Sobering Sites

The last 36 odd hours, we spent along the Normandy coast, in northern France. As I had done a month's worth of research specifically on D-Day during college, I was particularly interested in connecting some of the words on the page, to the real-life landmarks. We spent our first night in lovely Honfleur. Not quite a part of the D-Day beaches, this quaint little port town is very much a part of Normandy. Its cider, crepes and coastal views were as present as any other town. We wandered the art gallery strewn sidewalks and munched on a croissant and sipped our cappuccino. I think it was the first time in 60+ days that the picture in my mind matched reality. It was idyllic. We spent just a few short hours there and then began the more reflective, introspective leg of our journey. On our way to Omaha Beach, on which our hotel was directly located, we stopped in one of Normandy's workaday towns, bustling and busy and missing the charm of the rest of its neighbors. However, in the center of this city was the best museum that I had ever been to. The Caen Memorial Museum focused on WWII, yet was able to do so by bringing you through years of war and build-up, giving you the history necessary for a more complete understanding. Not only was the museum informative, it was eye-popping. Each room and each space in each room was deliberate and well done. The memorial space to the Holocaust was dimly lit, flickering candles bordering a mostly empty space, helping you to focus and meditate. The rest of the museum continued in like form. We learned much, but enjoyed the visit for more than that. The exhibits continued, winding their way up to the pinnacle, on which stood a moving, complete and touching storyline of September 11th. It was an incredibly sympathetic and personal look at America, terrorism and worldwide cooperation.

After the Museum, a gourmet bite overlooking Omaha beach and a good night's rest, Monday was jam-packed with seeing the sites. I can't very well paint the picture of the gun batteries, or describe the incredible will it would have taken for the US Rangers to scale the sheer cliffs at Pointe Du Hoc. However, I can tell you that never have I had the perspective that I did during that day. I realized that the answers to the questions are never easy. War is never cut and dry. I came away feeling proud and sorry and sympathetic and angry. Above all, I felt surprised. On this Adventure, Whitney and I have seen ancient ruins, buildings built before Christ and a host of other not-quite-understood (but very old) sites, and yet, here we were, standing alongside a gun three times my height, that was sending explosives thirteen miles out to sea, just 60 years ago. 60 years. I hadn't realized that I had gained perspective on this trip. I hadn't realized that 60 years would seem so close, seem so yesterday, compared to the rest of history. There were cars, there were radios, there were restaurants and bars and cigarettes. There were elaborate plans, brilliant ideas and incredible military technologies. What may now seem so barbaric, and so heinous wasn't happening under the Cesar's rule or during the time of Sun worship. It wasn't ancient history. It isn't ancient history. It was just yesterday.

The Clothes On My Back

We are back to the pace of a week ago. Moving every two or three nights, our 'whirlwind' of Europe continues. We took a much needed hiatus from the journey in the Ukraine, a town of 14,000 called, yet definitely not spelled, Keetsmine. Mariya Turchek, a friend of the Zimmerman family for the past 7 years, graciously hosted us in her home. We were spoiled by her generosity. We were treated to the finest in local Ukrainian cuisine, we stayed in her 'little house,' a small space, independent of the main home, complete with bathroom, bedroom and kitchen. We truly felt humbled by her, and her family's, treatment of us. We were forced to sit down while the rest of the family would prepare a meal. We wouldn't be allowed to clean up or otherwise exert ourselves in the least bit. It was an amazing testimony to the serving hearts of Mariya and her family. While time may yield more reflection of these six nights, we were just so blessed to be among 'family' for a few short days. The time went fast and yesterday brought some tearful goodbyes.

As Mariya and her son-in-law, Pasha, pulled away from the Lviv airport (by the way, this was the smallest airport that we had ever seen or heard of), we continued our European Adventure, knowing that by the day's end we would begin the last leg of our journey. As I said, Lviv airport was about the size of my living room. Ok, I'm homeless I don't have a living room, but maybe the size of your living room. Fifty people packed out the waiting room. The check-in counter was A counter, under a stairway and operated by the same two individuals regardless of what airline was flying that day. I think they may have simply had alternative suit jackets depending on the airline; red for Austrian Airways, blue for LOT Polish etc. Anyway, after a long and arduous 30 seconds of the most lax security we had ever seen, we planted ourselves next to the coffee table in the waiting room. An hour later our bus arrived, to taxi us out to our eager aircraft. Aircraft is perhaps a generous term. This was also another first for us, you could actually see the propellors. They weren't like your typical airplane, jet engines booming, the propellors 'started up' when the pilot was ready. Anyway, we made it off just fine, a few jerks and bumps typical of a smaller vessel (I guess) and landed in Vienna. Whitney had been hoping for a good ol' American candy bar and cup of Starbucks coffee, but as we had arrived much later than expected, I resisted her plea. However, as we approached our gate a large snack shop awaited and we stuffed our bags with gummi bears and M&Ms. The flight was delayed (due to our late arrival, sorry EVERYBODY else, don't blame us), so we sat for a few minutes before boarding. Two short hours later we landed in Paris and went to retrieve our bags. Now let me say, up to this point we have been very fortunate. Last night, our luck stopped. As the conveyer belt made one final trek around the now-empty baggage claim, my hands were empty. Whitney's bag had made it from Lviv, to Vienna to Paris, mine, had not. So now I sit here in Brugge, Belgium (we arrived at 1am this morning) with simply the clothes on my back. No, really. We plan to spend two nights here and then backtrack to France where we begin our final week-long descent to the south of France and 'home.' I guess I won't have much trouble deciding what to wear today.

Well, off to sample some Brugge delights: chocolate and beer!

Off to the Ukraine

Just to let you know, in case we aren't able to post for a few days, we are off to the Ukraine to see Mariya! She has been a wonderful help and friend to Whitney's family in the past and we can't wait to see her. Hopefully we'll be able to find an internet cafe or something, but if not, we'll write again when we get to France. We can't believe that we are that close to our 'final destination' of Provence.

Mystery Meat Gone Good

There has been an important relationship that we have developed over here of which up to this point has gone unmentioned. This relationship has gotten us through some tough times, moments when we didn't know where else to turn, when things seemed desperate, this relationship supported us, truly sustained us. The relationship is with the Doner Kabob. Now when we were first so blessed to make the introduction with the Doner Kabob, in Florence, Italy (thanks Faith), we were a little skeptical. We didn't want to plunge into anything that we weren't ready for, we didn't want that kind of commitment in a place where we knew we would only be for a few short months. But it didn't take long for the Doner Kabob to wash all our fears away. The Doner Kabob is simply put a Chipotle treat from Turkey. Stuffed inside a large, warmed tortilla is 'chicken' that is shaved off a large rotating hunk of meat, heating in front of red hot grid of metal. Much like gyro meat, the Doner Kabob was a little mysterious. We weren't quite sure the origin of these little shavings of goodness. Thrown in with tomato, lettuce, cabbage, onions and the 'special sauce,' this treat has become a staple in our European diet.

As we walked through Rothenburg, Germany, the quaint, Christmas-like village, our mouths salivated just a bit in hoping, wishing for a Doner Kabob restaurant. After two days of completely scouring the city, walking every cobblestoned lane and gazing through ever square and ornament-adorned Christmas shop in search of this refuge, we had all but given up. We figured to ourselves, the Doner Kabob just couldn't find a home here in Rothenburg, its fast food type ambience just couldn't compete with the Schneeball, the coffee cafes and the bratwurst and sauerkraut. And then, we turned the corner down the single street in the town that we hadn't walked and there it was. The sign, a large colorful piece of that beautiful mystery meat and the glorious words 'Doner Kabob.' Needless to say, lunch yesterday was amazing. All we hoped for.

While the Kabob was incredible, the town was the true highlight. I don't exaggerate in saying this is a little Christmas village 12 months a year. The streets are quiet, lined with cafes, restaurants and shops glittering with Christmas goodies and chock full of Haribo gummies. We have loved it here, and have gotten a real feel for the medieval times, the city has been preserved since then. A wall surrounds the whole old town, you can walk atop it around over half the city. The square is quaint as well, freshly pressed apple cider and roasting chestnuts are available for purchase any time. I think this is a place that changes your mood. You can't help but be cheered in a place that plays Christmas carols all year round. You can't help but be calmed by its quiet streets and amazing valley views.

P.S. The above picture is, of course, the Doner Kabob. Now you have a real idea...stop drooling.

New Pics!

Romantic Road

We had a painful tradition when I was a kid. Every fall, as the canvas of the countryside was painted with reds and oranges and yellows, my two sisters and I would be coaxed into the family station wagon for a drive through the fields of Minnesota and into neighboring Wisconsin. The goal: see the leaves. Now to a kid, this trek was about as highly anticipated as Boxing Day. It was about as exciting as oatmeal. We would reluctantly get in, inhaling the fresh fair air deeply, knowing it was our last breath of non-recycled air for a few hours. As the asphalt passed beneath our car we would get restless. “Where are we going? Why? This is boring.” It seemed to us that all of this could be done while taking a trip to the mall or watching Nova for a few minutes on PBS. We eventually made one crisp, beautiful fall day so painful for our parents that it was the last of its kind. No more leaves, no more drives, it just wasn’t worth it.

With some years’ reflection, I guess unknowingly I matured. My appreciation for nature’s beauty is many times what it once was and I now realize that the memories from this trip that linger most vividly in my mind or those of vistas, views and scenes unlike any I’ve ever seen. With this wisdom, although a small bit of it, I have come to seek out the beauty of these ‘leaf drives’ in all of nature. So, naturally, when we were given the option to take a drive connecting Munich with Rothenberg, Germany on the so-called “Romantic Road,” I jumped at the opportunity. (I’m sorry, mom and dad, that I was a late bloomer in my appreciation, you endured too many hours of childish complaining from my unrefined little mouth.) This trip, however, was incredible. The ‘Romantic Road’ is actually more simply a route, connecting Munich with Frankfurt via several of the still intact medieval cities of Deutschland. The closer we got to our final destination, Rothenburg, the more picturesque the cities became. While my ten-year-old self would have complained every minute, this drive was one of the most amazing my 25-year-old self has seen. Every ditch of every mile of this trip was lined with flaming orange, red and yellow. The color was everywhere, it seemed we had showed up for the last moments of nature’s season changing finale. There have been a few times on this trip where my senses have literally felt overwhelmed. I felt as though there was too much beauty to capture, I felt like telling the bus driver to pull over, I needed more time to drink it in. So maybe today, when you’re stopped at a red light or hustling into the grocery store or waiting in line for your caramel macchiato, just take a second to see it all, pull over to the side of life’s road and drink it in because this small window, as God changes our world from green to yellow to orange to red, will soon be closed and you’ll have let yet another ‘leaf drive’ pass you by.

Quirk 3...

Neither Michael nor I like birds very much. I mean, they’re fine if they’re at a distance, perched on a feeder or flying high in the sky where they belong. Unfortunately, Italy’s birds do not seem to have respect for people’s personal space, especially in Venice…the breeding ground for pigeons. Most of you have either been to, or know of, St. Mark’s Square. If not, let me try to paint the picture. St. Mark’s Square is the most highly populated place in Venice at any given moment. St. Mark’s Basilica sits prominent at one end, beautifully covered in frescos, demanding center stage. Around the rest of the distinctively large square, cafes compete for business, luring tourists in with their charming orchestras playing “That’s Amore.” But, it’s in the middle of the square where the real action lies. Here, you will find thousands of pigeons waddling around as if they belong there just as much (if not more) than anyone else. The funny thing is, St. Mark’s Square is probably the one place that that’s actually true. One of the most sought after “activities” in Venice (for many people) is feeding the pigeons in St. Mark’s Square. Just a couple years ago, you used to be able to buy bird food right there in the square, but it seems that Venice is wising up and hoping that through the elimination of selling bird food, they will also eliminate the birds. However, it was clear it is far too late for that. Everywhere we looked we would see someone pulling bread or crackers or seeds out of their pockets and then coaxing the birds to come and attack them. If you had food in the square, the birds knew it and within seconds about 50 of them would be huddled at your feet, sitting on your arms and shoulders, and even digging their claws into your scalp while holding on for dear life as the victim would usually scream and toss their heads around.

I’ll admit I took part in this foolish “activity” once upon a time in my youth. But, you do it once and you quickly realize it’s not all its cracked up to be. While we still enjoyed watching others (probably first-timers) “feed the birds,” we both agreed we would not take part in this sordid madness. The crazy wings all too close to our faces, the beaks pecking at our toes, and the mess they leave behind (you know) were reasons enough to avoid this folly.

So it was our third and final night in Venice. I learned the first night that the terrace doors of our apartment were not sturdy enough to keep out the noise of the busy Venetian streets. In fact, I felt like every passerby was in the room with me. So, the next two nights I relied on my trusty yellow foam earplugs to ensure a sound sleep. As mentioned before, we were staying in an apartment, which meant we had a living area with a fireplace and a bedroom. The fireplace, however, was in rough condition. Loose pieces of soot and cement from the inside were constantly falling down from the inside making little clinking noises against the ceramic vase put in the middle of the fireplace in hopes to disguise the ever present untidiness. We quickly grew accustomed to the clinking and didn’t think much about it after the first hour or so. Still, in the middle of our final night I was roused by what seemed to be the fireplace caving in. I took out one earplug to give a more focused listen and the cement seemed to continue to fall at a rapid pace. I heard strange noises and a few bangs and even what I thought to be a “meow.” In spite of all this, I did not get out of bed or even wake Michael. Rather, in my deep fog I thought to myself, “A cat must have fallen down the chimney. Oh well. It can wait until morning. This plastic accordion door will keep it out of the bedroom.”
In the morning, I told Michael that a cat fell down the chimney. He starred at me and didn’t say anything. It was early and I wasn’t even sure what I was saying. As we were packing up our bags, Michael was out in the living area and I heard a very panicked, “Oh my Gosh!” So, I jumped up on the bed sure that there was a cat or rat hiding somewhere in our apartment. “There’s a pigeon behind my bag!” From the bed I looked behind his red backpack. Sure enough, a dead pigeon had sought refuge behind Michael’s bag and breathed its last (after it left its mess everywhere). It was then that I realized outside our accordion door in the middle of the night, it was a pigeon (not a cat) that had gotten stuck in the chimney, fought courageously against it, but in the end the chimney found victory. We cleaned up, put the dead bird in a trash bag, and headed out of Venice. Thank goodness I decided the cat could wait till morning.