MizMoxie Meets Europe

Landing in the Land of the Danes

2006-06-23T00:35:00.000-04:00

COPENHAGEN, DENMARK -- June 22, 2006

It wasn't the night train from Oslo that did me in this morning. It was the unapologetic manner in which the train conductor blew off the fact that we arrived three hours behind schedule. Which wouldn't have been a huge deal. I can adjust to the quirks of daily travel -- it's a matter of being flexible and learning to think on your feet. But for my Danish host, Peter, who had risen two hours early and had taken a bus to meet me at my train platform, my absence was poor form.

I was frustrated with the train conductor, who no doubt was only trying to save face and avoid what would be a frustrating jumble of English-Danish explosions between us. Normally I am calm as a summer's day and carry off my frustrations with a fair amount of patience and poise. But I had been stewing in my sleeping compartment for three hours, watching out the grit-covered window with hope each time the train came to a halt, then realizing we were still somewhere other than Kobenhavn Hobengarden, Copenhagen's central station, the meeting place where no doubt Peter had long since given up on me.

Finally we pulled up to the platform and, feathers ruffled, I marched out into the chaos of the bustling station, my plan of attack spinning away as I counted out the steps it would take me to reach Peter and smooth things over. I hated the thought that this would brand me as a careless American. I didn't want to think that I'd already started out on the wrong foot with a stranger who had generously agreed to be my host for the next five nights as I explored Denmark.

I had met too many travellers, like the Vancouverite I chatted with for hours yesterday, who seemed to think that all the Americans he had met were slobbery, egocentric, closed-minded incompetents who were oblivious to their loud and ridiculous ways. It seemed to me that he was the closed-minded one, blinded by his own arrogance and able only to see that which he cared to see -- which was only to affirm his long-held belief that Canadians were much higher evolved than their next-door neighbors, the Americans. So be it, everyone is entitled to their opinions.

But among the many reasons I have attempted, wherever possible, to experience a homestay while travelling in a foreign country, is my belief that I can somehow undo some of the damage of the enduring "Ugly American" stereotype. That is, of course, is addition to saving a buck, and furthering my understanding of other cultures, and seeing a different side of a place than what the average traveller ever even knows exists.

After my pitstop at the ForEx to exchange my Norwegian crowns for Danish ones, I found an Internet cafe here and quickly logged in to retrieve Peter's mobile number. An email message from him seemed a bit on edge. Where was I? He had waited for me, but after several trains had come and gone, was at a loss. And the big one -- he had taken the day off to meet me. Guilt was rising by the second. I was mad at that damned train conductor for not caring about Peter's rearranged schedule.

I huffed down to the Tourist Info office to pick up some maps before honing in on a phone where I made the apologetic call to Peter. And I let out a sigh of relief as he understandingly accepted my apology. I guess I was expecting the pitbull approach, the likes of which Seb (my Paris host), clamped on me when I called him from some stranger's mobile after tramping around the Arc de Triomphe trying to find our agreed-upon meeting location.

So the story had a happy ending. I followed Peter's excellent instructions to take the local bus to his flat, and after several more apologies and some obligatory but enjoyable chit-chat, gleefully enjoyed my first hot shower in days. Two back-to-back night trains had left me feeling more than a little stale, and it didn't even matter that the shower was a drainage hole on the tile floor of the cramped bathroom, or that I had to hold the shower head with one hand while I soaped with the other. Some things just aren't that important in the grand scheme of things, you know what I mean?

~Melanie

The World Is Not So Small... Because the Same Rain Cloud Covers it All

2006-06-22T00:31:00.000-04:00

OSLO, NORWAY -- June 21, 2006

I was so eager to leave rainy Flam behind and escape to the last place I'd enjoyed some decent sunshine, that it hadn't occurred to me I was heading into more of the same. By 6:30 AM my too-short night train had pulled into Oslo Sentrale, and my tired head was spinning as I tried to decide where to go from here. My camera batteries were both useless, thanks to my overindulgence during the Naeroyfjord cruise yesterday. And the foreboding gray skies were doing nothing for my muddled sense of adventure.

To be perfectly honest, the thought of wandering around in the rain was about the furthest most appealing thing from my mind. Looking for a solution to the camera-battery crisis, I searched all over the train station before realizing that free electricity in a country who charges $60 for pizza sounded about as ridiculous as eating spaghetti with a toothpick.

So, as my Plan B (and the only other plan I had), I trudged back to Anker Hostel where I had stayed during my first pass through Oslo less than a week ago, and asked for some charity from the attractive English guy standing behind the counter.

Ten minutes later, my camera battery was charging away quietly at the front desk, and I was curled up in the corner of a comfy couch towards the back of the reception room, timidly cutting into the Norwegian waffle with brown cheese I had ordered for breakfast. For 12 kroner (about 2 US dollars), I hadn't been expecting gourmet. But it became readily apparent that this undercooked waffle had been slapped together so quickly, the cheese hadn't even begun approaching melting point. It wasn't even sweating yet. The doughy waffles were no match for the strong, tangy, slightly sweet flavour of the mahogany-colored cheese, and I began regretting my decision to sample some "Local cuisine" before I was two bites into my breakfast.
It wasn't long before the angry clouds started crying, and I felt like crying with them. I had hoped to spend the day ferrying across to Bygdland, exploring the Viking Ships and Norwegian open-air folk museum, complete with a highly-praised stave church, which I'd seen in glossy tourist brochures. And I had been toying with the idea of splurging on a day cruise along Oslofjorden, kind of a consolation prize to myself for the disappointment that Flam had turned out to be. I had taken the Naeroyfjorden cruise yesterday and, damnit, even with the rain, it was still a beautiful sight.

But my heart had been stuck somewhere down between my ankles all day as I tried to flush the vision out of my head of mirror-smooth, sapphire-blue waters, flanked with steep mountains against a cloudless sky. It had just about killed me to leave Norway and the World Heritage fjords behind without having really been able to do them justice. Well, it wasn?t me anyway ? it was the crank, uncooperative weather that refused to do them justice. But I wasn?t about to flush even more money into Norway?s already-too-wealthy economy just for another rain-glazed fjord adventure.

So anyway. Now that the skies seemed to be plugged up with spitting, gray cottonballs, I just sat back with my brown cheese and waffles and sighed. I wished for a hot shower and warm bed, but knew I?d have to wait another day or so for either. I had a long ride to Copenhagen ahead of me, leaving on the night train from Oslo at 10 PM this evening.

~Melanie

Sail with the Seagulls, Run from the Wild Dogs

2006-06-21T00:45:00.000-04:00

GUDVANGEN TO VOSS, NORWAY -- June 20, 2006

(continued) We laughed together as the gaggle of children clustered near our deck chairs threw bits of bread at the sea gulls trailing alongside the ferry. The gulls swooped to catch their meal-with-wings and then zipped up through the air as if propelled by some inner rocket. We oohed and ahhed as we cruised past cascading waterfalls, story-book cute villages, and mountain-framed fjord vistas that just left our jaws hanging open.

When I started shivering, she loaned me her thick woolly blanket to wrap up in, and I couldn?t help but feel comforted slightly by this stranger that had become a friend that couldn't help doing what moms just do without thinking. It made me realize how much I miss mine. Because I know she'd do the same -- give me her blanket and tuck it up around my shoulders and bring me something hot to warm my insides with.

At the end of the fjord adventures, we boarded a bus together to continue on from Gudvangen to Voss, from where Mary Kay was taking a train immediately on to Oslo. I, on the other hand, was sticking around Voss for the evening, when I would board for my midnight run to Oslo as well. As our bus snaked upward from the valley floor to the mountains, we looked over mountain vistas so dramatic, they reminded us both of Machu Picchu, Peru, and we both vowed that one day, we would be there, climbing among the ancient trails of the Andes. A few peppermints and ear pops later, we had exchanged emails and phone numbers and wished each other well as our journeys separated.

I left the station and walked toward the lake I had seen as we had pulled in to town. Since I had about seven hours to kill, I decided I should have plenty of time to circle the lake with my full pack. It would be good exercise, I told myself. Besides, I-ve been more or less sitting all day, and a good, strenuous walk will at least help me get some decent sleep on my overnight train ride to Oslo.

So off I went, strolling along the path running around the lake. It dead-ended forty minutes later, after leading me across a rickety bridge spanning a wide, rushing river several meters below, and taking me through a rather smelly part of town that I could only surmise was some kind of landfill or toxic dump. By the time I figured I had no alternative but to turn around, I was nearly knocked off my feet by a mangy, spaghetti-thin, soaking-wet flea pit of a dog that came out of the bushes and stood dead-center in the middle of the trail.

Remembering that dogs can smell fear, and realizing that was the last thing I wanted this animal thinking about me, I mustered all my anger and spat out, Get out of here! He seemed to understand, and took off, back into the shadowy overgrowth of the woods. I left out a sigh of relief and picked up my pace as I began walking back to town. But not ten minutes later, he emerged again, this time so close, I could see the foam dripping from his partially open mouth. Rabies. Now was the moment I regretted not getting that expensive three-shot series before leaving home.

With even more aggression than before, I barked at him again, and I levelled my eyes on him as he slowly backed up towards the woods again. He didn?t disappear completely, but with each purposeful step I took, I could tell he was keeping his distance. I was beyond relieved the lose him completely and continue the rest of the way back to the train station alone. Of all countries in which to encounter a rabid dog, I didn't think it would be Norway.
After such a warm encounter with Voss's welcoming committee, I thought it best to stay put in the waiting room at the train station, where I stuck my nose back in the quasi-romance novel I had traded in my Amy Tan book for back in Flam. It wasn't all that entertaining, but it had been the only English book on offer, and for the moment, at least, I was glad to have something to take my mind off of the slowly moving hand of the clock near the entrance. But try as I might, I was having some difficulty getting wrapped up in the pages of this book, as I had in The Bonesetter's Daughter and The DaVinci Code and Swahili for the Broken-Hearted. Reading, one of my childhood loves left long-forgotten, was quickly becoming again one of my favourite pastimes.

~Melanie

Sharing the Love on the High Seas

2006-06-21T00:19:00.000-04:00

NÆROYFJORDEN, GUDVANGEN, & VOSS, NORWAY -- June 20, 2006

Do you believe in coincidence? Or is coincidence just the watered-down way we refer to the obvious but unexplainable occurrences of fate? Or am I somehow just a magnet for the slightly off, overly enthusiastic, and generally not-so-attractive portion of the male population? That all sounds a bit harsh, considering today's ending was far from charity on my account. But you have to admit, either the world is a lot smaller than you and I think, or somebody up there likes toying with me.

The day started off slowly enough. And I didn't mind. My body was still recuperating from whatever cold I had last picked up, and I was in no hurry to go anywhere, as the unseasonably rainy weather seemed frozen as if at gunpoint in the murky skies the seemed to stretch from one side of Norway to the other. Bergen I understood. Bergen is supposed to get a lot of rain. But Flåm?

According to the young girl who emptied my trash can and tidied up the ruffled bedsheets yesterday, Flam was supposedly the 6th driest place in the world (I find that a bit hard to believe, seeing as how there are more than six deserts in the world, and I?m pretty sure they get less rain than Flam, even in a good year? but maybe I misunderstood her. Maybe that was supposed to be the 6th wettest place in the world. Whatever. Does it matter? It didn't change the forecast any).

By 11 AM I managed to be at the reception to check out, and dropped off my bag in their storage room so I could wander around a bit and at least feel like I had made an attempt to see the place. For the moment, at least, the rain was at bay, and as I walked uphill toward the face of an impressive waterfall, I swear I saw the little pocket of blue sky peek through. Like someone had taken hold of the corner of a notebook page, and ripped it away to expose the sheet underneath. Come on, you can do it! I shouted to the skies. I just knew that any minute, that crack in the clouds was going to grow bigger and bigger, splitting open wider and wider until the blue sky pushed its way in. But it didn?t happen. In fact, things got worse.

Less than an hour later, I was done with my abbreviated hike, and lounging around the Tourist Office, trying to make up my mind whether to take the blasted Næroyfjorden cruise I had had my heart set on for so many weeks now, or save a couple bucks and just take the train back to Myrdal, seeing as how the forecast just given to me by the cheerful desk attendant was that the weather was only going downhill from here. I kept thinking that maybe if I kept asking God for a teeny weeny little miracle, He might grant me even just a few minutes of blue skies during that ferry crossing to Gudvangen. So I bought the ferry ticket. Because it was worth at least trying, you know?

The voyage started out fine enough. I scored a seat on the top deck, facing north along the fjord, and settled into the flimsy plastic chair that would be mine for the next hour and fifty minutes. I enjoyed some solitude and tried to ease myself into the mindset that, rain or no rain, this was an experience I was going to absolutely savor, until three minutes later, the seat next to me was taken and I had to kiss my solitude goodbye.

Her name was Mary Kay and, despite the fact that she was a middle-aged mother of two on-the-cusp-of-adulthood sons, she had more energy, pep, and zest for adventure than most women I know. Period. I listened to her talk, rattling on about her pilot's license and work with Angel's Wings, her 18-year-old niece whom she recently drove to a tattoo parlor, her husband -- stuck in Lillehammer for the day to deliver a presentation, who she kept trying to encourage to take more risks. (No doubt he was having a difficult time keeping up with her!)

As the wind -- and our ferry -- picked up speed, and the temperatures dropped, she disappeared and then returned with two steaming cups of herbal tea and some kind of sweet Norwegian filled bread that she had picked up for us to munch on. And as she kept talking, I realized that as different as she and I were, we shared this massive love for the adventure of travel. The being-out-there-and-doing-it kind. In some faraway place. With the freedom to stay and stay and stay. Not your package-tour kind of woman, neither of us. And it was so refreshing. There was something in her so alive, and I thought, yeah, I can hold onto this love. I don't have to let it die, ever. Look at this woman, as full of youth as if she just fell out of grade school. You would never know, looking at her, she was a survivor of brain cancer, or that just a few years ago she decided she was going to learn how to fly planes. It just made me realize that we all come in different packages, and that there is no way of knowing, if you don't take the time to peel off a few layers, what ties, dreams, similarities, passions you might share with the stranger standing right next to you.... (to be continued)

~Melanie

Flåmsbana and Blaming it on the Rain

2006-06-19T00:09:00.000-04:00

From BERGEN to MYRDAL & FLAM, NORWAY -- June 18, 2006

Terrible weather had set in again. For whatever reason, my luck never seems to give out. I wandered Bryggen one more time before boarding the train for Myrdal, the end of the Eurail-covered Bergen-Oslo line leading to the fjordland valley of Flåm. From here, I bought my ticket aboard the Flåmsbana train, which descends a breathtaking 2800 feet in 50 minutes flat, carving its way through mountains and skillfully engineered tunnels to the sleepy town of Flåm, resting peacefully in the heart of the valley below.

I had entertained the thought of using Flåm as my base for exploring nearby trails, waterfalls, fjords, and glaciers, and my excitement for the portion of my European journey had been building for months. And yet, as I boarded the train in Myral, rain splotching the windows of my compartment, it was all I could do to bite back the frustration that was brewing like a dark cloud inside me.

The forecast was a disaster. Whereas I had more or less expected rain in Bergen (they average 275 days of rain a year!!), Flåm's rainstorms had come as quite a surprise. Flåm, situated at the head of Aurlandsfjord, and framed by tall, draping mountains, was by comparison supposedly the "Sognefjorden sunbelt." But for the next four days (three of which I had planned to stay in Flåm), rain would be my constant companion. I either had the worst luck imaginable or God really had it in for me.

So, I spent the next two days, instead of exploring the beauty of Norway's fjordlands, sinking $30 in phonecalls back to the States (it was Father's Day, after all, and my birthday, and besides, my Savannah-based brother was in town for the week, and who knew how long it would be until he and he had a chance to catch up again). The hours-long phonecall home almost didn't happen, which, after forking out big money for a phonecard that would only be usable within Norway phone, would have been enough to send me into quite a dither.

Fortunately, I eventually figured out the inane public phone system (which required a deposit of another US $2 just to place the call). So when an elderly couple started hanging around the phone booth waiting -- rather impatiently, I might add -- as the minutes ticked by, you can imagine I wasn't in any mood to hang up and call back.

It did get a bit ugly, especially as they didn't understand a lick of English. My apologies fell on deaf ears and were met only with the death stares of eye rolls of the woman who believed me to be the most insolent of phone gluttons. But I didn't relent. Amid the chilly rain that hung thick like a wet blanket around me, I was too wrapped up in the warmth of familiar voices to concede. So I made a few enemies that night. I'm sure it won't be the last time. But hey, I'm entitled every now and again, aren't I?

The rest of the two days I spent recuperating from the hours of missed sleep I'd rack up like a bad debt, curled up in my log cabin/dorm room with a few decent novels borrowed from the communal bookshelf.By the time my morning of departure came, I wasn't too sad to tear myself away from Flåm, but trying to be a good sport about the fact that Mother Nature, once again, had managed to flatten my high hopes and long-awaited plans. Oh well. What are you gonna do? I could have let out a few tears, but I figured the sky was already doing a pretty good job of keeping things wet and depressing around here, so I checked myself out instead, and headed off to the harbor for what I hoped would prove to be a less-than-heartbreaking ride along the Næeroyfjorden.

~Melanie

Hiking to the Heights of Bergen

2006-06-17T14:46:00.000-04:00

BERGEN & ULRIKEN, NORWAY
June 17, 2006

Despite a very scary bed-next-door albino with a penchant for log-sawing snores, I managed to squeeze in a good four hours of sleep before waking to greet the day. Over breakfast, I met up with Mark again, my Canadian night-clubbing buddy, and we agreed to join forces for a day of hiking in the mountains above and beyond Bergen. My plans were a little more ambitious than his, as I was intent on bridging the gap between Mount Fløyen (which most people visited via a funicular that zipped them up the mountainside) and Mount Ulriken, highest of the seven mountains surrounding Bergen and no less than a five-hour hike away, on foot.
We started from the front door of our hostel and sidestitched our way up the rather steep mountainside, along snaking switchbacks, until we arrived at Mount Fløyen, were dozens of camera-clicking tourists had just emerged from the funicular, no more worse for wear. I, on the other hand, was dabbing the sweat from my face, and taking deep breaths to avoid, as much as possible, my side from splitting in half from the upward climb. Oh boy, if this was just the first hour, what was I in for?

It would have been easy to shrink down the day's adventure, by making a simple loop around Fløyen, and returning the same way we had come. In all honesty, Mark had no intention of doing the full hike. So I have to give credit to Gyorge and Alan, a Bulgarian and Brit that we encountered along the way, for giving us the guts to go on with the show.

Mark and I were studying a posted map of the interweaving trails we had found ourselves lost in, when Gyorge and Andy walked by. Flailing, and in need of a little orientation, we summoned them for some trail advice. Gyorge, it turned out, had hiked the Fløyen-to-Ulriken trail before and was planning to do the same again today, with colleague Andy in tow.Minutes later, we were climbing rocky rills together, hoisting our bodies up steep and pebbly inclines and gazing over moss-covered mountain ledges at the mirror-clear lakes pooled in pockets of the valley below. The surface of the water, at least from my perch several stories above, almost appeared to be liquid obsidian, the waters so deep blue that, with the combination of cloudy skies above, they nearly appeared black. And from the vivid images reflected so perfectly in the thin skin of the water's surface, they could easily have passed for cut glass.

We broke for lunch on one of the lake beds, and watered our parched throats as tinny bells of nearby grazing sheep tinkled in the rocks nearby. For hours we crested peaks and descended into valleys, following the continuous line of pyramid trail markers that kept us from veering too far off course. After six hours of breathtaking -- and strenuous -- hiking, we arrived at Mount Ulriken where, at nearly 2000 feet (642 meters), we stretched out legs out on carved wooden benches and sipped steamy drinks from a cafe table overlooking the city, fjords, and mountains around Bergen. It was one of those hard-earned moments of contentment that comes from knowing you accomplished something incredibly worth doing. The cool breeze and warm sun -- especially at altitude -- were welcoming as I washed warm hot chocolate down my tired throat. Somehow, I just don't think the rush would be nearly the same had we followed the tourist trail and taken the bus and cable car to the exact same spot where we now stood, sweaty, sundrenched, and sore.

We descended to the lower reaches of Bergen by cable car, a nearly vertical journey in a small iron basket, which took all of five minutes. After a gentle walk back to town, we sipped expensive beers in the garden terrace of Jacob's Cafe, four individuals from four separate nations, enjoying the easy-flowing conversation and common ground forged from our afternoon spent hiking together.

Against my better judgment, I joined Lucca later that evening for another night of dancing at Scottman's, only to meet up with the same curly-haired Norwegian. It's a small world, after all. At 3 AM, when the pub closed, he insisted on buying me a greasy cheeseburger from the McDonald's across the street, which as I figured bought him a little time to make sure we exchanged email addresses. I thought back to last night and felt a tinge of guilt at the thought that he believed me to be six years younger, but I rationalized that I was leaving Bergen in the morning, and what were the odds we would ever cross paths again?

Walking back to my hostel, alone, in the quasi-dark at 4 AM, it occurred to me just how safe the streets of Bergen were. And not just Bergen for that matter, but Scandinavia in general, from all reports. I wish I felt so comfortable traversing the streets of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania at such an hour. Even the Norwegian girl, so drunk she could barely walk without stumbling, would have been safe on her own, according to the locals I'd met who had offered their two cents. So I guess we weren't saving her from some horrible end after all. My body sore, and dead tired from a day of climbing and a night of rollicking good dancing, I was out in minutes flat. Even with the albino log-cutter next door.

~Melanie

Happy Birthday in Bergen

2006-06-16T12:34:00.000-04:00

BERGEN, NORWAY -- June 16, 2006

Seven hours after pulling out of Oslo, I arrived in Bergen, once Scandinavia's largest city, back in the 17th century. It served its purpose well as one of the central ports of the Hanseatic League of merchants, and still today is a well-populated city, though not nearly the hub of sea commerce it once was. But the legacy of its Hanseatic influence is still visible in the brightly colored row of gabled buildings lining Vågen, the picturesque harbor along which World-Heritage Bryggen is located.

Over a mid-afternoon lunch in the kitchen at Jacob's Apartments (my hostel in Bergen), I met Lucca, a seemingly quiet Italian that suddenly turned talkative on me. We spent a few hours kicking around town together, wandering through Bryggen, the old medieval quarter. We managed to catch the tail end (ha ha) of the open-air fish market, as vendors were packing up their smelly spreads of bright-pink prawns, fillets of every size and shape, and hunks of the blackish, deep-veined meat that I learned was whale. The air was permeated with the salty stench of creatures of the sea, and I was saddened that I had missed the bustle of this place. Although the scent lingered, it was apparent that the action was long since over.Later, I enjoyed a chatty evening back at the hostel with Lucca; Nick and Mike, backpackers from Connecticut; Mark, a Canadian native working as a teacher in Orlando; two quiet girls from Hong Kong; and a couple from Germany who offered me the remainder of the elk sausage they had bought in town earlier that day. (Well, actually, I volunteered to take it, as nobody else seemed vaguely interested. After a few bites, I could understand why they hadn't finished it off themselves!) Lucca made authentic Italian coffee -- dark and strong -- in the miniature coffeepot he had brought from home.
After several hours of food, and conversation among good company, Lucca, Mark, and I headed out into the night to find some local entertainment. We stumbled across a Norwegian girl (actually, quite the other way around!), rather inebriated and barely able to stay upright as she walked across the cobblestone street in her high-heeled shoes. Mark and Lucca, being the gentlemen they were, swooped to her rescue, and she entertained us for the next twenty minutes with her uncensored talk (did she have a few things to say about Americans!) as we tried to find figure out what exactly to do with her.she seemed surprised to learn that I was American, as apparently all the Americans she had ever met were either fat or ugly or both. "You," she said, looking at me through the glaze of intoxication, "are really beautiful!" She seemed almost in disbelief that I could possibly fit into the same category as "all those other Americans she knew." Take that for what you will, given her state of mind. A few minutes later, she ditched us, ducking underneath a queuing rope leading to yet another nightclub, where she blended in with the crowds of twenty-something waiting their turn for entry. No doubt she had plans to continue her night of debauchery.

On our own again, the three of us managed to find a place called Scottman's, where for no charge we were allowed to saunter in and join the crowds of pulsating bodies jumping to the deep bass beats echoing off the walls. No cover was the catch, however, because once inside, even the cheapest of drinks would set you back a good 8 or 9 USD. But we shrugged in defeat, realizing that we'd find the same in nearly any night establishment we encountered. Norway's taxes on beverages are apparently one of its main sources of revenue.The night got better from here. It was one of those rare occasions of my life where I found myself in the middle of competing male attention. And for the birthday girl, it was certainly enjoyed. A rather tall and stocky Norwegian named Tret, with curly brown hair and rosy cheeks, donning jeans and corduroy jacket, begin sashaying me around the dance floor, as a mix of Norwegian and American Top-40's blared, bass thumping. Over a few drinks, we chatted like two kids on a first date, covering all the usual topics of conversation. Naturally, I told him today was my birthday, and when he guessed I was 23, I just didn't have the heart to set the record straight. It's not every day you get 6 years younger on your big day of days. I was going to enjoy it.As it turns out, Tret is a 23-year-old plumber who currently owns two houses and two cars, one of which is a BMW he bough from the States on eBay several months ago. It was after 3 AM when I walked back to my dorm, but sleep was still a ways away. The sun, which never entirely went down anyway, was on its upswing by the time my head hit the piillow. This had turned out to be a very memorable and, quite literally, the longest birthday of my life -- and unless I planned some future trip to Northern Scandinavia to see the actual midnight sun, won't be beaten.
~Melanie

Oslo to Bergen: First Glimpse of Glaciers

2006-06-16T12:25:00.000-04:00

OSLO, NORWAY -- June 16, 2006

I took the morning train from Oslo, through the rugged terrain of southern Norway as it skirted across hundreds of kilometers, closing the gap between its eastern and western borders. The 470-km journey from Oslo to Bergen has long been touted as one of Norway's highlights, the best-of-the-best train journey, and a rare look at snow-capped mountain highlands, wild tundra, and glacial lakes that mystify and bewilder multitudes with their raw beauty.

Comfy in my first-class chair in a compart- ment I shared with dozens of day-tripping Norway-in-a-Nutshell tourists, I peered out streaky window to the scenery ever-changing just beyond the glass. I overheard the couple behind me as they talked of Virginia, and immediately felt a connection with these people I had never seen nor spoke to before. It's funny how you bond with travelers. Somehow you seem to belong in the same circle, as misfits in a foreign country, and age nor social class nor musical taste nor most other things that normally matter when choosing your cirlce of friends seems all that important.

It didn't take but a few seconds before I struck up a conversation with them. Otis and Susie, a charming older couple, were, as it turned out, from Virginia Beach, Virginia. They were visting Norway for the yearly gathering of the ... organization, of which Otis had recently been named President of his local chapter. After a few minutes of bubbly conversation, I let it spill out that today was my birthday. Not that I expected anything in return. But this day only comes around once a year, and I wanted to share it with someone.

Suzy reached into her handbag and pushed a bottle of mineral water into my hands. "Happy Birthday," she said with a giggly smile. Otis, eyes sparkling, warned me that there might be some singing later. I pretended it wasn't important, but secretly hoped that I'd leave the train later than day, having been serenaded by a few new friends. It just didn't seem like a birthday without a little "Happy Birthday" well-wishing.

As Susie and I talked on, Otis excused himself and moved to the front of the train compartment, where I couldn't help but overhear him talking in a low voice to the gray-haired group of tourists seated ahead. With his husky whisper, I heard him utter my name, and a few fuzzy details about my being a teacher, and taking a sabaatical to travel around the world, and finally, that today was my birthday. I tried to focus on my conversation with Susie, but the buzz of voices behind me was proving all too distracting. And then, with the stage presence and class you would expect from someone recently named as President of a prestigious service organization, he called the entire car to attention to deliver a birthday greeting. I beamed, a bit sheepishly, as a carful of strangers raised their voices to wish me a happy day. It was a sweet gesture. My mother would be proud.

~Melanie

One Day in Oslo: Vigeland, the Vikings, and Me

2006-06-15T12:05:00.000-04:00

OSLO, NORWAY -- June 15, 2006

It was after midnight as I walked back to my hostel from the Internet cafe where I had just shelled out nearly $25... entirely too much, but considering I was smack-dab in the middle of the world's most expensive city, everything is relative, I suppose.

The sky was still glowing a deep blue -- not the dark of night, mind you, but a dimmer shade of electric blue which fooled my body's circadian rhythms into a false sense of sleeplessness. As I tiptoed into the dorm room I shared with five other girls, I heard their snores and realized that somehow, despite the glow emanating from the curtained window, they had managed to find sleep. Trying to keep my movements to a minimum, I settled into my silk sheets and tried to focus my energy -- without focusing too hard, since that would probably defeat the purpose anyway -- on relaxing my muscles and drifting off to sleep. It was hard work.

I thought back over my too-short day in Oslo, a city that, I had determined, was by all accounts I had read in my glossy-covered travel books, decidedly underrated. Yes, my wallet seemed to get lighter with each passing minute. Nothing comes cheap around here. And yet, between the silhouettes of tallships docked along the harbor, the buzz and chatter of funloving locals spilling out into the sunsplotched tables of outdoor cafes, the hypnotizing granite forms in Frogner Park, Oslo was a happening, and heartily happy, place to be.

Earlier in the day, I had paraded down Karl Johans Gate, the pedestrian thoroughfare leading from the train station to the palace. Fashion-forward boutiques and umbrella-lined cafes flanked the walkway, luring passersby to stay and look and chat away the afternoon. In a gazebo to my left, near a bubbling fountain, a military band blew brassy tunes into the breeze, sweeping dozens of listeners in with their well-time rhythms and harmonies.

As I approached the palace grounds, I looked into the faces of the young guards standing at attention, rifles positioned with precision. Behind them, several hundred uniformed soldiers stood in formation, marching in unison as the tune to a familiar song wafted through the air. I recognized it immediately, and had to double-check that it wasn't an American flag flapping from the pole. The tune of "My Country 'Tis of Thee" brought back a flood of patriotic memories, and I listened for a few moments, imagining the same marching drill to the same music, taking place on another continent not too far away.

I continued on to Frogner Park, determined to see the 200 marble and granite sculptures carved by Norwegian master Vigeland that draw so many crowds to this far-flung pocket of the city. I strolled down the shady pathway leading across a shallow lake, suddenly aware that on this sunny Friday evening, I wasn't the only one who had envisioned Frogner Park as the place to kill a little time. Picnic blankets studded the manicured lawns, and I watched as couples and families and groups of friends bathed in the golden sunshine meanwhile cooking up a barbecue on the cake-pan-size charcoal boxes they had picked up at the nearest market.

Everyone seemed so happy, so carefree, and seemed to just... belong there with one another. And it suddenly donned on me that as beautiful a day as this had been, I was without someone to belong to. I felt the discomforting void in my gut rising, that awareness of being alone that came and went every so often. Today, for some reason -- right now -- it seemed incredibly strong. I was here, surrounded by people, and yet feeling terribly disconnected to everyone around me.

I busied myself studying the range of emotion carved in solid mass, the life-size sculptures placed in a concentric circle around a tall, phallic-looking sculpture which stood dead-center. Vigeland, the Rodin of Neanderthal, captured with stunning realism a vast range of human emotions, embodied in the young and old -- a father with children, two lovers intertwined, a mother with child, the wrinkled faces of a couple passing decades of time together.

On my way back that evening, I stopped briefly at Aker Brygge, near the south end of Oslo, where the boats ferry passengers across to touristy Bygdøy Island. It was after 9 PM, and the sun was burning low and intensely warm in the sky, the light of a perfect Nordic summer evening flashing across the harbor and hillside. I was mesmerized by the pungent smell of fish and salt and sea water rising off the shore. A sailboat arrived at port, its sails deflating as it coasted to a stop and set anchor. In the distance, I could hear the cheers and whoops and hollers of the hundreds of locals gathered like penned animals in the roped-off park along the hillside near Akerhus Festning (fortress).

Traipsing up to the fence, I peeked in at the crowds, their eyes riveted to the theater-size screen where the Swedish team was apparently kicking tail against their assigned World Cup opponents. The smell of stale beer hung in the air as I walked along the fringes of the park past centuries-old buildings. I chuckled as I thought of myself walking among modern-day Vikings. And truly, they seemed to somehow still play the part, to some degree. I had seen a fair share of burly, grisly men with long hair and prickly beards, as well as beautiful madiens with blonde hair and slender, nymph-like bodies, almost all of which, it seemed, had a hefty appetite for hearty laughter and strong drink.
And then I was back, ruffling in my bedsheets, struggling against the still-setting sun for the rest that my body didn't realize it needed. Oslo had surprised me with my own range of emotions. Perhaps Vigeland and I shared something in common after all.

~Melanie

Discovering Skånsen

2006-06-14T12:06:00.000-04:00

STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN -- June 14, 2006

Sunshine, sunshine, sunshine -- the sky was cloudless and promised more of the same beautiful sun that had stretched nearly to infinity just the day before. We were quickly approaching summer solstice -- just one week to go -- and the days this far north were longer than any I had ever seen. I had read about an open-air folk museum just a ferry-hop away, on Djurgården, another island down and around the bend.

Skånsen, as it was called, was begun in 1891, in an effort to preserve the historical roots of Sweden by consolidating some of its oldest buildings, from all over the country, into one central village. Over 150 original homes and buildings were uprooted from their birthplace and transported to Djurgården, where they now rested, shaded with the leafy branches of indigenous trees, and filled with the every-day artifacts of Sweden's first villagers.

I spent hours wandering its shady lanes, leading from church to city hall to apothecary to worker's quarters. I talked with the Swedish workers (who spoke perfect English), dressed in vintage clothing, and carrying out the daily tasks of heating broth over a wood-lit stove, shearing sheep in a musty stable, and gathering herbs from a nearby garden.

Just feet away, hens and roosters clucked contentedly as they scavenged the fruitful earth for bits of food, and a couple of goats, finished with their mid-day grazing, lazed together in a soft patch of grass, their bellies moving in cadence as their glassy, black eyes looked me over. Here and there, along the footpaths, rune stones rose from the earth, these stone-carved panels from ancient times bearing the carvings, alphabet, and emblems of Sweden's earliest settlers.

Later that afternoon, I joined a gaggle of kid-toting parents as they followed a park worker from animal pen to animal pen. It was feeding time. Mother sows, with their squealing litter suckling away, hid near the sturdy fenceposts as if shy from the attention. A pair of brown bears bellowed up at the wide-eyed crowd as the worker tossed a few lifeless fish down into the ravine. A family of reindeer munched on grasses within their own little habitat, barely aware of the crowd that had gathered around them. And then, without warning, the skies blanketed over with thick gray clouds, and rain began to fall by the bucketfulls.

Rain continued to fall for the rest of the afternoon, stopping short just before the sky began dimming with the tease of sunset. It had been a short but enjoyable two days in Stockholm, and somehow, I managed to leave with my budget still intact.

~Melanie

Arriving in Sweden, Land of the Midnight Sun

2006-06-13T11:57:00.000-04:00

STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN -- June 13, 2006

I pulled the pillow even tighter over my head, which was now face-down in my sleep-sheet-covered mattress, trying desperately to hold on to the thinning threads of sleep that seemed to be snapping all too quickly as the sun began its early ascent.

By the amount of daylight pouring through the window, I would swear it must be pushing 7 AM. But a brief peek at my watch confirmed a shocking revelation: it was three hours earlier than that. How could that possibly be, I asked myself, still groggily trying to push back into sleep mode. And then I remembered how the sun had seemed to burn until midnight last night. How even then, the sky remained a deep shade of blue, but far from the depths of midnight I am so accustomed to. I had watched it out the window of Sohail's flat, engrossed by this natural oddity, this day without end that prevailed over the skies above Stockholm as midsummer approached.

And now, with a slow bobbing motion, the Gustaf af Klint, hostel-boat and my home for two days, rocked me back to sleep, my eyes growing heavier even as my stomach registered the subtle movements of this aging ship in the waters harboring Gamla Stan.

Today had been a fascinating mix of old-world beauty, endless summer sunshine, shocking budget revelations, and enjoyable company. I arrived at Stockholm's central station early afternoon and, determined to meet my meager budget while traveling through the cash cow that is Scandinavia, I began the long walk to my hostel, Gustaf af Klint. The sun was bright and strong, and working my way south along the main street, I smiled at the sight of the slender, pointed steeples of cathedrals and buildings more vertical than horizontal.

I shared street corners with Swedish women so beautiful, I felt like an ugly packpacker weighed down with my fleece jacket and filled-to-the-brim backpack, my hair hoisted off my neck with a tortoise-shell clip, and my cheeks rosy as my forehead beaded with sweat. Yes, these Swedish women, tall and slender, hair so blonde it could almost pass for white, were beautiful.

So it surprised me when a Greek-Indian fellow by the name of Sohail, who had been admiring the sea view, struck up a conversation with me as I passed by. We spent the next hour trying to track down my hostel, which turned out to be on the other side of the harbor. But I didn't mind the detour; the harbor, lined with colorful ships, and the smell of seawater were a welcome treat.

After stashing my bag, Sohail showed me to a little Italian place with excellent thin-crusted pizzas where I ate heartily, while an oscillating fan blew its cool breath across my hot cheeks.

We spent the afternoon walking the streets of Gamla Stan, Stockholm's most scenic -- and ancient -- quarter. Warm-toned buildings and cobblestone lanes brought a robust character to this little island, attached to the surrounds of greater Stockholm by a series of connecting bridges.

Later that evening, we sat in the shade of a great cathedral, spooning cranberry ice into our parched mouths. The sun's rays were strong, even for such a late hour. And finally, after a warm, home-cooked dinner and a long gaze out at the midnight sunset, I managed to find my way back to my creaky bed and gather enough shadow in the corner of the dorm room that I could convince my body it was time for sleep.

~Melanie 6/13/06

Planes, Trains, and Hoofing Through Heidelberg

2006-06-12T11:50:00.001-04:00

HEIDELBERG, GERMANY – June 12, 2006

This was one of those days where a little better planning would have probably saved me more than a couple of headaches. But sometimes, flying by the seat of your pants isn't such a horrible thing. Spontaneity is a must as a long-term traveller. And I can't help but think that after as hectic a day as this one turned out to be, I still came out further ahead than I would have if I had just stuck with my original plan. All things considered, I managed to pull off a pretty damned good four-hour stopover in Heidelberg, home of the famous red-stone castle, before catching the first of my train connections on to Stockholm.

I wasn’t originally planning to make the long trip by train. I actually bought a too-cheap-to-turn-down ticket from Frankfurt, Germany to Stockholm, Sweden on RyanAir’s website back in March, before even leaving for Europe. I figured I could work with the date – June 12th. It meant I had a good 2.5 months to work my way through non-Scandinavian Western Europe, and I felt pretty decent about that. And in the end, my timing was right on. It was just the fact that the airport was so way out there, I was going to need to catch a 5 AM bus to make a 9 AM flight.

And this baggage thing. Ryanair’s penny- pinching policies allow fliers to take 15 kg of baggage per person. And what happens if, like me, you’ve got a tad more? No problem, just pay an additional €8 per kilo and you’re home free. Well, after adding up all the costs and relative pains associated with taking this flight, I realized I would actually enjoy less hassles – and save myself a few Euros – if I just booked myself an overnight train instead. The only drawback? I’d arrive three hours later in Stockholm than my flight would have gotten me there. I could live with that.

So first thing this morning, I popped on over to the train station to arrange for my tickets. A few hours later, I was packed up, saying goodbyes to my German host, Daniel, and gauging my best plan of attack for what I knew would be a shortened day in Heidelberg.

For four hours, before catching my train to Mannheim, and on to Berlin (which was over an hour late arriving, and it’s a good thing I had a long layover before starting my overnight journey, or I would have been really screwed), and from there, on to Malmö, and finally, on to Stockholm, (whew! That was long!), I made the most efficient use of my time probably to date.

I stowed my bag in a luggage locker, picked up a map at the Tourist Office, and bused in to the center of Heidelberg, where I climbed for 20 minutes up the steep cobblestone path to the castle and gardens sprawling across the hillside. I soaked in beautiful views of the city below, gables and tall, pointed cathedral spires reaching up beyond the sky line, the Neckar River cutting down the middle, bridges spanning to the other side, and the rising forest beyond. I wandered (quickly!) along the castle grounds before continuing to the old town center, where university students keep things alive and modern.

Passing restaurants and sausage stands, I crossed the main bridge across the river, and climbed again, this time along Philosophenweg (Philosopher’s Way), a scenic path snaking up and around through the steep hillside opposite the medieval town, and offering gorgeous views to the castle and town. And without skipping a beat, I ducked in a market for some quick food for the road, hopped on a bus back to the station, and was on my way to Mannheim in record time.Heidelberg is no place to rush; there is plenty here to make for at least a full day of meandering enjoyment. But given my time constraints – as does happen when you’re whirling through Europe at twice the speed of life, I did a pretty decent job. That being said, I wouldn’t hesitate to visit Heidelberg again. Maybe next time, I can catch the sunset from that scenic overlook on Philosophenweg, instead of from my train compartment… now that would be something!

~Melanie

How to Be Romanced 101: Lessons on Lake Titisee

2006-06-11T12:20:00.000-04:00

LAKE TITISEE, GERMANY – June 11, 2006

A brilliant blue lake surrounded by lush, rolling mountains, covered in the deep green of bordering-on-black forest. Schwartzwald. Titisee. The sun breaking the water’s surface into a million glimmers of spangles. Boats loaded down with day-trippers, scuttling off into the deep center of the lake, pampering each guest with cooling breezes and a cloudless sky. The tourist industry is alive and well here, as the dozens of shops lining the main street from the train station to the lake attest.

I pass ticking cuckoo clocks and racks spilling over with sunhats and tacky t-shirts and follow, instead, the smell of fresh fruits laid out underneath a striped awning. I cave for a basket of ripe strawberries, and plop myself down on a shady bench overlooking the lake and vendors offering paddleboat and canoe rentals. As I finish devouring yet another berry, I look up to find a dark-haired hunk staring in my direction. His eyes hidden behind darkly shaded sunglasses, I can’t be certain it’s me he’s looking at. But I smile back coyly as I bite into yet another berry, and watch as he leads two customers to the dock, where they clamber into a chunky paddleboat and being ploughing through the placid waters.

His long legs and muscular upper body are more tempting then the strawberries I’m cradling in a plastic basket, and finding my appetite for the tasty fruit suddenly diminished, head off in the direction of a new craving. I work my way down to the shore and stand in line at the ticket counter to buy myself an hour of boat time in one of the empty canoes shored in the ochre sand. (To be honest, I was contemplating renting a canoe before even arriving at the lake, but seeing how expertly this suave, mysterious man handled his watercraft sealed the deal. Besides, I wasn’t going to leave without at least getting his name.)

The man at the desk motions me toward a two-person canoe, and I wait there, more than patiently, until this dark-haired stranger emerges from the dock and we are face to face. We exchange smiles and he asks where the man is. Where is the man…. What man… Oh! No man! He’s hitting on me, and I densely pick up on it, almost too late. I tip my half-eaten basket of strawberries in his direction and I sneak a peek at his chiselled arms as he reaches for one.

His name is Feme, he’s a Serbian born and raised, and has spent the past ten years living near Titisee where he works as a boat captain. I can feel my mouth stretching into a giddy school-girl grin as he talks. His English is basic, but the accent is killer. And that smile… I’m so curious what those eyes look like underneath his shades that I nearly reach for them myself. But minding my manners, I ask him instead what he’s doing for lunch. He’s working straight through until 7 PM, he tells me. I shrug disappointedly, feeling his eyes search me for interest. And reaching an impasse, as he’s about to be called away to yet another customer, he pushes me out into the lake, water ruffling along the sides of my canoe as I take the oars and paddle out to infinity.

An hour later, I return my canoe to the dock, and manage to take my sweet time packing up my few belongings while Feme makes his way over. We small-talk for a minute or two, and finally, I tell him I’ll stop by before I leave for the day, to say goodbye. And with that, I’m off, walking along the lakeside trail that leads up into the Black Forest bordering south. The trail itself is scenic and cool, mostly shaded from the tall, imposing trees. I stop midway back on a sunny bench next to a lakeside café and stretch out, drenching my skin in the sunlight and feeling my body grow limp as the sun’s warmth works its magic on my muscles. Before long, I sink into a shallow sleep and wake, nearly an hour later, a bit groggy as I wipe sweat from my brow. I check my watch. It’s only 4 PM. I decide to head back, say goodbye to dream-boy, and take the next train in to Freiburg. But when I get to the dock, that smile just melts me. And I tell him I’ll be back. 7 PM. Look for me.

Later that evening, after indulging myself with the region’s famous dessert, Schwartzwald-torte (Black Forest Cake, layers of chocolate sponge sandwiched between thick cream, a thick cherry filling, and – yes, I can taste it – a strong cherry-flavored liquer), I head back to the dock. I purposely show a few minutes late, not wanting to appear too over-anxious.
Feme’s colleague sees me coming and calls to him from a storage shed where Feme is hidden from my sight. He emerges, a look of surprise on his face. He didn’t think I’d return. We walk part-way around the lake together, trying to scrape together an intelligible conversation with the bits and pieces of English that he can speak. Since I don’t know a lick of German, I’m at his mercy.

Using his special-privelege captain’s key, he unlocks one of the canoes from the line where they’re tied up for the night, and pushes me out into the water. For the second time today. And then he jumps in the boat with me. He rows and rows, and I watch the mountains recede as his arms pump the paddles in a rhythmic motion to the middle of the still water. There is no one around, no one to share the water space. It’s all ours. We own the lake and hell, the mountains around it to. We stay there in the silence as the sun begins to arc across the sky, and share a few romantic moments before paddling back to the shore, and walking on to the train station, where we say our goodbyes. This was most certainly the most romantic night of my travels thus far, with most probably the best looking guy I’ve crossed paths with. And it will be a long time before I forget Feme, the cherry on my Black Forest cake.

~Melanie

Queen of Cuteness, Colmar Takes the Cake

2006-06-10T12:01:00.000-04:00

COLMAR, FRANCE – June 10, 2006

Ah, Colmar! Another picturesque little medieval town that tugs at your heart with its can’t-help-itself charm, until it works a little soft spot in your memory. And you’ll remember it as a town that filled you with the warmth of small-town smiles, the sounds of genuine laughter, and a beauty so tangible, it managed to be spared from the destruction of World War II bombs because the Allies didn’t want to destroy a place so … well, charming.

A visit here would have been more complete had my mother been standing right alongside me; drinking in all the sights and sounds and smells. My mom and I have always been close; we both have a love for natural beauty in all its forms, and for places that just scream of old-world “cuteness.” Colmar fits the bill on the second count, and I only hope, Mom, that you and I can make it here together sometime. (That goes for so many places I’ve visited in Europe, but don’t worry, I’m keeping a running list!)

Half-timbered houses decked with filled-to-the-brim flowerboxes.... a quartet of accomplished strings musicians playing to a gathering audience in the shadowy bellows of a dome-topped stone building… a tanner’s quarter with tall, narrow buildings and strangely skewed rooftops where animal skins dried in the sun in days gone by… La Petite Venise with its meandering canals, canalside cafés with blooming umbrellas, and the occasional boat winding gently downstream (merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily)… these are the images of Colmar.

I munch on avocado and cheese sandwiches from my perch next to a lively street lined with restaurants, where I have a front-row view to the enormous cathedral rising majestically before me into the blue sky. Afterwards, I enter another holy house, a Gothic Dominican church, where, surrounded by stained glass and high vaulted ceilings, Martin Schongauer’s masterpiece, Virgin of the Rose Garden, rests in glory.
I stop at an ice cream stand and indulge myself with a two-scoop cone… and about go out of my mind when I taste the passion-fruit ice cream. It has to be the creamiest, fluffiest, most intensely exotic ice cream I have ever tasted. And leaving the charm of Colmar behind me for the gobs of giddy tourists to enjoy, I head back to the train station, content that I couldn’t have spent my day any better than here in Alsace territory, eastern France.
~Melanie

Missed Connections in Freiburg: Sailor Stefan and a Spectacular Sunset

2006-06-09T11:07:00.000-04:00

FREIBURG, GERMANY – June 9, 2006 (rough notes only)

After a brief train ride through the countryside, I arrived in Freiburg, heart of Germany’s Schwartzwald, or “Black Forest.”

Daniel, CS/HC host, met me at the train station. Chatted over tea on the back porch of the flat he shares with two other students, surrounded by 5-story shade trees that canopied above us. You’d never know by the tranquil setting that a busy street and the main train station were literally out the front door.

Tour of the city – Freiburg’s Muenster (cathedral), complete with chicken-wire coverings to keep the pesky birds from destroying the painstaking artwork. It was market day – stalls filled the platz, selling mounds of fresh produce, breads, brats (sausages, that is!), flowers, and a variety of household goods. This was no “tourist trap” tent show – this was the real thing, where the locals came one of two days a week to get the goods at bargain prices.

Along the way, was careful to sidestep the little canals running alongside the streets. There’s a legend that says, if you’re unlucky enough to land in a canal (more like a ditch), you’re cursed to marry a local. I don’t actually know if that’s such a horrible thing, considering the charming ambience of this small German town hugged on nearly every side by the lush Black Forest mountains.

We hiked up the hillside to the city’s highest vantage point, and the location of a ruined castle. As if the steep trail leading to a high lookout weren’t enough, we continued up a cylindrical observation tower, spiralling into the sky. I lost count after 280 steps. Standing on the 2-person platform surveying the scenery below, I could feel the tower swaying slightly in the breeze. It reminded me of trips to the top of the St. Louis Arch I took as a young girl, feeling the swaying of the arch from my high perch as the winds blew outside. In either case, a bit unsettling… but the views over the rolling forested hills and the city in the valley below were worth it.

Then to the biergarten for some refreshment and conversation before continuing back down to the city. Wheat beer has a sweeter flavour, more delicate than many I’ve tasted throughout Europe. Served in ½-liter mugs that left us with no remaining thirst!

After relocating my (momentarily) lost passport and Eurail pass (left on the floor by Daniel’s couch), I realized the day was nearly spent – too late to journey into the hills for some hiking. So I returned to central platz, where the markets were bustling just a few hours before, for some fresh strawberries, only to find the stalls had all been packed away. Fortunately, a brat stand remained, with a steady stream of customers, and €2 later, I was biting into a piping hot brat with curry ketchup, folded into a warmly toasted, round bun. Delicious!

Kickoff for 2006 World Cup was tonight, and though not in Freiburg, the city itself was buzzing with excitement from fans of every age and nationality (Freiburg is a university city, so plenty of diversity exists). During my “lockout” (Daniel had no extra key to leave me, so I was on my own until 11:30 PM when he finished his work shift), I settled into a park bench in a shady square just around the corner from him apartment, with the rather large bags of groceries I had picked up. (I was hoping to make it back to the apartment before his roommates left to go watch the game from some pub or friend’s apartment, but I was too late, so the groceries had to stay with me until the end of the evening, when my “lockout” ended.) In truth, I stopped at this particular park because I had seen an attractive man sitting on the next bench over, and figured I might as well have something enjoyable to look at while waiting out my evening.

He was tall, tanned, with blonde-brown hair that was streaked with sunshine, slicked into a pony tail at the nape of his neck. His face, though a bit rugged, with a chiselled chin and deep-set eyes, was spread with a genuine smile as he watched a young father twirl his two bare-bottomed toddlers in the grassy lawn and pretend to dip them in the chilly fountain water. We locked eyes, and moments later, I was listening to the fascinating stories of this German-born sailor, Stefan, who worked for months at a stretch, navigating the Mediterranean and Atlantic. He had been to India, had sailed around the Cope of Good Hope all the way to Kenya, and was preparing now for a journey to the northern tip of Germany, near Hamburg, to pick up a sailing vessel which he and his small crew would then deliver to the wealthy couple in the Cote d’Azur, in France, some weeks later.
We both had a few hours to kill – Stefan was stranded for nearly the same reason as I: the World Cup game was to blame. His flatmates were hosting a large party, and since sports (soccer, at least) wasn’t up there on Stefan’s list of priorities, he had opted to spend his evening elsewhere – anywhere else. As he continued telling me about his adventurous life, making mine pale lousily by comparison, he mentioned that he played an instrument, a bongo-like creation he had picked up on one of his voyages. He enjoyed it so much, he said, that sometimes when he was home between sailing gigs, he would take it down to the Muenster platz and play for crowds, who would gather around, mesmerized by the sound of his Africa-inspired beats. And people would leave him money, which he didn’t really care about, because he did it for the sole enjoyment of the music and the rhythm and the crowds, and then he said he’d go get his instrument and play it for me.

So we made a plan to meet back at the park bench after he had retrieved his instrument from his flat. Meanwhile, I was determined to find a place to stash my groceries. Realizing I was just a few minutes’ walking distance from the train station, I figured I could simply rent a left-luggage locker, and leave them there for the duration of the evening. So as soon as he left, I scribbled a note, telling him not to go anywhere, placed a few pebbles on it to keep it from blowing away in the breeze, and walked off in the direction of the train station.

I wish I could say this story had some kind of a seductively entrancing ending. Like, he serenaded me with the rhythmic beat of his bongos as we sat watching the sun set over the city below from our perch in the mountainside. And then, after some passionate kissing under the moonlight, we walked hand in hand back to town, silently, with only the sound of our breath and the shuffle of our feet rising among the sounds of the night….

But sadly, this story ends only with a missed connection. By the time I returned to the park bench, the note was gone, and so was Stefan. And so, half-heartedly, I made my way back to the lookout spot where Daniel had taken me earlier that afternoon, and watched, alone, as the sun began sinking on the horizon. Down in the city, I could hear the cheers and whoops and hollers of eager fans as, no doubt, Germany continued its plunder over the opponent. The view was superb, as the setting sun warmed the sky to a tawny yellow. But I was distracted with thoughts of sailor Stefan, wondering where the night would have taken us.

~Melanie

Return to Italy!! Stresa and the Borromese Islands

2006-06-08T10:28:00.000-04:00

STRESA, ITALY – June 8, 2006 (rough notes only)

6AM train and a few well-timed connections brough me to Stresa, Italy, along the western banks of Lake Maggiore, this morning

This is such a meaningful bonus for me, I owe to Thomas – I had wanted to visit here last month when in Menaggio, but ran out of time before my train left for Paris. Being here today was something I really savored.

Lake Maggiore has a sprinkling of tiny walk- from-one- edge-to-the- other-in-15- minutes island which were once owned by the wealthy Borromeo family. Isola Bella, Superiore dei Pescatori, and Madre were transformed into beautiful island hideaways with palatial villas, elegant terraced gardens and magnificent views across the lake.

I popped from one island to the next, wandered through the villa and gardens of Isola Bella (named from the wife of Charles Borromeo, Isabella), which included a puppetry room and underground grotto (perfect for a retreat from the summer heat).
The terraced Baroque gardens, which give the island the look of a stepped pyramid from the water, are topped with a nautically themed wall and a rearing unicorn – the symbol of the Borromeo family. Peacock strutting in one of the gardens.

Met a cute couple of old ladies from England. “Dare I say, Have a good day.”
On the afternoon boat, a captain insisted I wear his cap as he snatched a photo of me

Sunbathed on the rocks of Isola Madre

~Melanie

Mount Rigi: Walking the Ridge of the Swiss Alps

2006-06-07T14:38:00.000-04:00

LUZERN & RIGI, SWITZERLAND – June 7, 2006
(rough notes only)

(this was my “consolation prize” from missing my 5AM wakeup call and the “Bernina Express” Swiss train adventure… what a hard life)

Ferry to Vitnau, one stop after Wessig, small little town with a well-kept secret: from here, a steely climbing train cradled you in a swathe of gleaming metal as it carried you safety up to the heights of Rigi Kulm, all the while flashing panoramic lake-and-mountain vistas at you like cards in a deck being shuffled my a master hand. Each one seemed to outdo the next as we climbed the steep mountainside.

The scenery changed with every glance, and you never had quite long enough to look before the train chugged through a blacker-than-black tunnel or passed through a cluster of trees. But, there was always the thrill of knowing you would eventually emerge on the other side to another picturesque view.

But what was more spectacular yet with the hike down from Kulm to the mountain station lying just shy of an hour’s walk downhill. As I walked along the ridge, I was blown away by the view to my left and to my right. It’s moments like these, surrounded by natural beauty that defies description, beauty that I can’t even begin to capture through the eye of my camera, that my heart bulges until emotion spills out my eyes. I sat in a shadowy overlook on a bench hewn from a mammoth oak, and felt tears rising to the surface, amid the stillness that surrounded me. Beautiful moment.

~Melanie

Heads or Tails: Switzerland or Italy?

2006-06-06T14:33:00.000-04:00

LOCARNO & LUGANO, SWITZERLAND – June 6, 2006
(rough notes)

Realizing I was only a few hours from the Italian quarter of Switzerland (where it meets with Northern Italy), I decided to swing on down for the day (ah, you gotta love the ease with which you can travel from one region/country to the next). And don’t be fooled – just because this is still officially Switzerland doesn’t mean anyone “acts” Swiss. I’m not quite sure what “acting Swiss” is supposed to mean, but here in the south of Switzerland, you’d have to look hard for any evidence that you’re really not in the land of vita bella.

I arrived in Locarno via the William (“Wilhelm” in Swiss- Deutch) Tell Express, another one of those famous Swiss train rides. This one gets its name from the fabled story of the man who was forced to shoot an apple of his son’s head after refusing to bow to the Hapsburg Hat. Whether all legend, or based in some element of truth, this story picked up enough speed among the working class to help inspire them to rebel against their Hapsburg rulers.

This train ride crosses through the place where the first Swiss Cantons pledged “all for one and one for all,” that is, the birthplace of Confederate Helvetica. (So if you happen to browse to a Swiss website, like I did, and wonder, like I did, why the address is “.ch” and not something more blatantly obvious like “.sw”, now you know the secret!) This scenic ride takes you through the southern Alps – more rounded than their northerly brothers, and covered with evergreens.

I left the clouds behind in central Switzerland and, as I neared Locarno, I emerged from one mountain pass to greet blue skies awaiting me on the other side. And they stayed with me, all day long.

-- Hiked my way up the steep hillside to Santuarios della Madonna del Sasso, an impressive chapel and monastery complex with lush views of the lake below

-- A group of primary school children (age 9?) were inside the chapel, their shoes piled outside the doorway, practicing some kind of theatrical dance on the hard wooden floor. I peeked inside to watch for a few minutes. Their giggles echoed off the high, domed ceiling and the teacher tried eagerly, patiently, to correct their misshapen bodies and missteps as they posed, twirled, and stepped softly from one formation to the next.

-- While enjoying my baguette and cream cheese brunch from a sunny bench in the chapel’s courtyard, I was joined by 20-something 9-year-olds, finished with their practice and bursting with noisy energy. They hoisted their bodies halfway over the cement railing to peek over the too-tall edge, then screamed with delight as one after another, they catapulted their banana peels over the wall to the cement floor far below. Kid will be kids, in any country!

--Wandered through the city’s old quarter, and the Piazza Grande, its main square at the heart of the town. It is here that the International Film Festival takes place every August.

--Walked by Castello Visconteo, 10th century castle of the Visconti family

-- Took a train to Lugano – was much more taken with this charming lakeside town. A steep climb from the tracks down to the shore revealed a lovely tree-and-flower-lined promenade, with paddleboats for rent (and smiling customers churning white water trails behind them), gaggles of ducks and swans, a harbour chock full of sailing vessels, and even a slender elbow of sandy beach. Oh, how I wish I had brought a change of clothes to join the sunbathers!

~Melanie

Interlaken Carousel: Merry-Go-Round in the Swiss Alps

2006-06-05T19:19:00.000-04:00

GRINDELWALD, KLEINE SCHEIDEGG, & LAUTERBRUNNEN, SWITZERLAND – June 5, 2006
(rough notes only)

Morning train via the “Golden Pass,” one of Switzer- land’s most scenic rail journeys, to Interlaken, jumping-off point for a litany of alpine adventures, pleasantly situated between Lakes Brienz and Thun (get it? Inter-lake-n)

Bought a day pass on the private rail, looping through the Jungfrau region. It is from this area that you can take a cable care to the “Top of Europe,” Jungfraujoch, which towers at 3454 meters.

Kleine Scheidegg – mountains hidden behind thick layers of white, liking trying to see through a glass of milk

Hiked to the observation tower through clumps of snow and pulled my jacket tighter against my body to ward off the harsh winds whipping across the high mountain plains

Descended to Lauterbrunnen, train snaking through steep mountainside. I spotted the underbellies of a herd of goats as they snack on grassy patches in an open field, our train descending sharply as we disappeared around a bend beneath them

Here and there, slender rivulets of falling water cascaded over mountain- top ledges, their downward path quivering back and forth as though they couldn’t make up their minds which journey was the quickest to the valley floor.

Chapel and graveyard, tombstones with wooden crosses.

Everything is wood – design, decoration (tudor-style, half-timbered houses), resourcefulness (park benches, fresh mountain water collecting in hewn tree trunks carved out as giant bowls)

Cows in a field, their necks each displaying a shiny bell that tinkled as they moved around the field

~Melanie

French Switzerland: Charging the Chateau Chillon

2006-06-04T19:15:00.000-04:00

MONTREUX, SWITZERLAND – June 4, 2006
(rough notes only)

This is French Switzerland! Everyone speaks, writes French!

After taking a lovely morning walk along the banks of Lake Geneva, I arrived at the Chateau ChillonChillon was made famous in the writings of Lord Byron, who was so moved by the fate of Bonivard, Prior of St. Victor’s, Geneva.

Because Bonivard favored the independence of Geneva, he was chained in the prison cellar to a pillar for five years. Byron himself carved his name in one of the pillars as an expression of his remorse for Bonivard’s imprisonment.

Explored the rooms of htis 11th century castle, filled with armour, tapestries, banquet halls still decked with covered tables, carved solid-wood chairs, cupboards of metal utentils, glistening chandelierMoat and drawbridge, courtyards, watch tower with steep wooden-slat steps (can walk the ramparts), a prison, underground vaults, a crypt containing a small underground chapel

Was made all the more medieval by secondary school musical group, playing oboes, flutes, to the tune of period music

~Melanie

Day-trip to Brazil... err, Weggis, Switzerland

2006-06-03T19:11:00.000-04:00

LUZERNE & WEGGIS, SWITZERLAND – June 3, 2006

Now hold on just one minute there… how did I get to Brazil? Last I remembered, I crossed borders, but I don’t recall leaving Europe altogether…

Suddenly, I’m surrounded by flailing hips and pulsating Brazilian beats, dark-haired and dark- skinned Brazilians with passion for life in their dark, smiling eyes, the smell of rice and skewered meats, and tables strewn with Brazilian flags and shots of Ciaparinha loaded down with limes. There’s a man with a basket of fruit on his head, doing the salsa with a blow-up doll of a dark-haired woman, and most of the crowd standing around him are clad in yellow and green soccer jerseys.

And then it hits me. I’m not in Brazil, after all (what a relief!! I think I’d be in serious trouble with Immigration Services!). I’m in Weggis, a 40-minute ferry ride from Luzerne, the holy ground upon which the popular Brazilian soccer team has been beefing up their plays during the past few weeks of pre-World-Cup soccer camp.

On this, the last day of soccer camp, Weggis was a mess of die-hard Brazilian soccer fans and plenty of locals who just popped in for the day to see what all the fuss was about. And then there were total soccer outsiders like me, who came along for the ride because, c’mon, how often do you have a chance to experience some local celebrity-like commotion when you’re popping between cities more often than you change the gallon of milk you keep in the fridge?

Thomas, Simone, and I took the ferry over the Weggis this afternoon, after a mid-morning climb up the hill near his flat to the famous Gutsch hotel, a beautiful old place that, much to the chagrin of the local population, closed down a few years ago, locking away one of the most romantic spots from which to enjoy a Swiss meal surrounded in old-world ambience while looking out over the lake and mountains for which Luzern is so famous. Although the hotel is closed, the view from the landing is still free for the taking, and on this beautiful morning, we took in our fill. (Interestingly, Thomas told me that Michael Jackson has shown some interest in the property in recent months. As you can imagine, the local community aren’t fanatic about the idea.)

The ferry ride over to Weggis was blissful. Forty minutes of sailing across pristine lake waters, a cool breeze skimming the surface and cooling our cheeks until bright, red patches emerged where our broad smiles stopped. Midway across, the breeze blew the clouds off the mountain tops, and the beauty of Lake Luzerne, ringed with layers of forested peaks and ice-capped peaks beyond, was revealed. Docking in the harbour, we hiked the rest of the way up to the base camp, all the while enjoying the warmth of the sun as it shone down over the village.

We knew when we arrived at “Soccer City.” There could be no question about it. It was one huge Brazilian party. Up one side and down the other of the paved pedestrian path were shops and stands around which hungry fans were clustered, chomping on Swiss sausages, shovelling Brazilian-spiced rice, sipping Brazilian liquours and chugging Swiss beers.

People everywhere were clad in soccer jerseys, flags draped Superman-style across their shoulders, women sporting green-and-yellow Hawaiian leis and too-tight green-and-yellow tube tops. As Latin beats blared from huge speakers near one well-populated tent, dozens of Brazilian joined in to switch their hips and a multitude of other body parts in expression as only a Brazilian could. From a high-profile rooftop nearby, a half-dozen costumed women twitched their bodies sensuously, then in perfect unison, removed their overskirts to reveal Brazilian-cut bikini bottoms underneath.

We walked up and down the promenade, living the Vida Loca with the Brazilian crowd for as long as we could take the heat under our many layers of cold-weather clothes (boy, was that weather man in trouble!). We stopped for a Brazilian lunch of chicken and rice, and while standing there with our forkfuls, managed to bump into an old friend of Thomas’s, a sweet Hungarian girl named Csilla, who was in Luzerne for a few days on business. She worked as a professional pianist, playing in upscale hotels as the evening entertainment.

We talked for a few minutes before she had to rush off, but not before leaving me with her address and phone number for her Budapest residence, and inviting me to stay there when I came through town. The generosity of the Europeans never fails to amaze me.

Finally, having had our fill of Soccer City, we boarded our return ferry back to Luzerne and adjusted once again to life in tranquil Switzerland. But oh, that Brazilian madness was hard to shake…

~Melanie

Double-Entendre Swiss Franks: Silver Coins and Sausages

2006-06-02T19:06:00.000-04:00

LUZERN, SWITZERLAND – June 2, 2006
(rough notes)

Arrived @ 1 PM. The good news: I left the rain behind in Lindau. The bad: the sun is still hidden under a thick layer of serious clouds. And the ugly: everybody was right – Switzerland is expensive!!

I opted to save myself 8FF and lug my backpack around with me for the afternoon, instead of storing it in the station’s overpriced lockers (by comparison, storing the same bag for the same amount of time just across the border in Germany would cost less than half that).

Some other notes:
boy feeding swans
Hofkirche and cemeteries
Covered bridges
Promenade lined with classy cafes
Lion Monument
Castle wall – Alaskan Tom
Sipping sodas along the harbour
Enjoying the clear, glacial green water churning by, carrying ducks downstream turbo-speed
Sun came out from hiding; it was glorious

I suddenly realized that Thomas, my Swiss chum who lives in Luzern – and who is responsible for getting this city on my itinerary, believes it to be the most beautiful city in Switzerland. It was hard to argue when snow-topped mountains reaching into the clouds and stretching along the base of Luzern’s gem of a lake, were staring me in the face.

After saying goodbye to Tom, I made my way to the train station, where I met Thomas. We spent my first night in Switzerland grocery-shopping for the weekend (unlike the U.S., European stores aren’t open 24/7. In fact, good luck trying to find anything open on Sunday, aside from cafes and restaurants where locals congregate for a relaxing meal with good company. Besides, Monday was a holiday – something inextricably linked to Christian tradition, but Thomas couldn’t remember exactly what and didn’t want to burst his mom’s bubble by calling her to find out. No matter.)

He cooked up a traditional Swiss dinner for me to sample – bratwurst and mashed potatoes served with a vegetable-and-gravy sauce. I placed a call home on his 3FF/hour (you can’t beat that!) fax line, while Thomas left to pick up his girlfriend Simone at the train station. We stayed up late plotting out tomorrow’s adventures, which were hinging on the marginal possibility that we’d be granted some good weather.
A few more notes on Luzerne:
medieval old town with ancient rampart walls and towers, 15th century buildings with painted facades, and two famous bridges: Kapellbrucke (Chapel Bridge), famous for its distinctive water tower and the 1993 fire that nearly destroyed it, and Spreuerbrucke, both with painted panels under their roofPoignant lion monument, carved out of natural rock in 1920, in dedication ot the Swiss soldiers who died in the French Revolution. Mark Twain said it was the saddest piece of rock in existence.

~Melanie

The Skinny on Hostels: A Rundown from an Old Pro

2006-06-01T18:01:00.000-04:00

LINDAU, GERMANY – June 1, 2006

Liechtenstein… the day-trip the didn’t happen… If you guessed rain, two points for you. Swashbuckling around some swampy city for a few hours just to say I’d been yet another illustrious European country lost its appeal before breakfast was over. Breakfast which was, by the way, included in the cost of my overpriced hostel – which made me feel better about staying at this “lake resort” despite the rain.

It was, I must say, the most lavish breakfast spread I’ve seen yet, and I’ve seen more than most. Rolls and sliced breads, butter, honey, an assortment of jams, slices of cheese and some oddly colored sliced meats, yogurt, at least eight granolas, fresh fruit, juice, coffee, tea, even hot chocolate. Folks, this is as good as it gets – and it doesn’t get this good very often. So when it does, you stand up and take notice.

The price I paid for this eating splendour? Not a €… but my unfortunate proximity to the little boy’s dorms more than made up for it. Judenherberge Lindau is in every sense of the word a youth hostel. Unlike most hostels I have encountered in my ten weeks of backpacking, at this one, the average age would probably be hovering somewhere beneath half of mine. I share a hallway with a room of quirky barely-teenage boys who find noises resembling uncouth bodily functions absolutely hilarious. That, and every time I enter or exit my room, I am greeted with an awkward “Alo,” and an accompanying even-more-awkward stare. It’s as if they’ve never seen a female before. Were they not a bunch of harmless boys, I might be bothered. Good thing I’m a tolerant soul. Having a 4-bed dorm to myself for the past day and half hasn’t hurt either.

Every hostel has its own flavor. Some had a vibe, like the Funky Hostel, where I spent a few nights in Granada. Others, like Villa St. Exupery in Nice, France, and Wombat’s in Munich, Germany, actually have a night life all their own. I’ve stayed in dorm rooms with as few as two beds, which had much more of a bed-and-breakfast feel, and as many as sixteen beds… which multiplies significantly the odds of getting stuck in a room with a snorer, sleepwalker, or worse, a canoodler with a one-night-stand stowaway. Trust me, it happens.

I did spend an endless night in central Germany caught between the ricocheting snores of two nearly apneatic sweet dreamers – even heavy-duty earplugs weren’t enough to save my beauty rest that night. Some hostels showcase state-of-the-art bathing facilities, like the brand-new Oasis Backpackers in Sevilla, Spain, which boasted marbled countertops and an endless supply of steamy-hot water. Others feature the push-button concept, in which you receive 10-second bursts of never-the-right temperature water, barely enough to get the suds out of your eyes before you have to reach for that damned button again. Some have incorporated impressive architectural feats – like the all-glass floor on the terrace of Sevilla’s Oasis, which looks down into the chill lobby, complete with leather chaises for ultimate lounging comfort. Or the Cat Hostel in Madrid, which lured travellers to stay indoors, enjoying the sounds of water trickling off fountains in its brightly colored inner mezzanine that was actually listed as one of the city’s historical treasures. (Note: all photos shown on this posting are from the Cat Hostel, Madrid, Spain. Pretty posh, for a hostel!!)

Most, naturally, are forgettable. That’s the tradeoff you except when you’re paying a fraction of what a “true” hotel room would cost. But for every lack of luxury, there’s an equal but opposite benefit – hostel staff, in my experience, generally speak better English than hotel staff at the lower-end budget hotel establishments abroad, which becomes a very advantageous consideration. Then there’s the frequent availability of kitchen access, which goes a long way towards stretching the budget. Breakfast is often included (ranging anywhere from a twinkie and tea to the all-you-can-eat buffet I witnessed today), laundry service is usually a possibility (for an extra fee, of course), and Internet access is never far (again, ranging from free, no-holds-barred to you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me €6-14/hour with severe limitations). The top benefit of hostelling, aside from saving a few almighty Euros, is the people factor – there is no other place that, as a traveller, you can meet so many more of your kind, so easily. You chat at the reception desk, while waiting for the shared bathroom to free up, over breakfast while waiting in line to use the toaster, while hanging out in the lounge during your “down time.” There is never of shortage of interesting people within arms reach… and I mean “interesting” in the loosest terms of the word – from dreadlock-toting potheads to straight-laced exchange students on semester break to, thank you Judenherberge Lindau, teeny-boppers on a camping holiday, and everything else in between.

Which is why Judenheberge Lindau isn’t a complete wash, by any stretch. Is it on my top-10 list? I won’t lie. No. But its very character proves yet again that there are many sides to the hostel kaleidoscope. Travel long enough, and odds are you’ll learn how to pick the good ones from a mile away (note: they’re always the ones that book up weeks in advance!). And when all else fails, chalk it up to experience and check out in the morning. There’s bound to be an empty bed waiting for you somewhere else.

~Melanie

Googly-Eyed Teens and the Chocolate Pact

2006-05-31T18:56:00.000-04:00

LINDAU, GERMANY – May 31, 2006

I am sitting at the far end of one of Lindau’s docks, surrounded by dozens of yachts tottering in the blue-gray water of Lake Bodensee. It’s just me, the yachts, and my chocolate bar – yes, chocolate bar – enjoying the sunshine that is gloriously streaming down on my pale-again arms and legs.

I'm under- dressed in my tank and jeanskirt, considering the temperature is hovering somewhere just under 60 F. But I don’t care.

This is the first time in days I’ve seen the sun shine, and my soul just needs a little overdose of golden rays. The warmth is delicious on my skin; I could be content to do little else but to spend the remainder of the afternoon sitting here in this exact spot, soaking in the sun, and the lakeside ambience. Behind me, seven small sailboats, each steered by tow young neon-orange lifejacket-wearing youths, peruse the gentle waters, their instructor making wide arcs in their tow has he checks on each team.

It’s a good day in Lindau, small little island in southern Germany, overlooking the Austrian Alps beyond the lake’s edge. “You’re lucky,” the receptionist told me as I checked into the Judenheberge (youth hostel) a few kilometres in on the mainland. “It’s been raining here for days.” I decided to spare her my laundry list of all the place I’ve been rained out in over the past nearly three weeks, and instead just smiled as she handed me the key. I didn’t want to waste a precious moment before making it back to the island where I had arrived by train less than an hour ago.

I took the public bus back to the water’s edge, smashed inside a sardine can on wheels among thirty-plus high schoolers just finishing their school day. Sometimes it’s so entertaining just being a single woman traipsing all over the place. I couldn’t count on two hands the number of googly-eyed looks I got form 14- and 15-year-olds, who probably had no idea they were grinning stupidly at a woman nearly twice their age. I must hide it well, I chuckled to myself, as I slid the volume on my iPod a notch higher and restrained myself from rocking out loud to the Sugarland tune buzzing in my ears.

And here I am. On the dock. Gentle breeze. Enjoying the last bite of my toffee- crunch Romanian- made chocolate bar. A few weeks ago, in Amsterdam, I swore off chocolate indefinitely after an obscene overdose on Belgian truffles, RitterSport squares, and Milka bars. I talked myself down to a month chocolate-free, and managed to make it all of six days before buying a bag of candies which, as luck would have it, were candy-covered chocolates. It was at this moment that I realized I was depriving myself of the fruits of the chocolate kingdom of the world (sorry, Hershey, you’re out of your league here).

I remem- bered back to Morocco, when I bought a chocolate bar off an eight-year- old entrepreneur selling snack food to those of us fortunate enough to be stranded on the bus for an hour as we docked between Chefchaouen and Tangier in some scrubby little transit town. The dry, diluted disaster wrapped up like a candy bar was an utter disappointment, but the closest thing to chocolate I had had since leaving home. And so, I’ve made a new pact with myself – I am allowed a bar of chocolate a day, for as long as the quality justifies the calories. Granted, I may need a new wardrobe by the time I reach the boundaries of the chocolate kingdom, given the fact that, as of today’s indulgence, I am guaranteed good chocolate as far out as Romania. But I have a feeling I’m going to enjoy the process.

~Melanie

Wishin' and Hopin' and Prayin' ... That the Rain (and Snow!) Will Stop!!

2006-05-31T18:48:00.000-04:00

REUTTE, AUSTRIA – May 31, 2006

I walked the last 2.5 km back to my guesthouse in the rain last night, in need of a hot shower and a good night’s sleep. A few late nights in Munich, this changeable weather, and a day spent soaked and shivering left my immune system tottering on thin ice. I was not enjoying the feeling in the back of my throat like someone had opened my mouth open wide and run jagged fingernails down to my breastbone. Nor did I much enjoy the odd-tasting honey lozenges I picked up in Fussen to try to keep my throat at bay. But it seemed to be getting worse. Throughout the night, I could feel my chest rattling.

Up until now, the continual rain has been mostly an annoyance, but as of this morning, I felt desperately in need of a change in environment. Thoughts of spending another few weeks, let alone days, in this wet and cold weather left me feeling quite cold and depressed. I get frustrated with myself at how easily the weather toys with my emotions, my enjoyment of my travels, and my overall attitude. But until I can find a better way to handle it, I just have to accept the fact that I’ll be choosing to live somewhere like San Diego over Seattle, Arizona over Alaska, and Granada over anywhere in this mudpuddle called Germany!! It’s just that simple. And if Germany is going to continue to be such a weather disaster, maybe it’s time I think of doing something drastic… like returning to Italy, for crying out loud. That’s the last place I can remember where the weather was, well, decent.

I scanned my map of Europe for a viable Plan B, thinking perhaps to bypass Lindau, completely, as this usually charming lakeside town on the southern tip of Germany would have me smack-dab in the middle of Spring-gone-horribly-wrong Western Europe. But alas, I realized that I had little room to breathe, in terms of recharting my path, thanks to the necessity of booked-weeks-in-advance hostel reservations, a friend awaiting my arrival in Luzerne, Switzerland in two days, and – hopefully – a package sent form home with some much-needed guidebooks awaiting me in Gimmelwald, in central Switzerland. So into the mountains I go. But first, I’ll stop for two days at the Germany resort of Lindau, an island near the southern tip of Lake Konstanz, where hopefully I can relax and rest up, and if I am not out of my mind for wishing it, catch a few rays of sunshine.

~Melanie

Mad Kings and Crazy Castles in Fussen

2006-05-30T16:30:00.000-04:00

REUTTE, AUSTRIA & FUSSEN, GERMANY – May 30, 2006

I enjoyed one of the most filling breakfasts offered yet in my travels, from the guesthouse where I stayed last night, in the small town of Reutte, Austria. Crusty rolls, plates of meat and cheese, a basket of mixed jams and honey spreads, and fresh juice made for a delicious start to the day.

I met a nice family from Colorado -- Ralph and Pat brought their two college-age daughters with them for a two-week trip through Germany, Austria, and Switzerland. Unfortunately, they've been caught in the same weather pattern I have. But my heart went out to them. Much as I hate the rain, I know at some point it will end, and the sun will come out again. And I will travel on. When I met them, they were on their way back to Munich for their return flight back to the States... so many dreams probably dashed by this European Monsoon.

Nevertheless, I was here to see the famous Neuschwanstein, the "holiday house" created by more-or-less mad King Ludwig II, who was obsessed with Wagner's opera icons, including swans, dragons, knights, and damsels in distress.

I learned that the erratic bus schedule from Reutte to Fussen was going to create transportation havor for me -- the next bus out didn't leave until noon, which was hours away, and wouldn't leave me much time to get to the castle and back. Luckily, the Austrian group also staying at the hostel was heading in that general direction (putting up with all that commotion last night turned out to be not worth nothing), and offered to give me a lift to within a 15-minute walk of town. Rain drizzled as we drove along hte Alp-lined roads between northern Austria and southern Germany. If not for the dense clouds hovering above us, the views would have been spectacular.

Arriving at the bend where the busload went one way and I went the other, I waved goodbye to my Austrian friends and started trekking in what I hoped was the right direction into town. Every few minutes I'd pass a sign scribbled with Germany gobbledygook (hell if I knew what any of it said -- it was all Greek to me), and try to get my bearings.

About this time, my toes began feeling a bit numb, despite the fact that I was speedwalking. Let me explain. Three days before, in Munich, I was caught in a downpour in Englischer Gargen. Back at my hostel that night, I scrubbed out my shoes, which were caked with mud. But, as luck would have it, rainy day after rainy day meant that what was wet, stayed wet, and instead of drying out, my own decent pair of shoes was beginning to smell of rot. Not exactly wearing condition. So now, they were soaking in a bucket (converted trash can) of detergent back in my hostel room and I was traversing the Alps in my barely-there leather sandals.

The only other drawbacks at this point, aside from the fact that I had no map or clue how to reach the castle, was that my rainjacket had somehow managed to disappear over the past couple of weeks… not that I had known it until just a few days before, when I finally broke down and emptied my entire pack, desperate to find something to put between me and the rain that didn’t ever seem to let up. The last time I remembered seeing it was weeks ago on my overnight train to Nice, when I had used it as a makeshift pillow. I had a sinking feeling that it somehow never made it off the train.
Passing a well-placed rack of rainjackets, I started browsing, until the €79 price tag caught my eye. Yikes, with one little purchase I was about to undo two full days of my Europe budget. (Let’s not mention the fact that I spent nearly €100 several weeks ago in Spain…. But that was different…. How do you say “NO!” to a red silk dress from Spain?) Then, I found my kind of store – with a bright orange, 100% waterproof jacket hanging near a sign proudly declaring that my would be purchase was only going to set me back €15. Wanting to thaw out my toes and try this jacket on for size, I headed inside, only to discover there were a few more shopping bargains under my nose. €52 later, I left with two pair of pants, matching tanks, a workout outfit, jeanskirt, miniature speakers for my iPod… and the rainjacket to boot Fussen – I came for the castle and left with my arms filled with clothes! Now that my back was dry and I could feel my toes again, I headed off to resume my search for the castle.

After getting lost in the woods, I managed to find a Tourist Information officer who pointed me to the Fussen train station. Suddenly I realized what should have been obvious, and chastised myself for not realizing it sooner. Despite Rick Steves’ suggestion to use Reutte as my base to explore the castle of Schwangau, I could have much more easily stayed in Munich and day-tripped by train! Oh well, here I was at the train station, and just in time – the hourly bus departing for the castle had just pulled up to the bus stop. Halfway up to mountain, I struck up a conversation with two San Diego U students on a 2-week European holiday and Bethany, a too-mature-for-her-age 23-year-old who, in addition to reminding me of myself, had spent the past three years actually doing what I had been dreaming of – travelling the world. We spent a good long while talking “shop,” especially about her most recent travels, from Jordan to Turkey and through Eastern Europe, nearly the exact opposite of the route I was attempting. I was intrigued by the experiences she recounted to me. It seemed that my instinct was right – not only could it be done, and done safely, but travel through these regions was culturally stimulating in ways that Europe could scarcely compete with. I was hooked.

After being nickeled and dimed for bus and admission tickets to continue on up to Neuschwanstein, we arrived, at the foot of Mary’s bridge, from where the castle can be seen against its backdrop of encircling mountains. No sooner had we set foot on the bridge, but rain began to fall, turning suddenly to huge, wet snowflakes. As we stood there, several hundred meters above a furious waterfall (on a rickety wooden-planked bridge!), an unexpected snowfall blanketed everything in sight. The storm clouds gathered thickly, and soon even the castle itself was lost from sight. No matter that it was nearly June – here in the upper reaches of Schwangau, the temperatures were hovering around 4 degrees Celcius (38 F).

We climbed the path leading to Neuschwanstein and waited anxiously for our timed entry to the castle to begin. (It wasn’t so much being overcome to excitement about the castle itself, not that I wasn’t looking forward to a glimpse into the mind of Mad Ludwig. But mostly, I was starting to lose total feeling in my toes, and at this point, self-preservation instincts were starting to kick in.) €9 buys you a 35-minute whirlwind tour of the finished portions of the castle, which Ludwig ordered to be constructed at the expense of his kingdom’s floundering economy. The interior was lavish and overwhelmingly medieval, quite unusual, given that its construction began in the 19th century. Among the highlights were a 2,000-lb chandelier in replica of a king’s jewelled crown, murals of knights and maidens painted on cloth canvases, and a grotto, complete with cave-like stalagtites and, originally, a running waterfall.

While the interior of the castle was a delicious visual teat, my memories of Neuschwanstein will forever be ingrained with images of frosted alpine mountaintops surrounding this fairytale castle, where I stood from a high bridge enjoying the scenery in a snow cloud myself!

~Melanie

Bavaria: Where Rothenburg and Romania Meet

2006-05-28T16:18:00.000-04:00

ROTHENBURG OB DER TAUBER, GERMANY -- May 28, 2006
(rough notes)

Long day-trip to Rothenburg ob der Tauber, including three train switches and tight connections (one was only 3 minutes long!). Last train, energetic little American boy in the seat behind me, his father patiently bearing the 1,001 comments he made. I chuckled to myself as I eavesdropped on the conversation I couldn't help but hear, thinking of my years as a primary school teacher in Taiwan and Northern Virginia. Yes, they sure do have tons of energy! But this little guy was bordering an acute case of ADHD. Feeling the need to rescue his father -- for a few minutes, at least -- I struck up a conversation with the little guy, whose name, it turned out, was Stefan. His father, Tanase, was Romanian born and raised, and now lived in the states where he taught his school math. The pair were traveling through part of Western Europe en route to Constanta, Romania, the seaside town where Tanase grew up, where he planned to spend the rest of his summer vacation with his son, father-son time.

We spent a few hours wandering around Rothenberg together, climbing the Rathaus tower for unparalleled panoramic views -- and a heavy dose of claustrophobia! -- from the highest point in town. We sampled Rothenburg's famous "schneeballs," which I personally think my guidebook wayyyyy under-rated. What is a scheeball, I can already hear you asking. They are pastry-like fried-dough balls, usually rolled in a thick layer of powdered sugar, to resemble snowballs... and that's literally what "schneeball" means. We downed some Radler, beer mixed with lemonade -- quite tasty! -- and wandering the pleasant streets of this quaint little town.

After Tanase and Stefan caught their train on to Fussen, I spent a few more hours exploring the town before returning to Munich. I stumbled across an amazing store filled with swords, armor, shields, and sterling silver chess sets. Chatting with a Rothenburgian who worked at the shop, I learned it was the largest of its kind in all of Germany. I found a restaurant with a sunny outdoor table and enjoyd a delicious mid-day Austrian feast -- wienerschnitzel (breaded pork cutlet) with mushroom sauce, potato croquettes, mixed salad, and a warmed apfelstrudel with whipped cream for dessert.

I spent an hour ambling around the outskirts of Rothenburg, along the stone fortress wall which offered impressive views of the surrounding area. I watched a probably inebriated German woman lower a small bucket from her second story window to the ground level, where cafe tables were clustered together, to deliver some candy to her youngest patron. His parents were smiling, but I couldn't help but wonder what they thought of the whole scene. A man dressed in a crimson shirt and apron offered apple chips to passersby, samples from his food shop. Smiling daytrippers snapped photos of each other and chomped on ice cream cones and schneeballs. And for not even one minute today, after arriving in Rothenburg, did a raindrop fall!

~Melanie

Munich... Part II

2006-05-27T16:06:00.000-04:00

MUNICH, GERMANY -- May 27, 2006
(continued)

Thanks to Aaron, my Michigan-native, German-speaking guide, I learned that Munich is where Nazi Germany got its start, but that Munich was first founded by Henry the Lion in the 1100´s (which explains the abundance of lions on display throughout the city), and that the name Munchen (which is the actual name for English-derived Munich), comes from an expression meaning "near the monks," because monks had been living here for over a hundred years before Henry founded Munchen.

Peeking inside several of the churches clustered around Marienplatz, Aaron pointed out the monk icons set in plaster on ceilings, walls, and doorways. We moved across the street to the Viktualienmarkt, where, it became obvious, the parade had convened. The square was buzzing with locals clanging beer steins, chugging to the sounds of trombones oompahing in the adjuacent biergarten, and throngs more pushed against a counter along which two grtizzly beertappers were slinging glasses filled with yellow, frothy liquid by the dozens, free for the taking. The air smelled of sausage and sauerkraut and, giving in to my whims, I ordered up a bratwurst of my own.

I chatted with a few travellers also on the tour -- Tim from St. Charles, MO (what are the odds of that??) and Kerry, an Aussie on 6-month holiday before returning to London, where she has been working for the past 3 years. Leaving them, I wandered through the food stands and horse carts, wrapped up in the ambience of this heady celebration, not realizing that my tour group had left without me. I scouted around for them for a few minutes, and then headed for Old St. Peter´s without them. St Peter´s, the oldest standing church in Munchen, houses a 306-step church tower that offers the best views of the city. From my high perch, I could see even a hint of the Alps, which are 1.5 hours away.

I headed to the famous Englischer Garten (the largest metropolitan park in Europe!), passing the Residenz (where Bavarian rulers lived from the 14th century until less than 100 years ago), and the nearby Hofgarten, where locals relaxed under shady trees sipping beers. As I walked along Schwabinger Bach in Englischer Garten, I passed tranquil ponds with flapping ducks and graceful swans, cascading waterfalls, and open stretches of grass dotted with sunbathers, until I arrived at the Chinesier Turm (Chinese Tower), one of the park´s famous biergartens. Here, under the shady brances of stories-tall trees, locals and toursits relaxed with a good drink and perhaps a drumstick, bratwurst, or oversized pretzel, while a band played merrily from the tower´s upper platforms.

Looking ahead of me, I saw a familar face approaching through the crowd. It was Kerry, the Aussie traveler I had met earlier in the day. We continued together through the garden until we arrived at the northern end, near a lake where couples perused the waters in covered paddleboats. The sky, which had been growing darker, broke its silence with a furious rainstorm, saturating everything in its path. We took shelter under a tree and chatted about the deeper subjects of life, waiting for the rain to ease up. An hour later, despite the storm, we decided to hoof back to the city and find a coffeeshop where we could dry off a bit.

En route, we passed the spot along the river where surfers -- yes, surfers! -- donning wetsuits rode the white water waves which kicked up at the river´s bend. Over a mango lassi (ahhhh.... Indian food....) we swapped life stories, and I found myself drawn to this woman who shared so many of my hopes, dreams, and experiences. It was refreshing to really connect with someone -- beyond the on-the-surface conversation I often have with others I meet. She left me with a list of book titles to continue my self-exploration as I travel onward.

As if today hadn´t been fully enough, I happened to cross paths with an American traveler named Jeff, who between his cheesy jokes and even cheesier pickup lines, managed to talk me into a night on the town in Munich. We scammed a few rides on the U-bahn (subway) to Marienplatz, and wandered around until we found the famous Hofbrauhaus, one of Munich´s oldest -- and certainly most famous --- beer halls. This is the one those Glockenspiel characters were twirling about, and it didn´t take long for us to discover why. Row after row of wooden benches, filled to the gills with smiling patrons, stretched across the large beer house from one wall to the other. Yet another oompah band played jovially from a simple stage, and merry voices at nearby tables joined in as they neared the chorus. Above the din of clattering mugs and excited conversatin, aproned beer maids scibbled orders for traditional Bavarian chow -- roasted log of chicken, plates of cold salamis and cheeses, bratwurst with host mustard sauce and sides of sauerkraut.

We seated ourselves at a table, empty except for one scruffy older gentleman wielding his own silver beer stein. In pure German, he tried to explain (we think!) that this was a reserved table, but as he was leaving momentarily, we were welcome to stay. Realizing our mistake, we got up to leave. But Adolf must ahve had a bit too much to drink, because he plunged his fist into the hard oak table and ordered, "Nein!" (NO!) Sheepishly, we settled back into our seats, and felt a tinge of relif when he headed out into the night.

We ordered up a few mugs of the house brew, which cost a handsome 6 eurose each, and were served in a Liter-sized mug, along with a few shots of the anise-flavored, very German Jägermeister to round our our salty dinner plates.

Munich far exceeded my expectations, and it´s no wonder to me now that it´s the capital of the most visited region of Germany, Bavaria. It lacks the big-city stuffiness taht so often accompanies a big metropolis, yet it is the third largest city in all of Germany, outranked only by Berlin and Hamburg. Munich, I´ll raise my mug to you any time!

~Melanie

Munich, Germany's Heart of Gold

2006-05-27T09:39:00.000-04:00

MUNICH, GERMANY -- May 27, 2006

It must have been intuition.... that, or just extremely good luck. Either way you look at it, I couldn't have chosen a better day to "do Munich." Although I had a rude start (thanks to two German backpackers who, after insisting on an open window through the night despite drizzly rain and cold drafts, woke before the crack of dawn and chattered loudly as they shuffled from dorm bed to shower stall to, thankfully, the front door), the day soon redeemed itself.

Map in hand, I followed Lindwurm- strasse towards the town center, passing a medieval-ages-old stone arch and busy street corner lined with fish markets and wine-tasting booths. Workers were wetting up shop, arranging their displays of fresh meats, gleaming bottles, and other tasty treats to entice early-morning passersby. I was on the lookout, however, for a bread shop, and I found one, much to my satisfaction, right across the street from a nondescript church from which a large number of tourists seemed to be streaming.

Deciding to take a look, I entered the chapel to find a gleaming gold ceiling, ornately decorated with angels and celestial beings, perfectly reflected in a horizontal mirror which nearly encompassed the whole of the chapel itself. From the far end of the chapel, facing the main entry, light filtered through golden stained glass, falling onto the mirror like a bright halo encircling the silhouettes of the throngs entering and exiting the front doors. It was a brilliant sight -- an unexpected treasure.

As I neared Marien- platz, Munich´s main square, the clouds dissolved and the sky transformed itself to a deep blue. The famous Rathaus (new town hall) and adjoining Glockenspiel glimmered in the sunlight. I bought a carton of fresh strawberries from a nearby produce stand and enjoyed a few as I waited for the Glockenspeil to begin its first performance of the day, a music-box-like dance of 18 figurines acting out the wedding festival of Renata Von Lothringen and Wilhelm V.

Those names mean little to most, but for Bavarians, Wilhelm is renowned as the founder of the Hofbrau brewery. (And if there is one thing Munich is known for, it´s beer! Munich is home to the world´s largest folk festival, Oktoberfest, which is a 16-day drunken, beer-guzzling party that started eons ago as a wedding celebration... but my guess is that weddings have little, if anything, to do with the reason throngs descent on Munich from mid-September to early October). And even were it not for Oktoberfest, Munich remains the beer-drinking capital of the world. In fact, I read somewhere that locals drink on average 350L of beer per years -- if my calculations are correct, that´s the equivalent of 8 cups a day...

So it was no surprise -- although it was a great treat! -- when a beer- themed parade marched trhough Marienplatz just minutes later. Horse carriages loaded with barrels of local brew kept tempo with brass bands, players dressed in leiderhosen. Young boys and girls, fresh flowers in their hair, followed suit, and a jester zigzagged through the crowds, smudging black soot on the noses of surprised onlookers. I was one of them! The whole thing was over before I knew it, and I relocated myself to the Glockenspiel, awaiting what I already knew would be an overrated performance (15 minutes of wooden figures sword-fighting in slo-mo is a bit much, even for hard-core cuckoo-clock enthusiasts).
Behind me, I could hear voices of a gathering crowd, no doubt here for the free "New Munich Tour" offered daily. I had contemplated joining the tour when I picked up the brochure from my hostel´s reception, but tours and I don´t always go well together, so I was skeptical. Yet in the minutes we all waited for the Glock to do its think, I was entertained by the two happy-go-lucky tour guides (neither of whom were German, or Bavarian for that matter!), and decided that a free tour of the town with some history thrown in surely wouldn´t hurt.

~Melanie

Dachau, Voices from the Dust

2006-05-26T21:10:00.000-04:00

DACHAU, GERMANY -- May 26, 2006

Dachau. What do you write about a place carved forever into history for the evils which took place there? The silence of its sterile halls speaks volumes more than my feeble words can. Yet I feel compelled to write something, if only to give myself a chance to digest it all.

Dachau was the first concen- tration camp created by the Nazis, in 1932. From the moment you walk through the heavy iron gates, mockingly marked with "Arbeit Macht Frei" ("Work will set you free") and hear them groan as they close behind you, you feel the weight of this place crashing down on you like the iron chains that hold prisoners behind walls of concrete for years as their lives drain away.

This was the same gate that every prisoner who arrived at Dachau entered through, leaving behind their earthly possessions -- even the clothes on their backs, their identity, their individuality, and their dignity. Everything that could be taken was taken from them, and when they stepped through to the other side, their names were never spoken again, except in whipsers, among friends, among survivors. To the Nazis, they were but a number. A number that they wanted to simply erase.

I learned that Dachau was created as a "slave labor camp," where political prisoners -- anyone who resisted the absolute suppression of freedom as defined by Adolf Hitler -- were worked to the point of death, as opposed to being gassed or gunned down en masses, at at death camps such as Auschwitz and Treblinka. Political radicals, priests, homosexuals, and most certainly Jews were detained here until the liberation of the camp in spring 1945. Dachau was designed to include gas chambers, posing innocently as shower halls, and they were built here. But for reasons uncertain to many, these chambers were never used.

What is clear is that during their years of captivity, the Jewish prisoners were given the hardest, most grueling work, fed the smallest, most worthless rations of food, treated with the harshest, most unrelentless punishment, and assigned to the poorest, most inhumane living quarters. What kept the survivors alive -- what enabled them to push past starvation, exhaustion, physical beatings, illnesses, even an outbreak of deadly typhus (which killed thousands, including Anne Frank and her sister Margot), was the power of their hearts.

Thrust into an environment where man cared only for himself -- where daily, armed officers kicked and beat and defamed these people whose only crime was their faith -- still, they watched out for each other, sharing their meager rations, singing and praying together in private, caring for their sick and wounded, even initiating newcomers by teaching them the rules of the camp. Despite the absolute worst of circumstances, many lived to see the day of iberation, and then went on to rebuild their entire lives.

I stood in the barracks where starved-thin bodies were crammed head-to-toe, celing to floor, for months on end. The barracks, designed to hold 200 prisoners each, were holding nearly three times that amount when the Allied Forces found them. I walked through the crematorium where bodies of the dead were reduced to bones and ash in an effort to hide from the world´s eye the true purpose of this prison. Though, when the liberators arrived, the found piles of rotting corpses stacked near the crematorium and other bodies half-burned, as the Nazis had run out of fuel when their supplies and funds began dwindling towards the war´s end.

A wrought-iron sculpture stands today near the main hall, its silhouette of twisted barbs and torqued skeletons a sharp visual reminder of the turmoil and torture that took place here and of the lives lost that we must never forget. It is places like this that bring realism, purpose, reflection, solidity to the larger experience that for so many travelers to this region is simply a vacation from the daily grind of life. Here in this place, behind this gate, we are all reminded that our very existance borders on the sacred. The thousands who breathed their last breath here would tell you the same, if they could. Or maybe they are.

~Melanie

Strudel and Schnitzel and Leiderhosen, Oh My!

2006-05-25T09:06:00.000-04:00

HALLSTATT, AUSTRIA -- May 25, 2006

Over breakfast, I learned that today was a special Austrian celebration -- a religious commemoration for all 8- and 9-year-old children partaking of their first communion. Unlike holidays back in the good old U.S., here there is no political underwriting to the festivities that mean, more or less, the entire workings of the town close down for the day. It´s a religious holiday.

Entire families attend church together, dressed in their traditional Austrian clothing, men wearing leiderhosen, their heads capped with feather berets... women wearing cotton dresses with tight bodices and gathered skirts, small caps keeping their locks tightly hidden away.

I took a hike with Rob to a nearby waterfall. We hiked along fields of wildflowers and pickture-book gingham houses trimmed with flowerboxes. Climbing into the mountainside thick with green, we finally arrived at a bridge taht crossed the falls. The roar of the water as it swept down the mountainside was deafening. With all the rain we´ve had in the past few weeks, the currents were unbelievably strong and loud!

We circled back around to our home base, where another trail began nearby, this one leading up a steep section of the mountain to the salt mines, Hallstatt´s most noteable claim to fame. Although posted signs and roadblocks we encountered halfway warned of falling rocks and closed off the remainder of the ´trail, we picked our way through the remains of a newly fallen tree and continued on our way.

Switchbacks led us on a dizzying upward course until finally we arrived at the top of the mountain. The views down across the lake and villages beyond were beautiful!

Back in town, I wandered along the main road again until I stumbled across a little restaurant tucked away inside a large building. Signs for "Apfelstrudel" enticed me to have a seat and enjoy a little sweet indulgence. My plate arrived, flaky strips of pastry wrapped around a thick apple filling, dusted with powdered sugar. Much thicker and slightly less sweet than good old American apple pie, this traditional Austrian treat was a perfect ending to a day of hiking among the Austrian lowlands.

I passed the evening playing card games with Rob and three girls, all European exchange students, who had checked into the hostel that afternoon. They had been studying in Vienna for the past year, and after getting some recommendations from them on what to see and do in Vienna, I decided to switch up my plans and try to stay a few extra days in Vienna... when I get there in July, that is.

~Melanie

Hallstatt: Welcome to Life in the Slow Lane

2006-05-24T09:02:00.000-04:00

HALLSTATT, AUSTRIA -- May 24, 2006

I arrive at the station to nothing but a 1-platform rail and a deserted station. You´d think it was the middle of the night by the state of things. But it is 10:00 AM, and Hallstatt´s one ferry is right now midway across the lake between the train station and the town, bringing its passengers aboard in the belly of its red wooden frame. I follow a small trail to the lake´s edge, where the other passengers and myself begin queueing for a spot on the ferry, meanwhile snapping photos left and right of the cloud-shrouded lakefront and tiny village beyond.

Gingerbread houses along the main street. I stash my backpack in some shrubs behind the hostel. A little note on the door says the landlord will be back at 4:00. But I have exploring to do. And my gut says my bag is safe here. There seems like the kind of town where people leave their parked bikes unchained, where children play in the streets, around the corner and down the street from mother´s watchful eye, and where many a night, doors are left unlocked and windows are opened to draw in the breeze that filters through the night air, breathing fresh mountain air into the bedrooms of soundly sleeping villagers.

Bratwurst and pommes frites for lunch. Pass swans on the lake. Fancy containers of Hallstatt salt line trinket shops. The famous salt mines are a 40-minute hike away. Back at the hostel, I fix up the Italian tortellini and sauce I´ve been carrying since my stay in Mennagio. I share a bottle of spumanti with Rob, a traveler who has also landed for the night at the Judenherberge Gastehaus. Spent a good few hours listening to his stories of Southeast Asia, where he just concluded three months of travel.

And then, spent several late hours in the chilly dorm room that I shared with no one but myself, bundled up in blankets and layers of clothing, reworking my travel plans, exploring the possibility of extending my Eastern Europe adventures.... I´m considering going overland through Romania, Bulgaria, Macedonia, Albania, and then through Greece.... ambitious? Yes.... but I suppose that shouldn´t come as a surprise... for me, it´s second nature to try to bite off more than most people even want to think about chewing ;)

~Melanie

Kinderdijk: Finding the Land of Windmills

2006-05-23T20:54:00.000-04:00

KINDERDIJK, NETHERLANDS -- May 23, 2006

19 windmills. One little village with vintage feel and a cozy warmth that makes you want to giggle. This is Kinderdijk. Welcome to the Netherlands, for the local time, please set your watch back 50 years.

Ducks paddling in the slow-flowing canal waters, alongside locals pedaling their bikes. Flat land, lush, green grass, and the skyline broken by the tall, wooden wonders that spin morning and night, churning air with their huge armlike fans. An old man climbs a rickety ladder outside the one windmill in town deemed "The Windmill Museum," adjusting ropes and pulleys as the wind whips rosy circles on his cheeks.

Rusty tools, well-worn clogs, and a smattering of windmill-worker memorabilia lines the walls as I climb the narrow stairs into the heart of the windmill. On the top floor, I peek out from tiny vents to picturesque views of the landscape below. Cows sit lazily amid waving green grasses. A boat glides slowly through the canal, leaving a trail of white in its wake.

I feel like I experienced something authentic today... not that modern Amsterdam isn´t its own kind of authentic. But here, the tourists are few, and life is in slow motion. For some refreshment from the maddening crowds, I can think of no better escape than Kinderdijk.

~Melanie

2006-05-23T08:58:00.000-04:00

A photo selection from Delft, Netherlands

Wheeling and Dealing in Amsterdam

2006-05-22T20:48:00.000-04:00

AMSTERDAM, NETHERLANDS -- May 22, 2006

After wandering aimlessly for the past two nights around the maze of canals and concentric rings of streets that make up central Amsterdam, I made an executive decision:

First thing this morning, John and I would find a bike shop and begin our haphazard exploration on wheels. Who knows, maybe before the day was out, we would actually have our bearings. At the very least, we were bound to see more than we would on foot. Two birds. One stone. I call that a good deal.'

We managed to navigate ourselves to Mac Bike Rentals, just outside Centraal Station, and settled on a pair of seen-better-days black metal bikes, sans handbrakes, each bearing an eyesore of a circular "license plate" with "Mac´s" logo. Opting to save a few euros and skip out on the optional theft insurance, we grimaced at the sight of those logos. They may as well have been flashing neon lights; the message was the same: "I belong to a tourist... STEAL ME!"
And of we headed into the maze of Amster- dam. We pedaled along the flat canvas of land, trying to adjust to life in the fast lane -- or, the bike lane, at least. Amsterdam is extremely bike-friendly, designating a lane of every major road for two-wheeled travelers. We crisscrossed canals and maneuvered around pedestrians, whizzing past them as if we were born on the back of a bicycle.

Here and there, we dismounted our black beauties and locked them -- not once, but twice, just for good measure (and rental shop rules) -- before venturing off on foot down one alley or another. It´s no joke that locals often spend more on good locks than they do on their city bikes. Bike theft is rampant, and one look around any canal bridge, bike rack, or lamp post will confirm this to be true. Beat-up bikes are all the fashion in Amsterdam!

Over the course of one rain-splotched day, John and I picnicked on the steps of Dam Square amid a cloud of pesky pigeons, stood at attention before the bronzed status on Rembrandtplein (created in replica of his famous work, "Nightwatch," strolled along the aromatic flower shops of Bloemenmarkt, lined with bushels and baskets of tulips in every color of the rainbow, and wandered through tranquil Beijinhof, a quiet corner of the city set aside as living quarters for nuns and single women.

We paid a visit to the Anne Frank house, and lingered silently inside the chambers and corridors which were her secret sanctuary for over two years. It has been nearly two decades since I first read her story, read of this young 13-year-old forced to hide in captivity with her family in the empty space above her father´s busy warehouse. It was Nazi Germany, and the Franks, a family with a strong Jewish tradition, were well aware of the Anti-Semitic movement which was growing in intensity with each passing day. Otto Frank, Anne´s father and successful business owner, arranged with two of his trusted colleagues -- his bookkeepers and good friends, for the movement of his family to the hidden quarters above the warehouse.

I slid behind the moveable bookcase to the hidden hallway leading upstairs, where the Frank family lived for so many months. I walked through Anne´s room, decorated just as she left it, with pasted prints from her celebrity magazines, which Miep Gies would sneak to her on occasion. I viewed the meager water closet and porcelain sink which could olnly be used during certain times of the day, lest the workers below hear water trickling overhead and give their secret up. I peered out the window where Anne watched with guilt at her own safety as a Jewish man was dragged away by the Gestapo. And then, the secret leaked, and one day the Gestapo came for Anne and her family, as well.

It was heart- breaking to be reminded that Anne and her sister perished in Dachau from typhus, just a few short weeks before the Nazi regime came to a screeching halt. And heartbreaking that Otto Frank was the lone survivor of his family -- God only knows how long he held onto hope that his daughters, his wife, would return to him. But Anneäs diary found its way to him, thanks to the protective care of Miep, who rescued it from Anneäs quarters before the Gestapo had a chance to cart it away with the rest of the family´s meager belongings.

As so, a part of Anne survived the camp, and still lives on. Her greatest dream, of becoming a famous author, was fulfilled -- just not in the way she had imagined. But millions have been touched by her honest recounting of a teenage girl hidden away while the world outside began to fall apart. In her childlike, yet wise-beyond-her-years way, her words have worked their way into the hearts of countless people, hungry for an understanding of this black period of humanity.

Back in the daylight again, John and I contemplated the heaviness of Anne´s story from a park bench, while a raging wind surged around us. We capped off our day with a bike ride through Vondelpark, where we shared a scenic, circular bike path with commuters on their way home from the office, making that one last mobile call while steering their bikes with one hand.

~Melanie

From Cheese Factories to Flower Gardens: Following My Nose Through the Netherlands

2006-05-21T20:40:00.000-04:00

DE ZAANSE SCHANS, NETHERLANDS -- May 21, 2006
(rough notes)

Back to A'dam, transfer to small town of De Zaanse Schans, a touristy little village just 17km from A'dam. Despite threatening skies, walking from train station 1 km along industrial road that smelled strongly of Gouda and Edam -- must be a cheese facotry tucked away somewhere along here! Hearing some hooplah, headed across the street where a crowd had gathered around covered outdoor cafe. Women playing drums and oompahing to the delight of onlookers.

Getting my fill, continued on foot over a busy bridge to the small little village of dZS. In the distance, along the banks of a narrow river, I could see a handful of windmills rising up from the flat land. Within the village, little shop with pewter demo. Crossed small footbridge where gingerbread houses painted in the old-world Dutch tradition, mallard-greena dn navy-blue with white or ochre trim, lined the dirt walkway.

Eventually reached a wooden shoe shop, filled with historical remnants of Holland's long tradition of clogs. From ceiling to floor, literally, along the walls were clogs of every size and color. The floor of the workshop in the back corner was covered with wood shavings and smelled of fresh sawdust.
Next to the cheese facroty, where smiling girls in vintage aprons and white hats spread wedges of house favorite cheese, including a delicious naturally smoked Gouda, on plates for visitor to gobble up. Wax-covered mounds of cheese were stacked on shelves both high and low, ranging in size from teacup saucer to car tire.

Sheep, goats, horses grazing in the pastures -- everything felt so old-world pastoral that, despite the obvious tourism angle, I left feeling like I understood a bit more of the Holland so loved by my father (who spent two years here back in the early 70's), my mother (who has not been yet, but has long loved its charm), and my sister Lorelie (who spent a year and a half here from 2003 to 2004; she had to be pried away, she loved it so much).

Back in A'dam, meet up with John. Walk the city, plate of nachos :) and later doner kebabs (first time I've had other-ethic cuisine while traveling!) Spent next 3 hours trying to find our way back to the hostel, but an enjoyable walk along quiet canals.

~Melanie

Tiptoeing Through the Tulips in Keukenhof

2006-05-21T11:15:00.000-04:00

KEUKENHOF, NETHERLANDS -- May 21, 2006
(rough notes)

Rainclouds and an ominous forecast are threatening, but this is the last day of the season that the gardens are open. So even if it pours, I will be there, to enjoy what I can! I take the train to Leiden, bus to Lisse.

En route, I meet a sweet little Dutch woman, taking a day to herself to enjoy the scent of flowers. She speaks English fairly well (as do most of the people I have tried to talk to here). Pleasant ride to the gates, except for my ticket fiasco (I almost lost it, and with it, my chances of getting entry to the gardens)! The gardens are spectacular - more beautiful than I had imagined....minus the picture-postcard rows of colored tulips in the large field, which I missed by two weeks.

Clouds and scattered showers followed me for the first hour or so. Then, a miracle -- the sun came out, illuminating tulips buds and creating an oasis of vivid colors breathing life into happy onlookers. Walked through one of the greenhouses, filled to the brim with lilies of every kind. The perfume from the flowers hung thickly in the air, was so intoxicating.

On the way out, snapped a photo of a girl collecting tickets, wearing traditional Dutch clothing.

~Melanie

Amsterdam, Red Bike (or was that Red Light?) Capital of the World

2006-05-20T20:36:00.000-04:00

AMSTERDAM, NETHERLANDS -- May 20, 2006

Today was to be my first in Amsterdam. A three-hour train ride north from Brussels would have me at Amsterdam Centraal by late morning, with the rest of the day free to explore the city that has earned a world-wide reputation for its laidback tolerance of life at its most hedonistic.

But the rain that had been falling since I arrived in Paris a week ago was falling still, and I, having stayed up too late reading about Croatia from Manuel's LP collection, wanted nothing more than to lazily loll in bed for a few extra hours. By noon, I was packed, and had made and eaten with Manuel one of my favorite breakfasts from the States -- you guessed it, omelette with red pepper and mushroom.

The journey turned out to be a bit more involved than I had expcted, and fortunately, I made friends with a Dutchman named Martin, who was heading in the same direction as I. Since one of the rail tracks was down for repair, we had to stop just shy of the Belgian-Netherland border in Essen, before continuing by bus to another city's train station, and rerouting ourselves to Amsterdam with another train connection.

He and I talked about the States, as he had spent a year studying abroad at Texas A&M. He is currently a student in Gent, where he is in an advance program working towards veterinary medicine. After telling him of my love for the southwest and my ideas of moving there after returning from my travels, he whipped out his laptop and gave me a virtual tour through the Canyonlands, Zion and Arches National Parks, Monument Valley, and Antelope Canyon. As we clicked through his digital images, I had to laugh at the irony of it all -- here I am in Belgium, crossing over to the Netherlands with a perfect stranger who has seen and loved some of my most favority national parks back in the U.S.

Other random highlights:*canal bridges at night - lit up, reflections on the water*getting lost in the concentric rings of canals, winding up in the Red Light District

~Melanie

Breezing Through Bruges -- Windmills, Winding Canals, and World´s Best Truffles

2006-05-19T17:25:00.000-04:00

BRUGES, BELGIUM -- May 19, 2006

Despite a morning full of pelting rainclouds, I managed to day-trip to nearby Brugge, the charming medieval town 1 hour NW of Brussels. Sadly, its economy flattened in the 1400's when the Zwin River -- lifeblood of the merchants' business -- silted. But today, this little gem of a town has that frozen-in-time charm that makes it a favorite among visitors. It is, in fact, the most visited town in Belgium!
At the train station, I picked up a map for tourists, which laid out several walking tours through the town. I always enjoy walking tours, a chance to work some 'touristy' must-do's into my own self-guided exploration of a new place. I tucked it away fro a bit later in the day, opting first to get my bearings and wander around a bit 'off the radar.'

I took a bus to the 'Markt,' and ten minutes later, squealed with delight as I stepped into the colorful square. The buildings rose in every direction around me, bridge and cheery and decked with flowers spilling frlom windowboxes. On the ground level, cafe umbrellas beckoned daytrippers to sit for a while and enjoy the local tastes on offer. And dozens of flags whipped in the strong wind.

Outside the main square, I ambled over bridges, down cobbled streets, peeking in windows at the lacework and fine chocolates on display. I passed a busy food stand, where two men were picking up their order for Belgian waffles dipped in chocolate and nutella. I had recently learned that Belgium is the place where french fries were create (not France, as you would naturally think -- but remember that Belgium is half Flemish, and half French). So I ordered at the counter, served the Belgian way, with mayonnaise instead of ketchup. They were good! It suddenly seemed little wonder to me that McD's has yet to explode on the Belgian market -- they'd have quite a run for their money with the French fries!

By this time, the wind had picked up and, determined to keep myself from freezing to death, I headed northeast, following the 'Tranquil Bridges' walking path outlined on my map. I followed it along quiet canals, past lesser-known bul well-loved churches, and out to the borders of the town, where a small river flowed along a busy outer road.

As I walked, one windmill, then another, came into view. I scrambled to the hilltops on which they stood, peering out over the city beyond. Heading back into town, I passed the old gate which used to be the entrance to fair Brugge. An hour later, I was on my way back to Brussels via train, indulging in the liquer-filled Belgian truffles I had splurged on back in town.

~Melanie

Brussels, Home of THE Belgian Waffle... Is Your Mouth Watering Yet?

2006-05-18T17:27:00.000-04:00

BRUSSELS, BELGIUM -- May 18, 2006

Early train to Brussels - only reservation I could get was for 07:25. Up all night the night before, so walked around today in a cloud (literally and figuratively) -- yes, the rain is following me!

Wandered the Grand Place, flanked with enormous and elaborately decorated guild houses, frosted with gold. Ate a leisurely breakfast of Belgian waffles with whipped cream and strawberries. Sampled some real Belgian chocolate -- yes, it really IS the best in the world!!

Ducked into a cathedral to wait out the rain, ended up nodding off! Met Manuel, my host for 2 nights, and drove to his flat, where I was met by an Australian couple, Kelly and Tim, also staying with Manuel for one night. Big dinner with all of us and 3 other friends. On the menu: traditional Portuguese salted cod and Chinese noodles :)

~Melanie

Snapshots of France and Italy

2006-05-18T17:10:00.000-04:00

There's little that can't be appreciated between the classy ambience of France's Provence region, including its jewel of a coast, the Cote d'Azur, the gem that is Paris, and the utter charm Italy's breathtaking lake-and-mountain respite, Lago di Como, sprinkled with sleepy little villages just begging to be explored.

I entered France with high expectations, and despite some brushes with bad weather, was not disappointed. I entered Italy knowing I was heading towards something wonderful, yet still I was completely blown away, and left days later with a heavy heart.

The blog entries detailing my French and Italian adventures are long -- I'll say that upfront. But if you bear with me and work your way through them, I guarantee you'll be adding one -- if not both -- of these destinations to your must-see list. For the highlights in photo form, you can peruse my sets on Flickr for the following desinations:

FRANCE & MONACO: Nice - Eze-Village - Monaco - Menton - St. Paul de Vence - Villefranche Sur Mer - Paris - Versailles
Climb medieval hilltowns for striking views of the Mediterranean, walk along beachfronts, wander through gardens, and soak up the French Rivieran sun. Meander through museums and meticulous gardens in Paris, and wonder at the great works of art that surround you.

ITALY: Milan - Lago di Como - Fiumilatte - Bellagio - Menaggio - Isola di Comacina - Varenna - Tremezzo
Sail across the lake on board Italian traghetti, climb to high castle perches when armored knights guard lookout posts, meet the salty crewmen aboard the Lario, savor the sumptuous lake-and-mountain views on offer in every direction.

~Melanie

Stuck in Paris: Me Against the Rainclouds

2006-05-17T17:02:00.000-04:00

PARIS & VERSAILLES, FRANCE -- May 17, 2006

While rain continued to blanket Paris, I took a couple of down days. Here I am, smack dab in the middle of the supposedly 'most beautiful city on earth' (that remains highly contested, by the way)...

...and all I want to do is catch up on emails an dmy blog, wash up my nearly 3-week-old laundry, and if I was lucky, squeze in Versailles, the 2 museums I missed from Monday (Orsay & Rodin), and at the very least catch the opening for The DaVinci Code. Oh yeah, and it would be nice to see the Eiffel Tower. Yikes! What travel priorities I have!! Hollywood's latest before Paris's iconic monument!!

I managed to make it to Versailles, and despite the poor weather and gobs of African hawkers pelting me with their kitsch on the long walk to the front gate, found the palace quite remarkable. 20-foot ceilings, walls bedecked with marble, heavy velvet curtains, larger-than-life-size paintings of the noble family, status, sculptures, all kinds of royal treasures.

The Hall of Mirrors, now 50% restored -- less than 15 years after its completion, restoration was already necessary, as the soot from smoking pipes and cigars, humidity from swarms of summer visitors and lavish balls, had begun fogging and clouding the mirrors, burying them in a thick layer of ash, and hiding from view the reflection of the immense gardens that lie just beyond the long wall.

Another huge hallway, lined with marble busts of French nobility, housed mural-sized oil canvases depicting famous battle scenes from French history. One in particular caught my eye, portraying a man with a long, while wig on horseback. I looked again, sure enough, it was George Washington. The final corridor leading to the immense gardens contained magnificant full-body sculptures of well-known nobility, set against a checkerboard floor....

Dinner party with Seb's friends (rainbow theme... green chicken?). DVC at the cinema.

~Melanie

Paris is for Lovers (Museum-Lovers, that is)

2006-05-16T16:58:00.000-04:00

PARIS, FRANCE -- May 16, 2006
(a collection of impressions)

My grand plans were shot out of the water today when I awoke to gray skies and a light rain falling over Paris. The weather forcast which had predicted little other than solid rain for the next five days was proving to be spot-on -- at least for today. I scowled at an indiscriminate rain cloud, as if he were solely responsible for wrecking my plans, and then went about packing my day bag to head into the city. Rain or no rain, here I come.

I suppose I might be forced to visit more than a museum or two today. But then, that shouldn't be too terrible in a city like Paris. My first stop was the Sacre Coeur, Church of the Sacred Heart -- a well-cherished cathedral that stis high on the hill of Montmartre overlooking the city. By the time I left the church, the rain had calmed down to an occasional sprinkle. I started feeling hopeful.

*Metro to Notre Dame, massive, yet cozy - not austere like many other churches. Priest shuffled to altar, his long white robe flowing as he stepped quietly down the corridor. He began singing to a hushed crowd, his voice reverberating through the massive corridors of the cathedral. It was a simple voice, no elaborate vibrato, but the pure quality was so sweetly beautiful, it moved me to tears.

*Walked along the Seine, on Isle de Cite, and then to Isle de St. Louis, apparently best ice cream shop in all of Paris, but the caramel concoction I paid nearly 5 Euros for was too sickeningly sweet for my taste. I balk as I realize I don't often pay half that much for an ice cream cone back home. C'e la vie!

*St. Chappelle - closed. Walked to Musee d'Orsay - closed. And same for Rodin. Apparently Monday isn't the best museum day! Instead, walked further south to a few lesser-knwon chapels, including St. Sulpice (from DaVinci Code fame), before enjoying a leisurely walk through the beaituflu Jardin Luxembourg. Local sprawled out on lawn chairs and park benches, an energetic game of tennis going on. A woman sorting her mail with both legs propped up on a neighboring chair. A table surrounded by old men playing chess. A mother nudging her baby's stroller into a slow rock.

*Louvre - finally! one not closed! This high-profile, classy collection of art ranging from the Etruscans and ancient Egyptians to Renaissance masters DaVinci and Botticelli. Mona Lisa. Madonna on the Rocks. Winged Victory of Samothrace!!

*Walking along Champs Elysees, through the Tuileries Garden, toward Arc de Triomphe. Interrupted en route by two very different characters -- one, a shy Parisian who insisted I was an American moviestar undercover, refusing to give him my real name lest the Paparazzi surround me and follow me mercilessly.
He serenaded me with some little French song, and I recipro- cated with the only American song that came to mind -- Somewhere Over the Rainbow... hello, 1950's!! Couldn't I think of anything more modern than that?? The second, a horribly forward Egyptain living in Paris who, in the course of 10 minutes, had fallen in love with me and wanted to move with me back to America. My biggest mistake: speaking a few words of Arabic to him after learning he was Egyptian -- it was all downhill from there.

*Finally ended a long afternoon with a game of hide-and-seek while trying to locate Seb, my CS host for the next 3 nights. Almost got left stranded because city-slicker was up to his eyeballs with impatience by the time we finally connected. A busy -- and successful -- account manager for Peugot automotives (a French company), he nearly left me high and dry after I kept him waiting for too long at our agreed-upon metro stop (but I blame the guy who told me, after I started questioning my whereabouts, that the metro stop I wanted was futher down the road... I was in the right place to begin with. I've got to learn to rely on my instinct a little more.)

*All smoothed over after a delicious, quick dinner of crepes with cheese and mushrooms (yes, that's right -- they're much more versatile than the powdered-sugar-and-jam toppings we do back home), followed by drinks with friends at a little Dutch pub nearby. Everyone was friendly, and made me feel at home by attempting to engage in English conversation. My preconceived notions of snobby Parisians shaming me for my pitiful lack of even the most basic French went out the window!

~Melanie

Note to Self: Avoid Midnight Arrivals at All Costs!

2006-05-15T16:54:00.000-04:00

PARIS, FRANCE -- May 15, 2006

It is midnight, and I am trying to keep up with the two Canadian girls who are navigating us through Paris' complicated metro. I was supposed to call my friend Antoine at 11 PM when I arrived at Gare de Lyon, but the phone machines wouldn't accept my 10 Euro bill, and every information desk and money change counter had long since been closed. On top of that, I am in a new country, one whose language do I not only not speak, but which absolutely intimidates me. I am prepared for the cold shoulders and stuffy attitudes I will most certainly encounger in Paris, my being a complete non-French speak practically guarantees that, given the reports I've received from other travelers I've talked to.

I am embarassed how difficult a time I am having following Katherine and Adrienne, and realize that with no French, little cash, no bearings, and at this very late hour, my best bet is to scrap trying to meet up with Antoine, and follow these two girls to a hostel instead.Two hours, 30 euros, and a sore back later, we are in the triple bedroom we managed to find in the Montmartre district of Paris. It's nearly 2 AM, and while I have no idea how I get here, I am officially in Paris!!

~Melanie

Day of Tears -- Farewell, Italy

2006-05-15T12:38:00.000-04:00

BELLAGIO, ITALY -- May 15, 2006

Oh, beautiful day! The rain that fell last night emptied out the clouds, and the morning breeze must have blown them -- empty and feather-light -- far, far away. It was my last morning on Lago di Como, and I had only a few hours before I began the chain of connections that would bring me to Paris. With the bright blue sky overhead, Lake Como was a sapphire jewel amist a shell of towering, emerald mountains.

I slipped into my bathing suit and walked north to Punta Spumanti, where I nestled myself on the concrete steps leading down to the water's edge and at my simple breakfast in the fresh air and sunshine -- a crusty baguette, spread with soft cheese, and topped with chunks of juicy, sweet red pepper. I then bathed in the sun while Andrea Bocelli and Josh Groban serenaded me with their emotive tenor voices.

Knowing that I would be toggling ferry, train, and metro connections until well after midnight, I found an international telephone and placed a call to Pennsylvania, USA, to wish my mom and Happy Mother's Day. The 15 minutes alotted from my 5 Euro phoecard were all too short, and for the first time in my nearly two months of travel, tears welled up in my eyes as the first pangs of homesickness washed over me. Here I was in this beyond-beautiful place that fit me like a silk glove, and as much as I was savoring every moment, home suddenly seemed so far away. How I wanted to transport my family to the exact spot where I now stood, and share it with them.

Wiping away my tears, I caught Wally's eye as I passed by his cafe, and he ushered me to a shady seat. Knowing I was off to catch my ferry to Varenna soon, he offered to bring me some lunch, 'on the house.' He returned moments later with a tall glass of frothy, fresh orange juice, a bowl of green olives, and few broiled red pepper stips, twirled around a thin piece of salty sardine.

Never one to appreciate the flavor of the quintessential Italian staple -- the olive, I politely bit into one and pushed it around in my mouth. Long a lover of all things Italian, it ahs always slightly bothered me that I couldn't appreciate a good olive. I've tried -- believe me, I've tried. So imagine my excitement when I realized that I was actually enjoying this olive! I was a food snob no longer!
My 'main course' was a ham-and-cheese omelette, which I savored. Omelettes used to be a twice- or thrice-weekly ritual back home, and since arriving in Europe, this was only my second. It didn't hold a hat to the mouth-watering red pepper / green onion / parmesan concoctions that my Todd used to whip up for me. But it was a treat nonetheless.

With ten minutes until my ferry lef tthe dock, I booked it to my room, literally crammed all my belongings into my bag, and hoofed it to the dock, where the Larios had just pulled in to port. Had I not already spent my tears just one hour before, I would have been crying as I boarded my last ferry back to Varenna. Everything just seems so wrong about leaving, but I knew that my train reservation could not be easily rebooked, and a friend was waiting for me in Paris. I consoled myself with the thought that I would stop through Italy again before returning to the States. It was a hopeful thought.
A friendly Italian named Cesare helped me get my mind off things and put everything in perspective. As I gave him the nutshell version of my travel plans, his eyes grew wide with wonder that I could afford to be away for so long, and I remembered yet again how very lucky I am to be living my dream... even if I do have to kiss Italy goodbye 'til we meet again...

~Melanie

Italians Know How to Cook! Dining Well in Como

2006-05-14T12:41:00.000-04:00

MENAGGIO & COMO, ITALY -- May 14, 2006

I wasn't going to attempt to top yesterday, or even match it. Some days just blow other ones out of the water. Yesterday was one of those days.I had heard about a fantastic and challenging four-hour trek to nearby Monte Grona, through alpine territory to lookouts with astonishingly beautiful views of Lago di Como and its village. I wanted to make the trek today. But stormy skies warned that rain might be looming, and I felt it best to stay closer to the ground, instead of taking my chances on mountain paths all by myself.
Taking a morning ferry across the lake, I was greeted by one of the crewmen from yesterday. Back in the captain's circle, I was introduced to a new crew, including one ruggedly handsome thirty-something officer named Marco. The lot of them invited me to lunch during their afternoon break in Varenna. Why not, I said to myself. A little spontaniety and some very interesting company -- and rain threatening to wash our my hiking plans... so I said yes.

With a few hours until our lunch date, I decided to take a leisurely stroll along the lake, and watch with mixed feelings as the clouds dissipated and the sun came out again. I could have taken that hike today! Seven kilometers later, I was back at the port, as the Lario pulled up to the dock. Hopping aboard, I was greeted by Luigi, who showed me to a bathtub-sized kitchen tucked away on the lower level of the vessel. I had imagined, up to this point, that we would be dining at a lakeside ristorante. Suddenly, I realized that Luigi had prepared the meal himself, and it smelled divine!

Thinking back to this morning, I had seen Marco dart into the corner market, the same one where I had the unfortunate spill the morning before. It hadn't occurred to me at the time, but now I realized that he had gone to purchase ingredients for today's lunch! Luigi lifted the lid from a shiny silver pot simmering on the stove, and I could smell the delicious aroma of tomatoes, garlic, and fresh herbs.

The chef raised a spoon to my mouth for my approving nod, and my taste buds did backflips as I tasted the thick pomodoro sauce. Two minutes later, the ferry began chugging across the lake to Varenna, where it would dump its final load of passengers before lunch officially began. A second crewman joined us in the kitchen, and poured the remaining quarter of a previously opened bottle of white wine into three stout cups for a makeshift aperitivo. As we toasted, they raised a finger to their mouths and, with devilish grins, pointed to the floor above, where the captain was sitting on deck. The message was clear, 'Don't tell the boss!' Oh, only in Italy!

As the passengers shuffled off the Larios, the two crewman and I axcended to the top floor, where tables and chairs in the central chamber had been set for lunch.Marco steered the boat to the middle of the lake, and lunch was underway. Primo piatti (first course, or literally, first plate) was pasta al dente with the pomodoro sauce, followed by segundi piatti (second course) of thinkly-sliced prosciutto-like meat, doused in olive oil, and topped with thick slices of fresh tomato and garlic. We washed it all down with a vino rosso, poured from the largest bottle I've ever seen.

All too soon, the meal was over, and the Lario began chugging again back to Varenna for its next load of passengers. Minutes later, I waved farewell to my new friendsa s we returned to Menaggio. It would be impossible to think of Lago di Como again without remembering my lakeside lunch with this salty foursome.A few hours later, I met Wally again as he finished his shift, and we set off for Como again, this time chasing a rainstomr that was settling over the mountains. As Wally sped around tight corners and endless curves of the narrow, unmarked road, I suddenly realized how it is that Italians are among the world's best motocycle racers -- with tracks like these to practice!!

Saturday night and no reservations proved to be a bit challenging, but we finally managed to find a table at a restaurant filled with a local crowd. The place: La Scoglieri. Wally treated me to an expensive but unforgettable seafood dinner. Antipasti was a mix of freshly prepared calamari, scallops, and mussles. Then our server emerged with two huge plates of gamboretti griglia (grilled prawns), a plate of steamed spinach, and another of patate frite (delicious potato wedges fried in olive oil and fresh herbs).

Four pair of beady black eyes stared up at me from my dinner plate, and wielding my knife and fork, I carefully deshelled the enormous prawns, dousing them in fresh lemon juice before swallowing them down with a sweet white wine. If dinner weren't intoxicating enough, Wally insisted on dessert -- a parfait filled with tiramisu and topped with sweet cream, and a swig of the very concentrated and famously Italian limoncello. Gentle rain fell as we drove the 40 km north to Bellagio. I was beginning to wish I could turn back the hands of time and arrange to spend another week... month... forever?... in Lago di Como.

~Melanie

Island-hopping, Castle-climbing, and Living la vida loca in Lago di Como

2006-05-13T16:23:00.000-04:00

ISOLA COMACINA and BELLAGIO, ITALY -- May 13, 2006

Light poured in the four-panel window near the head of the metal-frame bunkbed where I had slept soundly for the past six hours. I tried to nudge back into sleep, but suddenly remembered the almost-finish novel lying at the foot of my bed and eagerly reached for it. Still snuggled under my covers, I savored the suspenseful ending before rising to greet the day.

After a light breakfast provided by the ostello -- a small bottle of orange juice and a twinkie-like breakfast cake, I perused the town market for a few days' worth of groceries. While pulling a bottle from a shelf, my eye caught the sight of something falling, and then a loud crash erupted at my feet, as some yellowish liquid exploded all over the floor, and shards of glass flew in every direction.

The frowning cashier mumbled as she trudged to the aisle where my telltale disaster lay, and began sopping up the mess with a wad of paper towels. I offered to help, but she shooed me way, and I was simply left standing with my mostly-empty shopping cart, my sandaled feet wet and sticky from the unexpected shower. I wanted to apologize, but the Italian words for 'I'm sorry' were lost iin my jumbled thoughts.
I was relieved when the woman finally gave me clearance to proceed to the checkout lane. I didn't notice it at first, but by the time I hit the small street leading back to the ostello, I was certain I had lodged a sliver of glass in the fleshy cushion of my right foot. Thank God for tweezers and first-aid kits -- in no time, the operation was complete and I was on my way to the dock, to begin my exploration of Lago di Como's charming villages.

My one-day pass granted me as many ferry voyages as my heart desired, and my only limits were the confusingly irregular departure schedules that linked towns on opposite shores of the lake and its two leg-like protrusions extending southward. I sat on the prow in a hard plastic chair as the cool morning air filled my lungs and covered my arms and legs with goosebumps.
My first stop was Bellagio, where I hopped onto another ferry heading further south. It was at Isola Comacina, a small island covered with unruly foliage, where I deboarded the ferry and began my solo wanderings around its borders. Following dirt and stone paths through thigh-high weeds and wildflowers, I stumbled across an ancient-looking chiesa (church), where a nearby swarm of bees attended worship services on a cluster of fragrant lavender blossoms.

I continue inland, passing through virgin fields, watching my step as tiny newts scurried across the pathway. In the grasses, I kept hearing a broken, fast-paced switching noise. It startled me, and my overactive imagination placed the sound as the warning call of a rattlesnake just before it strikes. I had fleeting images of a poisonous snakebit consigning me to an awful fate on this lonely island, where no one but the wind and the furry black bees knew I had been treading. My disappearance would go unnoticed for how long? Hours? Days? I shifted myself back to reality by reminding myself that the likelihood of poisonous snakes on this small little nub of land in northern Italy was incredibly slim, and that probably I was eavesdropping on the humming song of some unusual six-legged forest critter.

My half-hidden footpath dead-ended on the other side of the lake. I could hear the gurgle of happy voices not far away, but there was no clearing through the thick weeds to take me to their source. So, I decided it was time to make an about-face and head for the harbor. Returning to the dock, I rested on a little cluster of stone steps leading down into the lake water and savored a few squares of the chocolate bar I had purchased at the market this morning.

I rode the ferry back to Bellagio, a beautiful little town nicknamed the 'pearl' of Lake Como. It was easily charming, with a promenade decked with flowering gardens and attractive cafes lines with sun-shading umbrellas. Beyond, a row of boutiques filled with souvenir eye-candy called out to tourists deboarding the ferry. Despite its charm, Bellagio does carry an air of superiority, as this is the favored lakeside haunt for the wealthier lot of tourists. Dressed in high fasion, toting well-groomed poodles, and stepping into chartered yachts for private lakeside cruises, Bellagio's clientele was clearly upper-crust.

I didn't stay long near the port and boutiques, opting instead to trudge ten minutes north to the Punta Spiagetta, where Bellagio faced the joinig of Lecco and Como, two river legs that emptied into the body of Lago di Como, and the alpine mountains beyond. In a lighthearted explaning of Lago di Como's topography, the forking rievers are the legs of a man's body, and Bellagio, the joining of the two, is more than just your average pearl -- Bellagio is the testicles!

Returning to the port, I passed a high-profile cafe flanking the lakefront and chatted with Wally, an amiable twenty-something Italian who worked as a waiter. After convincing me to miss the next ferry in favor of a rest at one of his shady tables, he treated me to a frothy capuccino. We made small-talk until the cup was empty and it was time again to head form the port, but not without first firming up plans for dinner this evening. Wally would meet me in Menaggio with his car (yes, ferries shuttle more than people from one bank to the next!), and from there we would drive to Como, 40 km south, the anatomical 'left foot' of Mr. Lago di Como.

~Melanie

A Captain's Welcome and the Hunt for Milky Rapids

2006-05-13T12:44:00.000-04:00

VARENNA, ITALY -- May 13, 2006

I smiled to myself as I boarded the ferry heading to Varenna. It's hard to complain about traveling solo when I seem to so easily find myself with dinner company an hour after setting foot in a new town. But things only picked up from there.

No sooner had I settled into my wooden perch on the top level of the ferry, but a uniformed crewman approached me to check my ticket. Satisfied with my offering to the ferry gods, he then began gesturing and pointing to captain's deck, all the while saying something in rapid-fire Italian which I could not even partially understand. My meager language skills were no match for his thick Italian, but as far as I could tell, he was asking me if I'd like to visit the captain's deck and steer the boat. Of course! It's not every day I get to be more than just a mere passenger on deck in a foreign country, of all places!

I excitedly following behind him, and was warmly greeted by a crew of four men keepin watch from their perfect panoramic perch. They insisted I join them at the table where it appeared they were enjoying a light dinner. No sooner had I sat down then they foisted a plate of salami slices and crusty bread in my face and cheerfully ordered, 'Mangia! Mangia' (Eat, eat!) An empty glass appeared, and they filled it with vino rosso to match the rest around the table. With a hearty 'Salute!', we toasted each other and sipped the red liquid away.

Twenty short minutes later, I was waving goodbye to my fellow shipmates as I stood on the banks of Varenna. It didn't take long for me to stumble across the charms of this cozy little lake town. I followed a steep, stony path for a gasp-inducing hike to Castello di Vezio, from where I was privy to some of the most panoramic views over the lake from anywhere along its borders. The sights were unbelievable, and I found myself struggling to use some self-restraint as I fired away one carefully composed photo after another.

From there, I took a shady pathway descending to the town of Fiumilatte, famous for its milk river that tumbles down the mountainside. At only 800 feet iin lenght, it is Europe's shortest river. I must have gotten a little off-course, because as I found myself wandering through a quiet neighborhood, an elderly gentleman greeted me with a map and began directing me (in pure Italian!) to the Sorgente (source of the river). I managed to find my way there, and paused on the bridge overlooking the milky (Italian: latte, i.e. Fiumilatte) rapids cascading down to the lake.

Pulling off a well-timed ferry connection from Varenna's main port to Menaggio, I showered up and slipping into my 99 Euro red silk dress that I bough in Granada several weeks ago. Tonight would be its debut, as Wally was meeting me at the dock for dinner. He showed up in his flashy black Cougar (a sporty, stylish little V6 -- would you expect anything less from an Italian with machismo?). We cruised Nascar-style along the 1.5-lane lakeside road that was saturated with beautiful views and dangerous S-curves. As we neared the town of Cernobbio, Wally pointed out an estate owned by a rather well-known Hollywood Bachelor -- George Clooney.

Finally in Como, we popped into a pizzeria that, according to Wally, really knew how to serve it up. Eyeing the menu, I was overwhelmed with choices. I felt like I was in a Mexican restaurant, trying to decide between the 307 combinations on offer. I had never seen so many variations of pizza! I left the decision in Wally's hands, and he truly didn't disappoint. My pizza arrived layered with fruti del mare, Italian for 'seafood' (literally: fruit of the sea). Calamari, oysters, scallops, crab, all melded into a bed of pomodoro e mozzarella. It was delicious!

We rounded out the evening with a stop at one of Como's most popular night stops, where I watching Italian twenty-somethings salsa en masse to the Latin vibes streaming through the speakers. a 15 Euro cover seemed pretty steep, but the club opened out onto the lakefront and a starry sky above. And if you looked closely and let your eyes adjust to the darkness, you could make out the outlines of the alpi (alps) jutting into the midnight sky. This was the perfect Italian day from start to finish, and as I thought back over my adventures since awakening this morning, I was overwhelmed with a deep and powerful feeling that gripped me from the inside and tugged and my heartstrings until tears welled up in my eyes. This is my life! I almost had to pinch myself to believe it.

To anyone reading this who is holding on tightly to a dream that you just can't let go of, hear this -- do whatever it takes to bring that dream to life. Sell the car. Trade your sushi roll lunch for peanut butter sandwiches. Rediscover the joys of windowshopping and put away the money you have spent on that new pair of shoes. Make the hundreds -- if not thousands -- of small sacrifices required to bring your dream to life. Because now that I am living mine, I would trade nothing -- NOTHING -- for the joy that fills me every morning, asI wake to greet another day of adventure in a foreign land. And I feel it changing me, strethcing me, teaching em to savor the good and accept that life is change, both unexpected and wonderful.

~Melanie

Making My Way to Menaggio

2006-05-12T13:36:00.000-04:00

MILAN and LAGO DI COMO, ITALY -- May 12, 2006

By the time I arrived in Milano, I was over 300 pages deep into 'The DaVinci Code,' and hooked. My grand plan was to finish the book before leaving Italy on the 15th, so that the artfully crafted plot -- which contained a lot of true historical facts about some of the Louvre's masterpieces -- would be fresh in my mind when I visited this world-renowned museum. And with Hollywood's big-screen version hitting theatres in six days, you bet I was planning to spend an evening watching Sophie and Langdon unearth the deep secrets of hidden societies from a comfy stadium seat in one of Paris's cinemas.

I had three hours slated for Milano -- just enough time to drop my bag off at the depository, metro to the Duomo to see the world's fourth largest -- and in my opinion, most visually striking -- cathedral, stroll around the piazza, grab some lunch, return to the station to book my onward train to Paris, and taxi it out of town, heading north to the lakeside town of Varenna, from where I would catch my ferry across Lago di Como (Lake Como) to the town of Menaggio.

All went according to plan, with a few snafus:

(1) The entire facade of the duomo was covered with scaffolding, which was an utter disappointment to someone who had been waiting for years since her college Humanities class to see this brilliant display of ethereal white marble. In fact, I was so befuddled that I completely forgot to climb the staircase inside the Duomo for a birds' eye vie3w of the city, supposedly one of Milano's highlights.

(2) Back at the station, I learned that my plans to take a night train to Paris in three days were impossible -- all seats were completely booked, leaving me with no choice but to take an afternoon train that unfortunately wouldn't arrive in Paris until nearly midnight Sunday. In short, my 4 days in Paris had just been cut to 3, plus one day staring at the innards of yet another train compartment.

(3) By the time I finally arrived in Varenna and found the ticket booth to buy my fare to Menaggio, I was informed that the last ferry for Menaggio had already left. My only option was to take the 21:00 ferry to Cadenabbia, the neighboring town, and then walk the 4km north to Menaggio. Under slightly different circumstances, I would probably welcome an unexpected lakeside stroll in the moonlight, but walking alone at night between two isolated village while carrying all my possessions on my back was not a very attractive evening activity. Nevertheless, it was what it was. When you're left with only one option, you just suck it up and go with the flow!

Those three inconven- iences and a long day of travel were completely forgotten, however, the moment I caught a glimpse of Lago di Como and the dreamlike frame of alpine mountains overlapping in shades of blue. It was more than breathtaking; it filled me with a profound sense of something found. And then I realized, throughout all my travels thus far, I have seen brilliant vistas, explored exquisite castles and fortresses, but this was the first time I had experienced the feeling that was consuming me now -- what I can only describe as absolutely tranquility.

I was moved to tears just looking out over the magnifi- cence before my eyes while waiting for my ferry to arrive, riveted to the overwhelming amount of beauty possessed by this handful of sleepy villages nestled along the banks of some of the most exquisite lake-and-mountain scenery I have ever beheld. The late evening sun was moving into sunset position behind the westward walls of Alps rising into the darkening sky, and like dominoes stacket in succession, the cascade of overlapping mountain ridges unveiled a palette of soft blues ranging from azure to midnight. My 20-minute voyage across the lake was heavenly, as I soaked in the clear mountain air, village lights twinkling from across the lake, and the rippling brush of evening's chill on my shoulders.

The walk to Menaggio was without incident, though forty minutes of looking over my shoulder and praying that passing motorists would simply continue on their way was a bit taxing. Arriving at my ostello (hostel), I settled in and spent the next two hours plowing through 'The DaVinci Code.' Finally, I called it a night, content to finish the remaining 40 pages in the morning.

~Melanie

Following DaVinci to Milan

2006-05-12T13:30:00.000-04:00

MILAN, ITALY -- May 12, 2006

I missed the first two morning trains to Milan. My alarm was set for 4:30 AM, but it was nearly two hours past that when I opened my eyes. So much for that plastic alarm clock strapped around my wrist. This isn't the first time it's failed me. I berated myself on my way to the breakfast room, but eased off immediately once a new story began to emerge. As of late last night, the Italian trains went on strike. Ulf, the owner of Nice's nicest youth hostel (St. Exupery, of course!) told me himself that he had made an emergency 2 AM drive to Ventimiglia, the town straddling the French-Italian border, over an hour away by car, to pick up a few travelers who had been stranded there.

Apparently, the strike was due to continue into the morning, affecting the first two trains to ride out of town from Nice. But the story was that, after that, all systems were go and things were back to normal, or as normal as they can be after a serious transportation upset. I thanked the stars that I hadn't risen at 4:30 AM just to find out, two hours later at the train station, that I could have stayed in bed after all.

I left for the train station with a foursome of Canadian travelers, also en route to Italy. They would be riding the same train as I to Genova, from where they were transferring to the Cinque Terre. I felt a surge of envy as I thought fondly of my days hiking the five-village trail, smelling the fragrant wildflowers dotting the hillsides, eating fresh seafood, aromatic pesto, and freshly baked foccacia, and enjoying the luxury of the most hypnotically beautiful views of the Ligurian Sea.

Apparently, they had heard of the Cinque Terre only a few days before, from another traveler staying at the hostel, and had decided to adjust their plans accordingly. (It continues to amaze me how many travelers I meet who don't seem to be very well-informed about the countries they are planning to explore! I seem to know more than 95% of the travelers I meet, and that is probably a conservative estimate. I'm not saying that to brag; it's just the truth. But I do have to remind myself that the study of nearly every pocket of this world has been my consuming passion for several years... I suppose all those long hours of research is starting to pay off...)

Two hours later, my train reservation was made, and I was headed in the direction of Milano. It was a long ride to the city, but I had a new novel to keep my mind off the fact that I was trading a day of Europe for the inside of a train compartment. Two days before, after mentioning to Ulf that I was looking for a bookstore where I could purchase a copy of Dan Brown's famed 'The DaVinci Code,' (nope, I'd never read it!), he offered to sell me his. And I had been saving it for this train trip, when I knew I'd have some time to really sink my teeth into it and get lost in its pages.

~Melanie

Finding Unpretentious Provence... Villefranche sur Mer

2006-05-11T13:35:00.000-04:00

ST. PAUL DE VENCE and VILLEFRANCHE SUR MER, FRANCE -- May 11, 2006

With my last day in the Cote d'Azur, I chose to make a day-trip to St. Paul de Vence, after a hearty recommendation from an Aussie I had met on my night train from Barcelona.

When you're traveling through Europe -- especially on more or less a shoestring budget -- every day is money spent, and I want to spend every day seeing new things, exploring new places. I've found that works best for me is setting up my home base in a town with good transportation connections, and then spending a few days heading into the outlying areas, getting a taste of several different parts of the whole without having to waste too much time moving all my belongings from one town to another.

St. Paul de Vence was indeed a quaint and charming little medieval town set on a high precipice overlooking the valleys of Provence. Unfortunately, I had been so spoiled at Eze that St. Paul was simply no comparison!
I climbed its gently sloping cobblestone streets for views of the surrounding area, peeked into kitschy craft shops at tapestries, jewerly, and an elaborate mix of souvenirs, and bought a crusty baguette for my makeshift lunch from the one market in the village. It turned out to be the best bread I tasted in the Cote d'Azur, and made a delicious accompaniment for the soft cheese I had brought along.

Since my wanderings took less time than I had expected, I bussed back to Nice and headed out to St. Jean Cap Ferrat for a look. The bus ride was enjoyable, snaking along the coast, every now and again offering the finest views of the sea and real estate of the rich and famous stretching down to its shores. Despite overcast skies, the scene was as beautiful as ever. I stopped off at the port for a little fresh sea air, then bussed halfway back to Nice, stopping off near the cozy little port and fishing village, Villefranche sur Mer.

It was a long descent from the high road traversed by cars and buses to the coastal walkways along which the shops and restaurants and life of Villefranche spilled out. But of all my visits along the Cote d'Azur, this one was most reminiscent to me of the Italian Riviera, and the three enjoyable days I spent exploring the Cinque Terre and beyond back in 2004. The air here seemed a little less stuffy, there were humble fishing boats instead of well-tended yachts clustered at the dock. This was my kind of town. No pretenses. Just pure charm.

Finally, I headed back to St. Exupery for the last time, manging to get caught in a torrential downpour en route. By the time I arrived at the hostel, I was ready for a fresh change of clothes, and a made-to-order pizza with chicken, chorizo (spicy sausage), and salami to fill my empty belly.
At dinner, I met a going-on-30 solo traveler from Canada, whose dream had always been to cycle through France and live in Paris. He had just finished the latter, and had just bought a high-end touring bike to begin his coastal route towards the border of Spain. It was nice to trade stories with someone else who was 'living the dream.' I never cease to be amazed at the connections that can be forged between nearly any two people in this world. I see it happen every day, in the interactions I have with people from every country and walk of life. It's a great feeling to belong to this world. We all do, you know. We all belong. Sometimes we just have to be reminded that we all share more in common than we think.

~Melanie

Taking it Easy in Eze...

2006-05-09T16:31:00.000-04:00

EZE-VILLAGE, FRANCE -- May 9, 2006

Yesterday proved to be a long, rainy day. My biggest feat was making some friends in the bar/lounge last night, and getting an earful of woeful traveler's tales about night train thieves, dark alley muggings, and everything in between.

It's good to be reminded that the world's not all roses -- maybe I've got a force field of positive energy around me or something, but I guess I've really been fortunate in that the only things I've lost on my journey thus far are the ones I've accidentally left behind. Knock on wood, but so far, no thieves, and if at all possible, I'd prefer to keep it that way, instead of going through first-hand what the poor Canadian guy is now sorting out, with only the clothes on his back remaining after a night-train-ride-gone-awry. (It pains me to say this, because I have such a strong affection for Italy, but it seems that nearly every story I heard last night had one common thread -- the trains all passed through Italy... so travelers, beware!)

But after a dud day yesterday, I was hoping to actually get out an see some of this apparently magnificent coastline today. Over granola and milk (ah! the first time I've had cereal for breakfast since I was back in the States!), I chatted with a Norwegian girl named Monica about the fjords I'm so crazy about seeing in another 5 weeks or so, and then hooked up with an Australian couple who I had met last night.

We all headed off towards the medieval gem, Eze-Village, located just a short bus ride east along the coast from Nice. With its labyrinthine walls curling upwards like an upside-down funnel, Eze's passageways were a delightful mix of shadows and light. Small shops and boutiques rounded every corner, and bushels of flowers framed stairwells, doorways, and windowboxes. I got so wrapped up in the charm of this gorgeous little town that by the time I realized it, the Australian couple was long gone -- probably off to another small town, having had their fill. Oh well, it was nice to have a bit of company for the start of the day, at least.

But I kept climbing through the town, until I reached an exotic botanical garden at the top. Amid a giggling crowd of middle-school students day-tripping from nearby Italy, I waited out my turn for a ticket. I reveled in the exuberant sounds escaping their lips, and realized happily that in a few short days I would be immersed in Italian culture again... almost two years to the day of my first Italian adventures!

Finally I entered the gardens and was blown away by the picturesque views over the cliffs to the sea below. Nice could be seen stretching westward, the blue Mediterranean lapping gently along its rocky coastline. Sapphire blue water, blossoming cacti and other exotic plants, billowy clouds framing a soft blue sky -- it was a gorgeous setting. I soaked it all in, and the worked my way back to the bus stop, hoping to connect further on up the cost to Monaco.

~Melanie

Mediterranean Majesty: Menton and Monaco

2006-05-09T13:05:00.000-04:00

MONACO and MENTON, FRANCE -- May 9, 2006

Within minutes of arriving at miniscule Eze's bus stop, I realized the reason my Australian friends had been in such a hurry to push on to Monaco -- the buses out of town were quite irregular, and it looked like I had an hour and a half to kill before the next one would come my way. So, I opted instead to walk the 6.5 km to Monaco. At least this way, I'd get an extra dose of scenery with photo stops wherever I wanted them along the way :)

Halfway down the road, a kind stranger heading the same direction offered me a lift. Realizing the afternoon was catching up to me, I accepted, and within minutes, I was in Monaco, trying to navigate myself around this perfect little microcosmic principality with gardens manicured to highest standards and a gleaming palace set high above the shore on a table of rock. Everywhere, flashy, expesive cars sped down litter-free streets. And tourists stood out like a sore thumb amongst the well-dressed locals. Yes, Monaco.
I walked through glorious gardens, peered down over the busy port, breezed past the guarded palace. Although incredibly beautiful, Monaco seemed a shallow substitute for the Mediterranean charm I was seeking, and I moved on.

After boarding the next bus for Menton (yet a bit futher east, towards Italy), I took a seat next to an older gentleman from... you guessed it, Italy. After a few minutes of friendly chatter in broken Italian and English, he invited me to a night of fine dinner and gambling in the famous Monte Carlo casinos. I might have been tempted, had he not been old enough to be my grandfather! Dirty old man! Since when did 70-year-olds start hitting on women less than half their age?!

Menton was a breath of fresh air. I wandered around, enjoying panoramic views of the sea from behind palm- and flower-garden-laden promenades. I lingered on the sandy shore and watched a few local fishermen enjoying a late-afternoon hunt. I meandered trhough the market, past a castle, around the cathedral that capped the town.

And then I headed back to Nice, just in time to see the beautifully warm, soft light of early evening filter through the clouds and cast an angelic glow on the small fishing town of Villefranch and its neighbor, the small peninsula jutting southward, St. Jean Cap-Ferrat. I was tempted to stop and wander some more, but my legs screamed, 'Enough!!' and I was obliged to comply.

~Melanie

Cities of Spain's Charm Bracelet

2006-05-07T14:49:00.000-04:00

After a too-short stint in Portugal, I returned to Spain for another week of flambouyant charm. If southern Spain was good, northern Spain may quite possibly be even better!

It's hard to compete with the natural beauty and historical gems of Andalucia, but Barcelona was the cherry on the top of my Spain experience. And San Sebastian could quite possibly be the most relaxing two days I have spent thus far in my travels. Follow the summaries below to decide what kind of Spanish flavor will most suit your appetite. I hope you enjoy! And as always, I welcome your comments on these and any other posts/photos.

~Melanie

Madrid, Spain
It might have simply been travel burnout, but Madrid failed to captivate me the way all of my other Spanish destinations did. But you can take a quick peek at one of the famous cathedrals, as well as a couple of shots of the beautiful interior from Cat Hostel, where I stayed for one too-short night.

San Sebastian, Spain
If you are looking for utter relaxation among sugary sand, lucious palms, walkable mountains, and a charming little town to boot, look no further!

Barcelona, Spain
Come experience Gothic and modern architecture, stroll through peaceful gardens, and climb the 340 steps of Sagrada Familia for magnificent views of the city and ocean beyond...

First Forays into France's Cote d'Azur

2006-05-07T03:03:00.000-04:00

NICE, FRANCE -- May 7, 2006

Night trains are getting old. I've been averaging one every three nights since I left Seville. The problem is, when I'm faced with sacrificing either 8 hours of a day in Europe, or giving up a decent night's sleep, it's my sleep that loses out, every time. There is just too much to see and do. And the Cote d'Azur is no exception.

After arriving in Nice this morning and settling at the cozy Villa St. Exupery (best hostel in the Cote d'Azur, even serving breakfast to us early-arrivals who descended before checkin this morning), I was off for the Matisse Museum, since today (being the first Sunday of the month), all museums are free.

Nice is apparently the best museum magnet in all of France, outside of Paris. Mattisse, as it turns out, is not one of my favorite artists, and I was glad after wandering through the galleries that I hadn't paid for my entrance. I can appreciate all art to some degree, but aside from the fact that he switched careers in his early twenties, from practicing law to taking up sculpting and painting, I wasn't overly impressed.

The saddest thing about extended travel through Europe is that after a while, even the most impressive of cathedrals and museums becomes humdrum. But I think that's not the issue with this one. Mostly, his art just doesn't resonate with me. And that's a personal opinion, but since art is so subjective, I'm entitled to it :)

It just so happened that today was also the start of a big festival in Nice, celebrating its roots and traditional culture. The park adjacent to the museum was the picture of a small-town state fair, with homespun goodies, carnival rides, and families spread on picnic blankets enjoying a day out with friends and neighbors.

I bought a sandwich from one of the shops and bit into a huge round of flour-dusted dense bread filled with olives, radishes, boiled eggs, and bits of other vegetables. It was quite delicious, as the flour caking my mouth afterward must have evidenced.

I was lucky enough to catch a traditional dance performance by a troupe of perhaps 12-14 young Niceans. They were dressed in period costumes, and pranced on stage to the tune of a small band, made up of a two accordions, a saxophone, and another instrument I didn't recognize. The spirit was jovial, and my favorite dance was a smile-inducing story of the townswomen whose laundry day was interrupted by a bunch of foolhardy men from the village. The lighthearted banter that ensued eventually ended with the men tied up in a knot with a rope made of clothing from the women's laundry baskets.

I met a lanky, overly talkative Frenchman named Alain, whose original ploy that he spoke a "little" English was quickly discovered to be a slight overexaggeration. He rode me on his moped all over the city, to the famous Promenade de Anglais which stretches for seven kilometers along Nice's gray-pebble beach, to the famous chateau set up in the hillside, which overlooks the rolling hills and expanse of the city of Nice (which is much bigger than I had realized), the busy port, and the sea beyond.

We wandered through the Vieux Ville (old city), where a troupe of French performers entertained a bulging crowd with their African drumbeats and dancing. We walked through narrow streets lined with tourists shops and stared in the windows of one bakery selling some kind of local specialty I couldn't quite interpret through Alain's motor-mouth French.

Alain treated me to a typical Provence dinner at a seafood restaurant in Vieux Ville, run by family friends. At 10:00 PM, the place was buzzing with crowded tables and waiters rushing from kitchen to the checkered-cloth cafe tables lining the square.

We feasted on fried calamari with a delicious cream sauce (similar to tartar sauce), raw oysters (oh! so salty! - supposedly you traditionally slurp up the oyster, then follow it with a bite of buttered bread to balance the flavor), and then a plate of chicken in some kind of buttery sauce with mushrooms and fried potatoes. Dessert was "French cream with caramel sauce," which tasted suspiciously like the flan I had sampled a few times in Spain. At half past midnight, I crawled into bed, stomach stuffed solid and ready to slip into a peaceful night's sleep.

~Melanie

Last Day in Barcelona: Summing Up the Spain Experience

2006-05-06T14:42:00.000-04:00

BARCELONA, SPAIN -- May 6, 2006

Of all the big, sprawling cities I have been to in my travels, there are few that really stand out to me as being special places, worthy of returning for more than the hustle and bustle of a happening city. Barcelona is one of the most beautiful big cities I have ever seen, and if I'm not overdoing it here, is perhaps THE most beautiful of them all.

Set between rolling mountains to the north (even its own little Montjuic, "Mount of the Jews," which boasts its share of museums, sights, and the Olympic stadium) and the shimmering sea to the south, it has everything from cathedrals to stunning museums to brilliant architecture to beautiful parks in between. I often ask myself as I move through a place whether I could see myself returning, even living, here.

With Barcelona, I could easily answer yes to both. Overrun with tourists through the long summer season, sure. Swelteringly hot in July and August, yes. But these are small things compared to the stunning setting that Barcelona and those who are fortunate enough to live here enjoy.
My last day in Barcelona was spent well, revisiting Parc de la Ciutadella and lingering near the famous cascades (waterfalls) spilling down a manmade mountainside. Its lush interior is the perfect place to spend a lazy afternoon, complete with rowboats for rent in a peaceful lake.

Flower gardens, shady pathways, and plenty of subjects for people-watching... what more does a park need? I took the metro to Barceloneta, one of the stops closest to the famous beachfront promenade, and walked to Sant Sebastia (not to be confused with my two-day retreat to Spain's St. Sebastian), where already the shores were lined with sunbathers. While the water was too cold for swimming, the sun was more than sufficient. I never knew I was such a beach lover, but I guess that's half the fun of my explorations. I've never lived close enough to the ocean to know.
My skin has changed colors, from a pasty white to a light golden tan peppered with freckles, except for a narrow strip of white across my feet where my sandal straps keep my skin hidden from the sun. After leaving Barcelona and the Cote d'Azur (next stop), it will be awhile before I'm back in beach-land. So I'm enjoying it while I've got it.

My last half hour in Barcelona was spent walking La Rambla and reminiscing about my favorite Spanish memories before returning to the train station to board my evening train which would carry me across the border into France.
It has been such a delightful two weeks in sunny Spain. I am already missing the amazing paella and sangria, the warmth of summery sun (despite the fact that it was April and May when I traveled through the country!), the atmosphere of festive celebrations, the colorful flamenco dresses lining souvenir shops and bodies of women during the Feria de Abril, strolling street musicians strumming their Spanish guitars.... ahhh.... such a beautiful country.... I can only hope that I will continue to find such pleasures as I continue on through the rest of Western Europe. But I'm afraid Spain will be stiff competition for its easterly neighbors!

~Melanie

Head Over Heels for Gaudi

2006-05-05T02:32:00.000-04:00

BARCELONA, SPAIN -- May 5, 2006

This was the day I fell in love with Barcelona. A beautiful day of blue skies and sunshine never hurts, but it was Gaudi, the famous artist and architect, who made today such a special discovery.

I began at the Sagrada Familia, the cathedral which has become Barcelona's most famous -- albeit unfinished -- building. Gaudi began construction in 1882 and threw himself into its creation until his unfortunate death some twenty-something years later when he was hit by a tram. It is today still unfinished, but as my visit attested, builders are hard at work on the construction of this cathedral, which is estimated to continue until 2082.

Today eight of an eventual eighteen towers stand, their spires rising high above the skyline of the city. The beautiful sculpting of the Nativity Facade (which Gaudi himself supervised) is intricate and beautiful, while the sculpting on the Passion Facade, opposite, is more earthy, angular, and modern in feel (constructed in the 1950's). I climbed a rather congested spiral staircase inside one of the towers, which offered some impressive views out over the city.

Leaving the Sagrada Familia, I next visited Parc Guell, which lies on the north side of the city, a good 15-minute walk from the nearest metro. Set up in the hillside, this park was truly one of the highlights of the city for me. Gaudi's artistic touch, in addition to the beautiful setting, combine to make this park truly memorable.

Gaudi's creativity is evident in the gingerbread castles that lie just inside the entrance, as well as in the earthy, moody touches, such as the famous dragon of tile and broken glass, columns appearing as tree roots, and a snakelike bench atop a lookout point that snakes its way along the rim of the park's upper reaches. I lingered here for some time, as did everyone else, enjoying the fairy-tale feel of this almost other-wordly existence.

After rejunenating myself amid the palm trees and calm breeze, I descended to Passeig de Gracia, a long road running through the area of the city known as L'Eixample. Here lie some of the most famous modernist buildings in Europe, again, with Gaudi at the forefront of the architectural creation. His most famous along the Passeig de Gracia is probably La Pedrera, a gray-stone apartment building which at first appearance does not seem overly spectacular. But its design, with rippling, curving, anything-but-straight lines, is imaginative.

Among its many unusual features, the rooftop is far and away the most amazing aspect of this incredible building. It is a series of steps leading up and down in a random, circular fashion, with immense, masked statues clustered in various places throughout. It's difficult to describe with words, but I found myself lingering here as well, shooting frame after frame of these unusual designs set against a deep blue background of the sky. Incredible.

The night finished out with a few drinks and into-the-early-morning conversation with a couple of very tall Dutch guys on holiday from the southern side of the Netherlands. We chatted up the educational system of the Netherlands, which enabled Mark, the younger of the two, to graduate from university with 35,000 Euros in his pocket. Attending university is virtually free, and on top of that, the government will pay you a stipend for going. On top of that, you have the advantage of an educational system that values multilingual instruction. And when all your schooling is done, you are paid a decent wage to work no more than 35 hours per week. In fact, as Mark explained it to me, if he works a long week, then he has the right to take a day off the following week... or save up a few and have an extra week of holiday to spend as he likes.

Sometimes I wonder if I was born in the wrong country! The Netherlands sure seem to have a few things figured out!

~Melanie

Barcelona: More Than Just a Walk in the Park

2006-05-04T02:13:00.000-04:00

BARCELONA, SPAIN -- May 4, 2006

Day One turned out to be quite overcast and disappointing. Still making no headway with my medication, I felt like I was walking around in a blurry cloud. The sounds around me were muffled, and after another near-sleepless night on the train, I was hoping to work in at least a few top attractions before my endurance gave out.I am learning as I travel that Europe is the place for museums, sights, excellent cuisine, and late, late nights, but not so much the place for relaxation, reflection, and rest.

Being an early riser, I'm always cutting it short on the sleep meter, because I'm up when the sun hits my hostel room, and ready to head out into the city. But on the flip side, the evenings tend to be the time to meet up with other travelers, swap stories, relax, and enjoy some company, and I always feel like I'm shorting myself if I head off to bed too early in the evening.

I'm also learning that I don't like lingering in one place too long; I move quickly, and wherever I go, I'm always trying to see and do more than perhaps the average person. I like the freedom of being on my own, but I also like the odd opportunity to meet up with another travelers or a local and take some detours from my previously thought-out plan and see another side to the city I happen to be traveling in. But in any case, being constantly on the move, and always on the lookout for the next new experience is exhausting. I'm going to have to work on finding a balance somewhere... in the meantime, I'll try to adjust to 5 hours of sleep.

Today I strolled the famous "La Rambla" from top to bottom, starting at Plaza de Catalunya at the north end, and ending at the statue of Christopher Columbus on the south, just a few meters from the port and esplanade leading out to Barcelona's wharf and aquarium. La Rambla is an absolute tourist trap, created with every breed of tourist in mind.

Within a few long block stretching to the end of town, this pedestrian-only walkway is cluttered with fresh flower shops, souvenir stands, street entertainers -- including the ever-popular human statues, which generally tend to come covered in layers of metallic paint, cafes and restaurants displaying eye-popping menu-del-dia prices and filling the air with delicious fragrances, and hordes of tourists streaming up and down between its treelined curbs. There is even a canary shop, where the sound of dozens of caged, chirping birds fills the air.

I rambled my way through the Barri Gotic, which is a confusing jumble of narrow streets that contain some real gothic architectural treasures. I eventually found the Catedral, and enjoyed a tranquil walk through its corridors, as well as beautiful views into its verdant central cloister. I then meandered back through the Barri Gotic, until I eventually found my way to the Picasso Museum, on the east side of Barcelona's central district.

I've never been much of a modern art connouisseur, but I did enjoy my stroll through this exhibit. Picasso is the man who invented the technique known as Cubism, in which on one two-dimensional canvas, an artist pulls in three-dimensional interpretative views of the subject. There were two entire rooms of the gallery devoted to Picasso's variations of Velasquez's famous painting, "Las Meninas."

Even though my artistic tastes are quite different from those of Picasso, I was intrigued by the artistic capability he had of recreating the same subject with so many alterations, while taking into account the same lighting, placement, and other features which Velasquez used in creating the original work. I was also impressed with Picasso's range of artistic talent -- his early works mirrored a more classical approach, and showed mastery of sketching and painting.

A quick walk through the harbor and the borders of Parc de la Ciutadella rounded out the sightseeing for the day. While it was enjoyable enough, I was missing the sunlight which always seems to make everything that much more beautiful.

~Melanie

The Best of Views, the Worst of Men

2006-05-03T01:48:00.000-04:00

SAN SEBASTIAN, SPAIN -- May 3, 2006

Feeling a bit more rested today, I first stopped at a small market where I bought a huge bag of oranges. The medicine I had begun taking didn't seem to be doing much for me, and I figured an overdose of Vitamin C wasn't a bad idea.

I decided to attack Monte Urgull, one of two mountains hugging each end of the crescent- shaped beach. A series of interweaving trails led up the mountainside and offered some beautiful lookouts to the Bahia de la Concha (the body of water which San Sebastian encircles) and a small island, Isla de Santa Clara, in the middle of the blue water. I climbed to the top of the mountain, where a military fort, complete with cannons and lookout posts, offered picturesque views of the deep blue waves, the beachfront, the city skyline, and rolling mountains beyond. A tall statue of Christ, visible from nearly any point along the beachfront, capped the fort.

I picnicked on an old bench over- looking Playa Ondaretta, where I napped/ sunbathed yesterday, and then descended to the other well-known beach, Playa de la Concha, for another day of sun and relaxation. Today was quite a bit cloudier and cooler, which meant the beachfront was a bit more tranquil. I spent the better part of the afternoon camped out in the spotty sunshine, eyes closed, just enjoying the peace of doing absolutely nothing.

When the sun went into permanent hiding, I relocated to the promenade above the beach, watching the world go by as I feasted on oranges.

My fingers were sticky, and a pile of orange peels was growing near my feet, when a friendly stranger walked past and said "hello" in English. For whatever reason, I responded, and spent the next couple of hours with a Frenchman named Samir, on holiday in San Sebastian.

We walked to Parta Vieja, the old part of the city, where the streets are lined with cafes and restaurants. He had deceived me with his English "hello," because from then on the conversation was bits and pieces of French, German, and Spanish, none of which were mutually understood. He treated me to an helado (ice cream), and then started putting the moves on. What is it with these European men? It seems like every guy I meet tries to sandwich a three-month relationship into twenty minutes. It would be one thing if I had been even mildly attracted to the guy. But mostly I just went along for the company. It wasn't long before we parted ways, and I cursed at him behind his back as I walked off in my own direction.

A few hours later, I was back at the train station, boarding for my night journey to Barcelona. This was to be my last stop in Spain, and as many great things as I had heard about the fair city, I was hoping it would live up to my expectations.... because Samir aside, San Sebastian was going to be hard to top.

~Melanie

Sun and Sand in Northern Spain

2006-05-03T01:42:00.000-04:00

SAN SEBASTIAN, SPAIN -- May 3, 2006

I first heard of San Sebastian from my brother-in-law Matt, who has raved about it since his visit there during college years ago. It wasn´t even on my itinerary, originally -- I though it was perhaps a little too out-of-the-way, and I knew I´d be enjoying views of the sea once I hit France´s Cote de Azur.

But a few too many hours of sleep lost between overnight train rides and into-the-morning fiestas, and my body was craving some real down-time. And an overnight train ride from Madrid, San Sebastian seemed the perfect prescription for the R&R I was seeking. Now, having spent two marvelous days and a night in San Sebastian, I think I would have have missed out, truly, one of one of Europe´s most splendid beaches, had I passed up on a chance to visit these shores.

I arrived early morning and stashed my bag at Pension Amalur, after waking Miguel, the owner, several hours early to let me in. I was absolutely fatigued, but managed to pick up some fresh bread for a makeshift breakfast and crawl my way to Playa de Ondarreta, where I spread my sarong out on the blonde sand, lathered up with some good SPF, and fell asleep to the sounds of the waves crashing against the shore. It was several hours before I surfaced again, to find the beach dotted with towels and smiling sun worshippers, and dozens of seagulls.

By mid afternoon, I was eager to head back to the hotel, where I showered for the first time in two days. I stopped at a pharmacy for some medicine for the sinus cold / ear infection that I had been unfortunate enough to catch while in Madrid. The overnight train ride to San Sebastian had been absolutely excruciating for my ears, which were now plugged beyond recognition. I explained to the pharmacist in simple English my problem, and left with a box of medicine that I was completely unfamiliar with.

I had picked up some pasta, cheese, tomato sauce, and fresh zucchini in Madrid, thinking I would be able to cook up a nice dinner while staying at my hostel there. Unfortunately, there was no kitchen. So I carted all of these ingredients with me to San Sebastian, and was intent on cooking up a storm for my evening meal tonight.

As I began talking to Miguel, the pension owner, it became clear that he spoke not a word of English. So with my 8-years-rusty high school Spanish, I managed to carry on a fairly good conversation about the use of the kitchen. Miguel explained that normally, the kitchen was off limits to hotel guests. But for me, he was willing to make a special exception. Well! Lucky me!He started a pot of water boiling for me, and I got to work chopping zucchini and cheese into small pieces. When I told him this was an "experimantal" dinner, he opened his cabinet and pulled out a small skillet and cruet of olive oil, and began cutting the remaining zucchini into julienne strips and sauteeing them in the skillet.

He then reached into his frigo (fridge) and pulled out a bag of cheese and a large salami, which he began dicing to add to the sauce which was quickly becoming a novel creation. Ten minutes later, I dined on a delicious two-cheese and salami pasta dinner with tomato-zucchini sauce.

I ate until my stomach hurt, and then Miguel spooned the rest into a small container which he said he would keep for me for dinner tomorrow.With my stomach full, ears plugged, and eyes heavy, I decided to take a nap for a few hours, even though it was only 6:00 PM. I woke at 8:00 AM the following morning!

~Melanie

Roaming Spain's Southern Gorge: Ronda

2006-05-01T23:51:00.000-04:00

RONDA, SPAIN -- April 22, 2006

I leave for Ronda via the train early this morning, enjoying 30 minutes of silence before a load of noisy Spanish daytrippers descend on my railcar and fill it with the rising din of their exuberant voices. At 10:00 AM I am at the station, with not a map to my name, and no idea how to find my hotel or anything worth seeing in Ronda.

I am here on good recommen- dation only. The town will be mine to explore, sans guidebook. I head off in the general direction of the bus station, and am more than fortunate to stumble across a sign posting the direction of my hotel.

After dropping off my bag, I begin my wanderings, and end up at a beautiful lookout point, staring up into the side of the gorge upon which this ages-old Spanish city has been built. I munch on the remaining strawberries from Granada's fresh produce market, and bask in the beauty of this Andalusian hilltown which is beginning to gleam in the rising sun.

I follow a few daytrippers as they linger at "my" lookout point and then continue around the bend. For several hours, I meander through the cobblestone streets of Ronda, peering out beyond whitewashed houses and over rolling hillsides to distant mountains beyond.

I find a trail leading down towards the base of the gorge, and spend a good hour or so hiking down, down, down, pausing here and there along the way to enjoy the smell and sight of the wildflowers blossoming along the trail. I stand in awe of the majestic sight before my eyes of this Andalusian village peeking out through the stories-tall arch standing before me. Ronda has been a treasure to discover, and has left me with lasting images of its rustic charm and striking beauty.

~Melanie

Maxing Out in Madrid

2006-05-01T01:08:00.000-04:00

MADRID, SPAIN -- April 30 - May 1, 2006

I had little expectation from Madrid other than a trip to the Museo del Prado, one of the world's most impressive collections of paintings from the Spanish, Flemish, and Italian greats. The museum truly did not disappoint. I wandered through room after room of canvases of immense proportions from artists such as Velasquez, Rubens, El Greco, Goya, Boticelli.

Each frame holds a magnificent masterpiece, but the sheer quantity is so overwhelming that, sadly, I find myself strolling through the corridors and glancing in this or that direction for one to catch my eye. Most of the works on display are portraits of high society, and depictions of Christ and the "Sagrada Familia" (sacred family). I find one quite moving, albeit a little graphic. Jesus, struggling up the hill of Golgotha, has fallen upon a boulder along the roadside. His body is pale and weak, and the crown of his head is plastered with the blood from the crown of thorns pressed into his flesh. His expression is one of absolute fatigue and pain, and I am at once awed by the talent of the hands that created this image which spoke to me.

I later stroll through the adjacent park, El Retiro, where a good number of Madrid's locals are enjoying a Sunday stroll of their own. The grassy areas are a patchwork of picnic blankets and sunbathing bodies, children running and adults breaking into a game of futbol (Americans, read: soccer). I meet a threesome of energetic locals, one of whom is an English teacher here in Madrid, who land their futbol close to the bench where I have been enjoying my picnic lunch. It never fails to amaze me how easy it is to meet people everywhere I go.

I was hoping for a day-trip to Toledo during my second day in Madrid, but sadly, due to the nationwide holiday, every train to this picturesque town less than an hour from Madrid, is completely full. Luckily, I do have a ticket out of town on the overnight train to one of Europe's most beautiful beaches, San Sebastian, for tonight. It's time for a little R&R -- whoever thought long-term travel was a vacation was.... partly right. But keeping up with the Spanish and Portuguese night life has left me running on empty. Here's to a relaxing few days of sun, sand, and hopefully, a hefty amount of zzzz's!

~Melanie

Finally! Flamenco Night in Seville

2006-05-01T00:34:00.000-04:00

SEVILLE, SPAIN -- April 26, 2006

My last day in Sevilla was spent wandering the Barrio Santa Cruz, lined with shops, cafes, restaurants, all enclosed in a labyrinth of narrow, winding, cobblestone streets. What is it with Europe and these twisting alleys? I enjoy getting lost, but I must admit, my sense of direction is really suffering!! I shared a farewell lunch with John before he left for the train station. It was 2:00 PM, and we were the first to be served. Everything is later here in Spain. The paella, fried calamari and marinated fish on the set menu were fabulous.

The highlight of my day -- and probably of my entire stay in Sevilla -- took place this evening, after the sun went down. I enjoyed a light dinner of crusty bread, cream cheese, and ripe, red strawberries before returning to the Barrio Santa Cruz, to find the Casa de la Memorias, where I had a reservation for the night's flamenco performance. As soon as I entered the inner courtyard where the performance was to be held, I knew I was in for a treat. The setting was intimate -- no more than 60 people lined the stage area in a U-shape, and the backdrop was a stone wall covered with vines and blossoming flowers. The ceiling opened to the floor above, and overhead, I could hear birds chirping their sweet melodies.

Soon the guitarist and soloist entered, and an incredible energy began sweeping through the room. The sounds, the melodies, the rhythms, were so captivating, so emotion- evoking, completely visceral and yet classically artistic. It was so moving that I felt my skin prickle over and my eyes haze over with the beginnings of tears. After a powerful opening performance, the first of two flamenco dancers took the stage.

This young woman was beyond beautiful, her hair carefully coiffed in a traditional Andalucian style. Her dress was colorful and flambouyant, ruffles spilling from her shoulders to the fringes at her ankles. She threw herself into the expression of the dance, tapping out intricate steps in hurried succession, swirls of dust rising into the air from the floor upon which she stood. And then in a split-second, her motions slowed to graceful, fluid movements, a fan in one hand which she flipped, opened, and twirled with the grace of a ballerina. Her face was composed and focused, her eyes searching and serious.

The second dancer brought a somber mood to the floor. Cloaked in black, her movements and expressions reverberated a sadness, a loss. One look into her face, which appeared and disappeared into the shadows of the night, and you could feel the pain which she so masterfully displayed through the motions of her body. Without warning, her body would convulse into a caucophany of brisk steps that would outdo the most trained of tap dancers. She pulled the ruffles of her skirt up to her knees to display her speed-of-lightning footsteps. It was exhilarating. And then, in a moment, the croon of the singer's melancholy melody would pull her back into an ethereal dance of sadness.

I was absolutely moved by the artistry of the Spanish flamenco. I left Sevilla feeling that I had authentically experienced this fine city. It is no wonder that it ranks so high in the wishlists of would-be travelers, and among the favorites of those who have visited and returned.

~Melanie

Sintra, City of Fairy-Tale Castles

2006-04-29T00:49:00.000-04:00

SINTRA, PORTUGAL -- April 29, 2006

I may as well have visited Sintra yesterday -- I didn't feel much more rested after last night's late, late finale. I arrived in Sintra at 11:00 AM by train, with little sense of an agenda other than to explore the two palaces and a castle set amidst towering hills and fairytale-tall trees. As I walked into Sintra-Ville, bonsai gardens and vendors selling fresh flowers in every shape and size lined the walkways, and classical music lilted in the air as if raining down from the sky.

I poked my nose around the Palacio Nacional de Sintra, exploring this palace bedecked with Moorish, Gothic, and Manueline architecture, fine furnishings, and absolutely regal painted tiles. But, sandwiched between gobs of German tourists on holiday, I found myself growing impatient to reach the exit to the palace. I much more preferred to be wandering through this tiny little village, peering up at the castle walls clinging to a high precipice several kilometers away. I began to make the climb to this castle, and huffed and puffed for three kilometers up an incredibly steep road that climbed into the mountainside. The hairpin turns were a bit unnerving, as drivers and bikers would unsuspectingly turn the corner, and I'd be left to jump into the gutter to save my life :)

Finally, I found myself at the entrance to the Castelo dos Mouros, the ancient Moorish castle which towers over the city below. The views from the top, peering down over lush green foliage and charming villages clustered in the valleys below, were incredible. It was here that I met three American travelers, all students in a study-abroad program which laced together a Spanish study experience in Mexico, Argentina, and Spain. Amber, Becca, and Mary and I spent the remainder of the afternoon scaling castle walls, gasping at the magnificence on display in the Palacio de Pena, and wandering through the dense "jungle-like" forests of the adjacent Pena Gardens.

At one point, we became so lost in its winding trails that it seemed we were venturing into the heart of darkness. Luckily, we found a high cement wall with paved road on the other side, and like a team of army cadets, scaled over the top and dropped our bodies down a five-foot distance to the earth below. We wound our way eventually back to Sintra-Ville, and descended on tourist-trap heaven, where we picked over souvenirs of every shape and size. The most impressive were the hand-painted tiles depicting images of the fairy-tale Pena Palace, which truly has to be seen to be believed. Set high in the mountainside, it grabs your attention with its brightly painted turrets and towers. Pinks and yellows dominate the skyline above the trees, and with little imagination you can picture yourself painted into the pages of a children's fantasy book.

Our tired bodies wilted on the bus-and-train connection back to Lisbon. I said goodbye to my new friends, and headed back to Fred's, where I had a few hours to pack up, catch a bite to eat, and say goodbye before heading back to the train station for my overnight ride to Madrid. Oh, so little time here.... I had contemplated not even making the trip, since Lisbon stretched 8 hours both going and coming from my nearest connecting destinations. But now, three action-packed days later, I am looking back reminiscing over my explorations into the heart of Portugal, and my only regret is that I couldn't afford more time to enjoy this amazing place. As a parting gift, Fred offered me his corkscrew, which I know will come in quite handy as I continue my travels throughout Europe. My experience in Lisbon wouldn't have been nearly the same without the kindness, generosity, and fun-loving personality of my exceptional host, who allowed me to see Lisbon both as a first-time traveler and as a five-year veteran. Lisbon will long remain a bright jewel in my travel charm bracelet.

~Melanie

Beautiful Buildings, Tasty Pastries, and Crashing at the Beach!

2006-04-28T00:45:00.000-04:00

BELEM & COSTA CAPARICO, PORTUGAL -- April 28, 2006

After willing myself to wake up this morning, I decided to scrap my original plan to visit Sintra, which I knew would entail a lot of walking, and instead take a more laidback approach to the city. I headed off via the metro for Praca de Figueira, near Praca Dom Pedro where I wandered yesterday. From here, I caught a clunking, ages-old tram car which shuttled me to the Belem district, a 6-km stretch west along the riverbank.

Belem is known as one of the few areas of the city which survived the land-leveling earthquake of 1755. The focal point of Belem is the Mosterio dos Jeronimos, an absolutely stunning white-marble monastery that towers toward the clouds. This is the place from which Vasco da Gama received his send-off when he began his first voyage to what is known today as India. Standing within its tranquil inner chambers, I find myself traveling back centuries, imagining the hum of excitement as shipmen made the final preparations to the vessel that would carry them across the great waters, imagining the regal costumes and ceremony which accompanied that occasion.

I stop at an ages old pasticceria for one of Belem´s most well-known treasures, the pastry which bears its name, Pastel de Belem. After ordering at the counter, the young lady on the other side produces a warm, puffy delight on a white plate, and after checking with me, douses it with cinnamon and powdered sugar, so that I can try it in ¨traditional style.¨ I bite into its custard-filled center. It is absolutely delicious, like a creme-filled, just-out-of-the-oven donut... maybe it´s the atmosphere, but somehow it just tastes better than any donut I remember back home...

Just across the road, adjacent to the edge of the river, stands the impressive Torre de Belem, where you can climb to the top for a birds-eye perspective of the district. It is decorated with sculptures of da Gama's entourage in dynamic proportions. Inlaid in the concrete floor is a map of the world, pinpointing the many voyages of this intrepid explorer and the places he discovered.

Dragging with exhaustion, I opted to take a tram, then ferry, then bus to the nearest beach, Costa Caparica, where I intended to spend the remaining few hours of sunlight relaxing -- and hopefully napping -- with the sound of the waves breaking in the background. Caparica turned out to be a bit more populated than I had expected, with loads of windsurfers donned in wetsuits daytripping from nearby towns to enjoy a day of sand, sun, and fine waves. But the rhythmic rocking of the waves as they crashed into the rocky coast proved to be more than hypnotic, and I soon fell into a delicious sleep, basking in the afternoon light, where I shared beach space with other sunbathers. Waking from my nap, I dabbled into the water, which may as well have been a newly melted ice cube. It was no wonder those surfers, all appearing like skinny blue seals out at sea, were covered from head to toe in their rubbery wetsuits.

Getting back to Lisbon was a bit of an adventure, as my lack of Portuguese made for an interesting game of hide-and-seek with the bus that would take me back to Cacilhas, from where I would ferry again across the river to Lisbon.

Tonight's evening meal was no doubt traditional -- fried, salted cod with egg and roasted potatoes. I had caught a glimpse of the mountains of salted cod so well-known in Lisbon at a supermarket yesterday afternoon. They were literally completely encapsulated with crystal-white salt, the preservative that allowed fishermen to bring in their catch by the hundreds each day and still be good to serve a few days afterward. Aside from a few unsuspecting fish bones, the meal was delicious, albeit incredibly fishy... well, what else should I have expected??

Fred took me to a cafe just down the street, where I met a few close friends of his from his first days in Lisbon. Half the group was sipping a glass of the extremely full-bodied, sweet wine known as port, for which Portugal is so well-known. We finished off the night with a return to Bairro Alto, where we met up with Fred's sister Vanessa, who had also emigrated from Brazil, and a handful of her Portuguese and Italian friends. They took me to a quaint little "authentic" Portuguese bar, down a tiny, out-of-the-way alley in the Bairro.

Between the Portuguese and Italian that were rattling around the long table where we sat, I understood next to nothing. But the atmosphere was friendly, there were enough smiles to go around twice, and then some. The night stretched out into the wee hours of morning. 1:00 AM, the 2:00 AM rolled around, and still the evening was far from over. Over the din of chattering voices, the all-American classic, "Stand By Me" began playing over the speakers. And within seconds, the entire room began belting out the chorus in perfect English. It was one of those unexpected yet memorable moments that will be an anchor for some of my fondest memories in Lisbon -- here I was, with a group of strangers-turned-fast-friends, with a massive language barrier between us, and a catchy American tune from the 80's bridged this gap in a way few things couldn.

Around 3:30 AM, we finally called it a night. As luck would have it, I couldn't fall asleep, and spent the next two hours reading bits about Slovenia from Fred's Lonely Planet collection (I'm not the only one who has a shelf full of travel books!!)

~Melanie

Lisbon, Sea-Lover´s Delight

2006-04-27T00:40:00.000-04:00

LISBON, PORTUGAL -- April 27, 2006

I scraped by on possibly two hours of sleep on my night bus from Sevilla to Lisbon. Arriving at 5:45 AM was beyond early. The city had not yet even begun to show signs of life. I managed to find my way to the home of my couchsurfing host for three days, Frederico Lopez, a Brazilian native who emigrated to Lisbon years ago and has never looked back. Over a breakfast of fresh fruits, bread, and cheese, Frederico and I swapped travel tales. I was incredibly grateful to be staying with someone who spoke English, as I knew not a word of Portuguese, and was getting nowhere with my poor attempts at pronunciation.

By mid-morning I found myself navigating the city with a map in hand, no real idea of which direction to wander. I meandered through the Baixa-Chaco area, with its gridlined streets which were rebuilt after Lisbon's massive earthquake many years ago. I oriented myself by the Rio Tejo which hugged its east bank, and headed northward along a well-worn path cluttered with shops and boutiques, to Praca Dom Pedro, a beautiful plaza with stunning buildings, statues, and fountains.

I managed to navigate myself through the Alfama, the salty sailor's quarter, and another one of those narrow, snakeline, cobblestone areas where, it is said, two people can shake hands from opposite sides of the street. I found this, actually, to be true. I walked into a small market where fresh oranges sat in crates on both sides of the doorway.

A woman inside was fixing a plate of sardines, and I had to laugh as a man -- probably the owner of the shop -- scolded his young daughter for curling up in one of the empty boxes strewn near the back door. I traded my 50 cent piece for an orange, and climbed back into the hills of the Alfama, towards the Castelo de San Jorge, supposedly one of the most scenic spots from which to look down over Lisbon's red rooftops to the valley and river below.

After a ruggedly steep climb to the entrance of the castle, I meandered along the high stone walls, climbing turrets and lookout towers, and peering from dozens of vantage points across the seven hills (sete collinas) of Lisboa to its sea of brightly colored houses clustered as far as the eye could see in either direction. Ahead, the land sloped sharply, and beyond, the Rio Tejo sparkled as fishing boats set out for the day's fresh catch. I stayed within the ramparts of the castle for a few hours, picnicking from a stony perch as the sun filtered through the deep blue sky and brought to life the rich colors of the town below. After exiting the castle, I followed a steep incline around the bend to another lookout point, Graca, before descending to Porta del Sol to watch the ships from a closer vantage point.

I ended my explorations with a visit to Lisbon's Parque Nacoes, built for the Expo '98. It's a nice enough place, a well-kept esplanade, looking out over the 18-mile bridge -- the longest in Portugal -- that curves across the Rio Tejo. A collection of flags from every nation wave gracefully from their high posts along the walkway to the riverfront. Here and there, a modern sculpture of epic proportions broke through the sky. I was disappointed to find that Parque Nacoes was more concrete than the tree-and-flower-lined boulevards I had imagined it to be. As the wind picked up speed along the river, I decided it was time to call it a day.

Back at Frederico's, he and his roomate Igor, a student of cinema at the nearby University in Lisbon, whipped me up a delicious dinner of pasta with freshly grated Parmesan, brought back from Italy as a gift from a friend. Fred and Igor shared with me some of their impressive professional accomplishments. Fred, a graphic designer, has stacks of magazines which he has designed, along with books detailing Portuguese gastronomy. Igor showed me an article he wrote months back which was published in Vogue magazine. Hats off to these two young guys, who are making quite a name for themselves here in Lisbon.

Finally, we set off for the Bairro Alto, famous nightlife district of Lisbon. I thought perhaps the Portuguese kept their nightlife a little tamer than the flambouyant, outrageous scene in Spain. Oh, was I ever wrong. Throngs of people peppered the streets, spilling out of bars and cafes, their voices mingling into a loud mix of jovial excitement. By 2:00 AM I was holding my eyes open with toothpicks and trying my best to be good company. But a day of wandering the city (I estimate I walked between 12-15 km) and a nearly sleepless night on my bus ride in were doing their worst. It was time -- finally! -- the plunge between the covers. I think I fell asleep before my head even hit the pillow.

~Melanie

Ramparts and Arabian Rhapsodies

2006-04-26T14:04:00.000-04:00

ESSOUIRA, MOROCCO -- April 14, 2006

Essouira turned out to be a very enjoyable place to spend a few days. A small-ish port city on the Atlantic coast, its whitewashed medinas, salty air, rocky shore, and cannon-decorated ramparts give it an earthy, low-key feel.

Highlights include:

*On the drive north from Imsouane, passing goats climbing trees for their vegetarian lunch, as well as groves of the arghan tree, indigenous to this area. Farmers bottle the oil that comes from this tree, as it is well-loved for the health benefits it provides.

*Taking a camel trek along the shore with Ali, and exploring some ruins at the far end of the beach. Staring into the shadowy pockets of the rock, crusted with barnacles where the sun never reaches.

*Wandering through the port, staring out at all the fishing boats that were docked and reeked of fish

*Walking along the labyrythine alleys and streets of Essouira's medina, a thousand and one shops and twice as many vendors ready and willing to make a good price for you.

*Stopping to buy some peanut candy for a roadside stand, and enjoying its sticky-sweet taste as I continued on.

*Being pulled into a small Moroccan musical instrument shop by a young guy ready to pledge his undying love after falling in love with me (or was it just my eyes?) when he saw me walk by. Enjoying a very authentic, private concert with the three musicians who ran the shop. A bit weird... but these are the moments that make Morocco like nowhere else I've ever been.

*Standing on the ramparts in Essouira at 4:00AM (my first time here, after arriving in the middle of the night with Ali and Adir)... the absolute stillness of the place as we peered out across the midnight-blue Atlantic waters and the stars twinkling brilliantly overhead.

*Meeting Said, a Moroccan guy my age, on holiday in Essouria. We later had tea and couscous with chicken for lunch with his very tall friend Wahaid.... and this is the beginning yet another adventure...

~Melanie

Cordoba: Home of the Candy-Cane Cathedral

2006-04-25T00:28:00.000-04:00

CORDOBA, SPAIN -- April 25, 2006

Castillian Spanish takes a bit of getting used to. For those who have studied "classic" Spanish (i.e. the grand U.S. high school educational system), it sounds like nearly everyone talking is missing a front tooth. "Ess" sounds becomes "eth" -- kind of like the song, "All I want for Christmath ith my two front teeth..." Sevilla becomes "Thevilla." Gracias becomes "Grathiath." And I'm not traveling through Andalucia, it's "Andaluthia."

On top of that strange adjustment, my brain is still switching gears from Morocco, where I picked up a bit of Arabic. I keep wanting to say "shukran" instead of "thank you," or "salamu a'lekkum" instead of "hello."

It's a weird thing, but I noticed this same language phenomenon when I moved to Taiwan several years ago. At that time, the only other bit of a second language I knew was Spanish. I would meet these people that knew no English, and automatically I'd begin talking to them as if they were from Costa Rica instead of Taiwan.

I've met many study-abroad students, and I envy them for the experience they are gaining of experiencing another culture and absolutely immersing themselves in a second language. That's the way to go... the only hope for me if I were to actually learn to decently speak a language other than my native one.

As for Cordoba -- John and I took a day-trip from Sevilla (only 1.5 hours north-east by train) to visit this charming city, on the banks of the Guadalquivir. It is home to one of the most impressive Islamic mosques in the world. Cordoba actually became the most important Moorish city in Spain back in the 8th century.

The Mesquita itself was dramatic on the interior. Huge candy-cane striped stretch across an obscenely wide distance. The alternating red marble and white granite gave an earthy, yet unusual feel to this cavernous house of worship. As with the Catedral in Sevilla, the interior of the Mesquita was incredibly dim. It took a few minutes to adjust to the space before the striking colors came into focus.

While the Mesquita was amazing, the highlight for me was simply a picnic lunch in a small park on the other sie of the river, looking out over the historic area of town beyond a cluster of palm trees, and basking in the warmth of a beautiful day. John and I swapped life stories and it was a fabulous thing to be so far away from home, yet feel somehow so plugged in to the life of another person. Travel is teaching me that the differences between people are fewer than we think, and that most of the boundaries we believe exist are in our minds, which becomes our reality. Travel is about learning to break down those walls, to find the similarities and appreciate the differences, and to expand your present level of understanding by opening yourself up to new experiences, new people, new ideas. Travel is both education and liberation, and I must warn you -- it is highly addictive. But from where I stand, I cannot imagine my life without it.

We capped off the night with a free scoop of Ben & Jerry's from an ice cream shop down the street from the hostel, and omelets with garlic, onion, and red pepper that John and I whipped up in the hostel's kitchen. A bottle of red wine later, the night wound down to a slow finish. Another perfect day in Andalucia.

~Melanie