanding I return to the entrance. After opening the door, all I saw was that he was sopping wet, and there were five hotel employees on their hands and knees mopping up water. In total confusion I wondered quizzically, what could have possibly happened in the few minutes I was gone? What transpired was his backpack with mucho stuff in it, including:  my reading book, our laptop with all our account passwords on it, our debit card, which was our only access to the ATM so no more dinero, and digital camera, (with the previously mentioned photos of Bergen and its environs), were gone, poof, disappeared. And in his haste, to try and find it, he tumbled into the fountain in the middle of the lobby, and if you knew Fred, you could well imagine the tidal wave which accompanied that, (sure I can laugh about it now). We felt stunned, panicked, and violated, stripped naked as a babe. How could two such experienced travelers have been so stupid and allowed this to occur? Foolishly, being inside the hotel gave us a false sense of security, and we let our guard down, as a result we had not been as vigilant as we should have been.

After drying off the sodden and bedraggled Fred, and getting him into clean clothes and shoes, we set out on our first tour of Copenhagen; unfortunately it was to their central police station. As the now steadily falling rain hammered the windshield of the cab, we huddled together and cried as we caught our first glimpse of the famous Tivoli Gardens.

After finally returning to the hotel, with a heavy heart, my first reaction was to either jump into bed and pull the blankets up over my head, or demand that we call British Airways immediately, change our flights and fly back to New York. I was fed up and disgusted, and wanted nothing more than to return to familiar surroundings amongst our loved ones. Okay I was ready to cry, “Uncle,” and admit defeat; Copenhagen had gotten the better of us. But as I mulled the situation over and gave it further consideration, I knew this would not be the right move to make. There was no way we were going home with our tails between our legs. If the master plan was to travel the world for two years, lots of shit was going to happen. Even if we had remained in New York, there would have been crap to contend with. No, we would stay right here and make the best of it, even if it killed us!

Fortuitously for us before we left New York, Fred had the foresight to purchase an external hard drive, and as luck would have it, all our photos, excluding the previous two days, and one of my blogs, had been uploaded on to it in Bergen. And by chance, the hard drive had not been packed in the stolen backpack, so maybe good fortune was still with us. 

With renewed determination, we spent the entire remainder of that day, on the hotel’s computer, changing all our passwords and canceling credit cards, certainly not a pleasant task. But boy did we learn valuable lessons for the next leg of our adventure.

Following Fred’s credo, when we awoke the following morning and it was a brand new day. We took a deep breath, and set out to finally discover the glories of this southernmost Scandinavian city. This time we made it to that walking tour with Hans Christian Anderson, who was good but nowhere as dynamic as the Night Watchman of Rothenburg. For the next few days, we hiked from one end of the city to the other; after all we had lost an entire day of touring time. Our feet ached, but we saw it all, from the National Museum, (sadly the Viking exhibit was closed) and the Glyptotek, (incredible space) to the crown jewels at Rosenborg Slot and the Little Mermaid, (now that was a trek and a half!).  

Finally on our second evening, we visited Tivoli the way it should be. We waltzed in at dusk, and found an old fashioned, turn of the century, (the last one not this one), amusement park. The heavenly aroma of freshly prepared popcorn, and cotton candy and nuts roasting on an open fire, (hmmm, where have I heard that before?), made our mouths water. Teens shrieked as they tried their luck at the games of chance. When was the last time we saw skeeball, the mechanical horses and could you shoot your water gun straight enough to topple Hans Christian Anderson’s hat? There were multi-colored lanterns twinkling in the trees as a 1940’s swing band strutted their stuff under a Victorian striped gazebo. When the music was snatched up in the cool, gentle night breeze, couples danced cheek to cheek, and parents walked hand in hand with their candy-stained and sleepy children. It was truly a magical experience from a bygone era. 

During our last day in Copenhagen, I just had to stop off at a bookstore on the Stroget, the pedestrian shopping street, to see if I could replace that stolen paperback. After all, how could I attempt to make a seven hour plane ride without a good book to read?   After making my selection, I left Fred on line to pay, so I could get some fresh air. Even though the outdoor temperatures were cool, none of the hotels, restaurants or shops were air conditioned, and the air indoors quickly became very claustrophobic and stuffy. By the time I reached the sidewalk, I heard a commotion and Fred was shouting, “Did you take my wallet?” Yet again my heart raced and my palms began to sweat. Of course I had not, and sadly, yet again I had to come to the realization that we had been robbed. While he was paying for the book, he some how took his eyes and hands off his wallet, and then faster than a speeding bullet…….there went the wallet. We had been sucker punched, not once, but twice in three days we had been duped. We felt strangled by anger, frustration and impotence, because we knew full well, that we were helpless, and would never see that wallet or any of our belongings ever again. 

At this juncture, there was really not much more to steal. Luckily we would be leaving Denmark in four days because all we had left was the one credit card Fred was using to buy the book and the little bit of cash in his pocket. Since his driver’s license was gone, the only means of identification Fred had was his passport, which fortunately was still safely resting in my pouch. And being the fatalist I was, I truly believed that everything came in threes, and at this point, we were two strikes down.

We could not leave Copenhagen fast enough. Unfortunately in our minds, this town would forever be painted with the brush of calamity. The next morning by the time our rental car was delivered, we were thrilled to bid adios to the Danish capitol, and begin our four days exploring the countryside. 

Leaving our misfortunes behind us, we thoroughly enjoyed the final days of our European Odyssey. We rambled to the amazing seaside Museum of Modern Art in Louisiana. Now I am not a lover of contemporary artwork, but the collections were housed in an idyllic natural setting, which somehow enhanced their beauty.  

Then we were on to Hamlet’s Castle, or Kronborg Slot in Helsingor, the impressive Fredericksburg Castle, (why were all Danish kings named Frederick or Christian?), and then further a field to Hans Christian Anderson’s birthplace in Odense, the majesty of Egeskov Slot, and the medieval history of Roskilde, with its Viking Ship Museum and soaring cathedral filled with royal sarcophagi. We even got a hoot out of Hillerod, where we spent the night in vine covered pods, (see photo).

Happily by the time we boarded our British Airways flight back to New York, the sorrow of Copenhagen was a long way behind us. That was until the other shoe finally dropped, and on the return flight, yet again, British Airways lost all of our luggage. They succeeded in earning a perfect score of 100% when it came to delivering our bags. And even though British Airway had seven flights per day which arrived at JFK, it took them a ridiculous three days to deliver all of our stuff. It was comforting to know that besides our four month odyssey, some things were flawless, or at least that is how we will always remember it!! 

Allow me to introduce you to someone very special. Her name is Emily, and she is the voice of our Garmin Nuvi GPS. Just like Geppetto, when he carved a block of wood to design Pinocchio, (“Dats a cute”), Fred and I created Emily. With a flick of a switch, when we first brought life to our Garmin, we had a serious choice to make……..who was going to accompany us on our adventures? After all, while driving, it would not be just Fred and me, we would now have a third passenger in our car with us, and certainly we would have to choose this individual wisely. Garmin presented us with limitless choices, but sadly only four whose language we could actually understand. Therefore, companions number one and two, were the American English speaking Jack or Jill. There was no way I was going to spend limitless hours cramped in a car, with such creatures with such uninspiring names as Jack or Jill. Shame on you Garmin, couldn’t you have come up with more creative names than that? So in the blink of an eye, the first two contestants were voted off the island. This then left us with Daniel, the British male. Now that had an aristocratic ring to it. He could be the tuxedo clad butler serving us tea and sweet meats, with sterling silver tongs while out on the verandah, gently advising us whether to take the cream or custard filled éclairs. But oh no, the minute we heard his overly authoritative nasally tone of voice, we knew that he had to go as well. Whose car was he going to think this was, and would he continually interrupt us in mid-sentence, (well that happened anyway)? This gent was way too bossy for us. He had attitude squared. Which left us with dear Emily, the British speaking female? Luckily, she was juuuuuuuust right, with the perfect combination of amiable personality and knowledgeable expertise.  In addition, she turned out to be quite a good sport when we had many a hearty laugh at her expense. Because no matter how poor our accents were, they were nothing when compared to her phonetic, mechanical pronunciation of all those foreign words and names.

But like most of us unluckily, Emily had her faults and was far from perfect. First of all, every single day upon awakening, the first words she uttered were, “Please drive to the highlighted road.”  We gave her brownie points for politeness, but even after consulting her brightly colored map, we could not always figure out where or what that highlighted road was. And to make matters even worse, we did not even know how to get to that path. So very often this involved quite a bit of trail and error until we were finally on our way. Then there were many times we wanted to take the picturesque scenic pathways, and had to outwit her by requesting she calculate our route as if were on bicycles. (Why the heck couldn’t we request a particular thoroughfare? Who was in charge here, and why was it always her decision?) But did she have to take us so literally, and in Edam, Holland, she attempted to take us across a slender canal bridge which really was for cyclists only. Then since she had spent so much time investigating all those teeny country roads, she desperately wanted to personally introduce us to each and every one of them. And you all know the battle scars our poor Peugeot bore because of that. Finally in an attempt to avoid further damage to our car and Fred’s nerves, we had to set her for bus routes only. Then when in Barcelona, our hotel was located on a pedestrian walking mall, but Emily did not care one damn about that. Her mission was to transport us to the front entrance, and that was just what she was going to do. As Fred swerved around the bustling Saturday afternoon shoppers, we were the recipient of many a dirty look. We were lucky to have escaped without a shopping bag being hurled right at our windshield. And you could imagine our reaction when we arrived at another final destination, and she took us right into someone’s driveway. Did these unsuspecting hosts think we were unexpected dinner guests? On that one, she really made a doozy of a mistake in her calculations. And then why for goodness sake didn’t she take traffic or stop lights into consideration when we were exiting a parkway? Oblivious to the fact that we had either slowed down or stopped, she continued to rattle off her directions. We had an awful time in an attempt to keep up. 

But her worst faults reared their nasty heads once we arrived in Croatia. According to misguided Emily, nothing else existed but Dubrovnik, Split and Zagreb. Poof, an entire country disappeared, and when we switched her on and brought her to life, if we were not in one of the larger cities and ventured out to explore Trsteno, Stone, the Peljesac Penninsula, or Plitvice Lake National Park, all we saw on the screen was a tiny car floating on a completely blank background. Luckily for us, there were not too many roads to choose from, but what were we to do once we entered Hungry and took an excursion to the towns along the Danube Bend or attempted to find The Leonardo, our delightful Renaissance bed and breakfast in Cesky Krumlov in the Czech Republic? Someone at Garmin needed to be informed that the Berlin Wall had fallen, and the Eastern Block no longer existed, and we poor travelers needed as much assistance as possible in getting around those areas. But what was their excuse on the Greek Isles? We queried if Rand McNally knew that these stunning chunks of beachfront real estate were figments of someone’s very vivid imagination, because none of them had any place at all in Emily’s memory. 

In spite of all our conflicts, we have Emily to thank for making our ten week road trip as successful as it was. Left to our own devices, we would probably still be circling Charles De Gaulle Airport. In Western Europe, this broad knew it all. We would have believed she had personally walked every single one of those tiny blossom lined lanes and sleepy alleyways. Most of the time, in big cities and small, from Milan, to Rio Maggiore, Italy, or Amsterdam in The Netherlands, Emily delivered us to our desired destination. And if she failed in her mission, hey we only had her to blame. It was never our fault for missing that tricky turn-off or heading in the wrong direction when we entered the autostrada. Fortunately she was always very loyal and forgiving, and no matter how many times we cursed and berated her, she never once left our side. In fact there we times I wondered if she were not a bit too attached to us. At night when I depressed the button which silenced her, and slid her into her snugly into her cozy leather housing, I could not help but think of Ray Bradbury’s “Marionettes, Inc. (No Strings Attached).” In that humorous short story during the ironic conclusion, the life-sized puppet turned on its owner and imprisoned him forever in the puppet crate. Was Emily enjoying herself a bit too much and was this to be our fate???

Without a doubt the best laugh we had was when we tried to outsmart our computerized compatriot. While in Bellagio, we planned to take a ferry across Lake Como in order to explore the quaint villages of Cadenabria and Termezzo  on opposite shore. And as usually happened, we arrived at the terminus just as the boat glided offshore. Even though it was quite a long distance, we figured we would make better time driving around the lake, instead of waiting for the ship’s next departure. Immediately Fred made a u-turn, and we quickly sped our way out of town. As soon as Emily lit up, she barked out a quick succession of directions, which we soon realized were leading us right back to the center of Bellagio and the pier. In complete confusion, Fred and I glanced at each other, until our mechanical genius commanded, “Return to Bellagio and board the next ferry.” As we hooted with hilarity, we realized that this time the joke was on us because Emily really did know better. Even after making fools of us, never once did she admonish us that she had told us so. For this and so many other reasons, she was the most wonderful traveling companion, and was always welcome to accompany us anywhere at anytime. The American Adventure is about to begin, and the three of us will be on our way, so watch out!!   

The enormity of “The European Tour,” could best be appreciated by Fred’s remarkable photos, my blogs, and sheer numbers. You heard right, Melody Glassberg the statistic phobic, attempted, through the use of digits, to assist you in wrapping your minds around our trans-Atlantic sojourn.

The number of flights we took – 11 

Number of airlines we flew with – 6

Shortest flight – Santorini, Greece to Rhodes, Greece (40 minutes)

Longest flight – New York to London (6 ½ hours)

Smallest aircraft – Jet Express’ 18 seater

Largest aircraft – British Airways’ 747

Number of opportunities British Airways had to loose our luggage – 2

Number of times British Airways lost our luggage – 2

Number of times the other 5 airlines lost our luggage – 0

Amount of Euros we paid for excess baggage – 160 (that was Euros not dollars!)

How many times did we had to reconfigure our luggage while on line at the airport – How many flights did we take?????

Number of cars we rented – 6

Number of kilometers we drove – 12,000 (during the 10 week road trip) + on Crete, Santorini, Rhodes, Patmos and through Denmark

Number of parking tickets we received – 2 (ironically both in Sicily, where traffic rules were nothing more than a mere suggestion)

Number of Parking tickets we did not pay – 2 

Most Northern Point – North Cape, Norway (the most northern spot in Europe & the closest to the North Pole)

Most Southern Point – Preveli, Crete, Greece

Distance Traveled From North to South - 5,100 kilometers 

Most Western Point – Girona, Spain

Most Eastern Point– Rhodes, Greece (practically in Turkey’s backyard)

Distance Traveled From West to East – 4,000 kilometers

The Coldest Spot – The top of Mt. Etna, Sicily (where the snow & gale force winds created frigid conditions)

The Warmest Spot – Santorini, Greece (where temps reached 118+ degrees)

Number of Overnight Ferries – 3

The least comfortable – Barri, Italy to Dubrovnik, Croatia (our closet of an inside cabin was a throw back to Communist oppression)

The most comfortable – Naples, Italy to Palermo, Sicily

Number of Countries Visited – 17 (+ the Principality of Monaco)

Longest stay – 9 days in Santorini

Shortest stay – 5 minutes in Slovakia (before they asked us to leave because we did not have our passports with us)

Best Walking Tour Guides –

Of the Jewish Ghetto in Prague with Roman (oh so passionate)

Of Rothenburg with the Night Watchman (what a schtick & wry sense of humor)

Number of beds we slept in - 46

Numbers of Hotels, Inns and Bed & Breakfasts We Slept In – 42 (this did not include the 5 nights we spent in our overly commodious (not!!) quarters on The Hurtigruten or on the 3 overnight ferries. Wow, that was a lot of different beds!!)

Favorite Large Hotels – Villa Igiea (Palermo) & Budapest Hilton 

Honorable Mention - Le Meridian Podstrana (Split, Croatia)

Favorite B&B – Guiggiulena (Siracusa) We just loved Sabrina, Lucy, the blood orange granita with brioche and that incomparable view!!

Honorable Mention - Il Perlo in Bellagio (On a precipice overlooking Lake Como with breathtaking vistas, and second only to Santorini for having the friendliest guests) 

Favorite Inn – Donjon les Ramparts (Carcassone)

Worst Large Hotel – Hotel Carollo (Taormina) 

Worst Inns – La Caravelle (Aix-en-Provence), where I slept fully clothed & Villa Adriatica (Supetar, Croatia), which had the distinction of being the only place we were thrown out of by the owner with the assistance of the local police 

Worst Breakfast – Due Gemelli (Riomaggiore, Cinque Terre, Italy) Nothing but Nutella & crackers

Best Breakfasts – Villa Igiea (Palermo), Budapest & Prague Hiltons (The best dark brown bread, loaded inside & out with nuts & seeds, so yummy, especially the ends which are encrusted )  & Le Meridian Podstana  All had amazing buffets of anything & everything, with goodies cooked to order as well, & there was always plenty to pack for lunch 

Number of Restaurants We Had Dinner At – 110

Some of Our Favorites (Not including dinner with Anna Maria & Matteo) :

Hotel de La Poste et Du D’Or (Vezelay, France) Every restaurant should have a cheese trolley

Tragaluz (Barcelona, Spain) Who knew pork & octopus married so well together? Salice Blu (Bellagio, Italy) What a creative young chef

Poggio Antico (Montepulciano, Italy) Fabulous wine tasting & dinner in their restaurant

Sant Andrea & Bel Ottero (Palermo, Sicily) We definitely did not order horse

Kacsa Restaurant Etterem (Budapest, Hungry)

U Modre Kachnicky (Prague, Czech Republic)

Selene (Fira, Santorini) Yes you can wear shorts & someone should have told the chef that the white chocolate, eggplant napoleon really did not work

Number of UNESCO World Heritage Sites visited - 37 

Number of Photographs We Shot, (& remember we lost 2 days of photos when the camera was stolen) – 7,529

The Day We Took the Most Photos – July 16th of the Norwegian Fjords, while on The Hurtigruten

Number of Photos Taken That Day - 165

Melody & Fred’s Picks For Our Favorite European Destinations (in alphabetical order):

Bellagio, Italy

Bruges, Belgium

Budapest, Hungry

Burgundy Region, France

Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic

Dubrovnik, Croatia

The Greek Isles (with Santorini as #1)

Positano, Italy

Provence, France

Sicily, Italy

Tuscany, Italy

With Honorable Mentions To:

Barcelona, Spain

Carcassone, France

Cinque Terre, Italy

The French Riveria

Rothenburg, Germany

And Our #1 Pick For Favorite Destination (A Drum Roll Please) –

NORWAY

Along with all the research, preparation and anticipation, came enormous expectations. After all it took five years of aggravation and hard work to execute our Master Retirement Plan. We sold off our home and most of our belongings in order for our dream to come true. Could the reality ever hold a candle to the fantasy we had conjured up in our imagination? Even with all the mishaps, problems, frustrations, and hassles we faced, the answer to that query was yes, it was a momentous experience. Each and every day, we had to pinch each other because we could not believe that we had actually brought our grandiose design to fruition.  Never once did we regret our decision to chuck all our “stuff,” and head out on the road, and by no means did we ever forget how fortunate we truly were to be able to wander the globe, how much we enjoyed being together or how deeply we loved each other.

To accompany this blog, I have just selected, in chronological order, random photos which had not been posted previously. And to satisfy my loyal readers, I have added captions identifying them.