Lost without Translation

Last night we were elbow to elbow with the locals. I had been anticipating the ‘Marche de Noel,’ the Christmas Market, for a few weeks and the evening had finally come. Traditionally, the gathering of local vendors was an easy and efficient way for the community to prepare for the ‘Gros Souper,’ or Big Dinner, that fell on Christmas Eve. However, the market seemed to have evolved a bit. We saw a variety of items strewn across a few dozen stands, most seemingly unhelpful in making the Big Dinner prep any easier. But we enjoyed perusing, just the same. The hot, sweet scent of crepes mixed with the soft smoke of the chestnuts, roasting, literally, on an open fire. Once inside the large tent, we saw that Santon figures, another Provencal tradition, were carefully set in strict rows, a colorful little army of bakers and huntsmen and grazing animals. The Santons are little clay objects, painted gaily and precisely, and then set up as peripherals to a huge nativity scene. Basically, rather than just Mary, Joseph, Jesus and a few accompanying characters, the Santon scene is an entire village spilling over the landscape of lavender and red-roofed homes. Take the little snow-capped village homes with twinkling lights that are sold in the States, multiply the popularity and size of the set-up by ten and you’re getting closer to the picture. The rest of the vendors were a combination of ceramics, art, fabrics and food. The food, while useless for preparing the Gros Souper, was delightful for the perusing tourist. We dipped some bread at a stand with a rainbow of vinegars to try. We nibbled a bit of cookie, not recognizing the flavor, but enjoying it just the same. We filled our pockets with several flavors of ‘fougasse,’ which I can only describe as the French response to the German pretzel. After getting our fill we walked out into the crisp night, the crowds still pulsing in and out of the tent, flowing through the town’s artery for the holiday weekend. While wrapped in typical winter gear, we were warm, the night had dipped only to 50 degrees, and the slight sense of wind was diminished by the buildings of the city centre and the crowds that filled it. I felt a sense of relief as we walked out, the glitter of white lights strung from tree to tree over our heads. I realized that a carefree event had taken on an indistinct pressure, here. The presence of a crowd, speaking a language with which I was so barely familiar, totally at home in their surroundings, had become a tinge overwhelming in the few minutes in the tent. While I would love to say the last seven weeks in France has given me courage in my ability to communicate, honestly it has done the opposite. Rather than attempting my staggering, staccato attempts at speech, it seems I avoid lingering eye contact or a smiling clerk or an offered sample, simply to miss the possibility of an awkward encounter.

Last week we went to a nearby chateau, famed more for its vineyards and olive oil than its buildings, to tour and to taste. We poked our heads through the heavy drapes that protected the bistro from the mistrals, and were led to a wine barrel table. The interior was inviting. Christmas trees propped in every corner and huge chandeliers cast a romantic glow on the dark woods of the tables and floor. We pulled out the menu and pointed out our requests to the friendly waiter. After we had spent a few minutes nibbling on our Swiss fondue and sipping the establishment’s fine wine, a thin, smiling, youthful man approached our table. He began in French, but hearing our accents and our delayed response, he asked if we spoke English. A relief spilled through me and I eagerly said ‘yes.’ We answered his questions, complimenting the food and the place and telling him where we were from. Then I began explaining how my family was coming for Christmas and we would like to come back and when are you open and what do you serve and where can we taste wines and on and on. Later I smiled to myself, thinking how gracious the man was in response to my little life story. I had unknowingly craved interaction and yet with the barrier of language, my smiles, my ‘mercis,’ and my gestures of politeness were falling so very short. When I finally had an outlet, someone who was comfortable with my language, I exploded with conversation, like a kid describing their newest toy.

These two events made me realize how much I need contact with people. I need daily connections with those around me, even if it’s as simple as getting directions from a gas station attendant or gawking at the amount of snow with the barista at a coffee shop. Funny how those things seem like such annoyances at home, how transactional they become, how you can forget that the person on the other side of the counter, or in front of you in line, or next to you at a red light is, indeed, a person. While I look forward to many things in our return to America, that is the thing I anticipate the most. Being able to communicate pleasure with the food at a quaint café or wish someone a Merry Christmas on my way out of the grocery store, these are the things that I sadly missed in my busyness of life and now I miss them in a whole different way.

Le Marche

An invariable part of our weekly routine in St. Remy is the open-air market. Every Wednesday, whether misting rain, mistral winds or brilliant sun and sixty, we meander our way through the stalls downtown, perusing the local goods. It has become one of the only consistencies in our time here. We drive into town, through the market area, and come out the other side, park next to the tourist information office for one Euro, and turn around, heading back into town to explore.

Our first stop is inevitably the traditional Provencal goods. There are soaps of every possible flavor, their scents so potent and perfect, it seems as thought they are pure concentrate. The dark green bar, rough and very masculine, holds the smell of a thousand olives, pressed closely and barely contained in one single soap. The soft purple one stands out, as there are so many more of this one, and without picking it up, acres of lavender fields waft from the table, through the other soaps, and into your nose. So of course, this first stop holds our attention for several minutes each week as we pick up every colored bar to breathe it in, surprised at how each one does indeed smell just like the name engraved on its face. The nearby tables are of items we don’t care too much to sift through. A large camper-style van unfolds to reveal hundreds of pairs of brand-new shoes. Another vehicle spews out purses and wallets and bags of every kind, covering the large tables and the ground nearby. Then we come to another traditional Provencal item and, of course, another stop in our journey. These tables are weighted down heavily in the authentic, time-honored fabrics of the region. Many are covered in bright yellows and oranges and reds and adorned with images of olives or stalks lavender. They come in square, rectangle and circle. There are napkins and placemats and tablecloths. There are outdoor and indoor and cotton and linen. Picking up each fabric, we continue to peruse, receiving a ‘bon jour’ from the stand’s proprietor. Commenting on each one, of course they’re all so ‘cute,’ we bid ‘au revoir’ to the friendly local salesperson and expertly steer our way through the scene. We may stop at another table or two, perhaps to look at a quilt or a briefcase or a new set of silver boule balls, but we have accomplished our goals on this side of the street and the remaining few minutes are really just steps to get us closer to the other part of the market.

Where the first section of shops seemed orderly, more like an outdoor store than anything else, the other side of the street is throbbing with all the life and wonderful chaos that just makes sense at a market. There is a Dutchman, selling chocolate wafer cookies. He’s heating them up a on a griddle and we eagerly take one of the samples. We buy a bag from him and discover he too is living in the south of France for three months, traveling from place to place, selling these simple wafers, in order to bring back a big bag of cash to his home in Amsterdam. Then there is a Vietnamese man, busily picking it out fried items, handing steaming bags of lunch to the line of hungry French people. His line is consistently the longest, we pass by and vow next time we’ll stop. Then we wander through the alley of fruit. Bright orange clementines adorn a large chunk of one table, they’re so fresh and vibrant, we can’t help but grab a few. There are bananas, carrots, avocados and pineapple. There are several kinds of mushrooms and huge cloves of fresh garlic. Tables of juicy, colorful produce spread out towards one end of the market, where they’ve stuck the fishmonger, and his smells, who brought his fresh catch today, salmon.

Back around, past the Dutchman and the fried spring rolls, the Italian offers us a sample of his gourmet cheese, huge rounds, all identical, are stacked on each other, giving you only one, albeit very good, choice for the day. The meat vendors are next, shoving chunks of their savory treats on toothpicks into your hands, offering you toro, and beef and donkey. The next few stands are more of the same, a butcher stands by, watching the small chickens spin to a golden brown in the rotisserie. A man selling ‘confiture de candard’ and foie gras doesn’t attract too much attention from us, just passing tourists not quite daring enough to dip into anything that gourmet. Our favorite stand is next, a happy couple, bubbling over with conversation and tastes of their delightful product, invite us in. These tapenades are incredible. Tomato, basil, and garlic have become our favorites, so we pick up these three, again, and tell our friends we’ll see them next week. This week, due to our regularity, they include a special ‘gift,’ yet another flavor to get us hooked on.

The rest of the market continues, winding around a small square’s fountain, with more of the same. A butcher, a cheese vendor and a vegetable seller. A few tables of wine and a stand with heaps of olives, flavored with every spice and in every possible shade of green. At this point, we are usually content with our purchases and head in to town, perhaps to wander into a few shops or stop by our favorite crepes store, but that is for another post.

As we cross the street, heading back to the lot, cars slow gently for us, knowing today is market day, and I notice an odd sense of community has developed. It seems as though everyone in St. Remy comes to the square on Wednesdays. They may simply need a small bag of olives or a few pieces of fruit. It’s surely more practical or efficient or cost-effective to go to the supermarket, but the attraction of this place, teeming with energy, and the feel of a family, continues to draw people back. We have grown to love Tuesday nights, because we know on Wednesday just where we’ll be, just where we belong.

Beauty in the Rearview

As my car slowed around the bend, I peered into my mirror, searching through the haze. And then I saw them, the majestic Alpilles, veiled in a curtain of wispy fog and clouds. Snow crested, far off and strong these mountains had been here all along. It seems so often, however, that I notice them for the first time as I go home. It seems, sometimes, as though the entire day has been simply a string of events to accomplish, agenda items to check off the list in the most efficient manner possible. Here I am, in the most calm, laid-back place on earth. The South of France where it seems no one works, where people just eat and drink and be merry. And yet, old habits die hard, I suppose. I am an American, with an American work ethic and an American set of ideals and a tendency towards American efficiency. So yesterday, when we awoke to 60 degrees and beautiful sunshine, it became my goal to take advantage of such a perfect situation to accomplish as much possible.

We headed to Les Baux, a nearby village set atop cliffs and perched over an amazing valley. We got stopped, however, barely out of the front door. Our new 'neighbors' introduced themselves and we proceeded to spend the better part of 30 minutes conversing about travels, adventures and various destinations across the world. I hid my anxiety and eagerness to get out on the road, I hid my misguided goal-seeking mindset and smiled and nodded and chatted. So with that slow start I already felt 'behind,' as though at the end of the day I would be graded and these precious minutes, 'wasted' in our driveway, would bring me from an A to an A-. On our way out of St. Remy we decided to stop at the Glanum Ruins, a site birthed way before Christ. A sweet little dog became Whitney's friend and I felt, for whatever unusual, unfounded and downright wrong reason, that this little pup was an annoyance. We had things to do, museums to visit, ruins to explore and our day to get on with. We had no time to stop and pet a dog for five seconds! No way! So I hustled us across the street, paid our entrance and wandered through the ruins, stopping long enough to get a quick history and an idea of the territory. Glanum Ruins? Check! Now, off to our next destination. Winding through the roads leading to Les Baux, we both realized the increased amount of traffic since our last visit. Apparently we weren't the only tourists in France to be enjoying the weather. So pulling through the parking lot, attempting to avoid the German tour groups and the kids munching fresh caramels, I pessimistically searched for a spot. Getting into the city, I suddenly felt disoriented. I didn't know why we were there. I had seen this village three time previously, been in every shop at least twice and taken in the views from the cliffs more times than I had needed. So what was I doing here?, I so efficiently asked myself. I am among the throngs of men whose top leisure activity is not shopping. And so when, for the third time, Whitney decided to go into the cicadas shop and smell every one of the 29 soap flavors, I was moving from disoriented to impatient. Again, here I was, with complete freedom of schedule, of destination, of time, and yet I was wondering why we were still here and wondering how many more sites we could tick off before the sun set in two hours.

While I improved over the next hour, disciplining myself for my mindset and vowing to take it a little easier in the future, I had successfully squandered two hours of what could have been such an amazing day. And then there we were again, back in the car, rushing around the final corner before Mas Dagan and I looked into the rearview. The Alpilles were still there, reminding me, chiding me, to not miss the beauty again, to see each day and each moment as something valuable. To see each challenge as an opportunity to learn, each interaction as a chance to love and each task as a moment to be a little less efficient.

The Scent of Home

I would say 95 days is pretty good. Not one post dedicated to missing home on this blog in 95 days. Not to say we haven't, I'll give you that, but I simply haven't mentioned it. Sure we have craved Chili's fajitas or missed our family traditions or even wished we were window shopping at Macy's Christmas displays (shocking coming from me, I know). Today, I was alone all day. Whitney is with her mom and sister in Florence, Italy so the cats and I are holding down the fort. To be honest, I spent most of the day in bed. Reading, watching movies and eating made up the good percentage of activities. One thing struck me, amidst the silence of this 'home.' Every time I got up, or moved to a different part of the house for whatever momentary errand I had to run before climbing back into the warmth of my bed, I noticed the smells. Its not that there are bad smells, although one room (that we've rendered off-limits) does smell a little bit like a dying animal (most likely an unfortunate mouse or six), its simply that the smells are different.

Back at Bay View Lane, I knew the smells of my house. I knew when I walked into the house and my eyes would sting from the burn of cleaning supplies, that the bathrooms had just been clean. I knew that when I went to the fridge to grab some water before heading to bed that the smells of veggies or leftovers or not-yet-cleaned pots were my smells. Here, however, the smells are different. There's a mustiness. It lingers in the closets sometimes or in the corners of the rooms, its not bad necessarily, just like a cabin smells before the summer starts and the trees have yet to blow away the winter that settled in for a few months. And sometimes there's a sweet smell, like someone had just cooked in the kitchen, but I hadn't. Then there are smells that I just dream up, like that one of the cats had another 'accident' on our duvet. But all of these smells remind me that I'm not at home. Different is good, so often I believe that to be true, but then sometimes, whether it be a musty closet or a sweet smelling kitchen that prompts me, I want the same. I want things that I know and remember and miss. And tonight, just a little bit, I wish I could be back in my home, where I know where I am and know that I belong and know that the smells, whatever they are, are mine.

"Dinde pour Thanksgiving"

This year we are hosting Thanksgiving. This, the grandest-of-all-meals holiday, can be a lot of work. Basting and cooking the turkey, rolling the dough for the home-made apple pie, mashing the potatoes and saucing the cranberries and remembering through it all to be thankful that I haven’t burned the turkey or burned my hand or burned down the house. And that is Thanksgiving in America. Now, don’t get me wrong, France is as gourmet as they come, but they don’t have apple pie. They don’t have frozen corn or Cool Whip or Jennie-O turkeys in the deep-freeze. While they may have Jell-O, I couldn’t find it and I’m pretty sure they aren’t into sweet potatoes or Stove Top stuffing. So all that to say, Thanksgiving in France is a lot more work. Whitney has been stressed about the centerpiece of it all, the turkey. We couldn’t find one at the supermarket and we weren’t sure where else to turn. So today, we wandered into the Boucherie where we were hoping for some French-butcher magic. As usual, we stumbled through our request, pointing out ‘dinde’ (turkey) in our French-English dictionary to the questioning butcher. At this realization he quickly and emphatically shook his head. Adding to our fears he said something about ‘not in St. Remy at all,’ but out ‘there’ with a gesture to who-knows-where. So a little downtrodden, we left the store and stood stunned in the Provencal sunlight of the square. Whitney, while not quite near tears, was helpless. This was the biggest, most crucial part of the Thanksgiving feast and it was all about to go down the drain if the best we could do were a couple of wimpy, head-still-on, 3 pound chickens. I mean, really, what is Thanksgiving without turkey? The turkey is the real reason for the season, the real accomplishment for which we stuff our faces and then roll ourselves to the couch for the Lions-Cowboys game or a first-of-the-year Christmas movie on Lifetime. Who remembers the Pilgrims anymore anyway? So despite the lack of good ideas (I had thrown out the option of picking our own turkey at the local farm, needless to say that idea was turned down out of sympathy for the turkey) we headed back to our car, arms vacant of that turkey we had so hoped to be cradling back to our home. I was starving so we had to go get our apple turnovers at the bakery and had to pick up a few things at the supermarket, so the potential for a miracle somewhere along the way gave us hope. And a miracle it was. Sitting precariously between the electronics store and the magazine shop was a meat market that looked like an autoshop. Whitney’s eyes gleamed with the hopes of redeeming Thanksgiving. In we went, chock full of anticipation and random turkey-related vocabulary. Two of the nicest Frenchmen we have met greeted us with smiles. Whitney masterfully (or at very least, effectively) communicated our dire need for the large bird and they agreed that this feat would be possible. It was a victory. We walked out triumphant, saying ‘au revoir’ ‘til Thursday morning when we would finally meet the meal and get a few last minute cooking instructions. Through this adventure, I must admit, I was skeptical and essentially void of the passion Whitney had in seeking the ingredients for the perfect Thanksgiving feast. I figured, worst case scenario, we would stuff a few chickens with Stove Top imported by the Zimmerman clan and wash it down with a little French wine. No biggie, all would be well. And so, at first, Whitney’s tenacious pursuit was baffling. Then it seemed, slowly as usual, to dawn on me. This turkey wasn’t the focus of her resolve. She didn’t truly care whether or not she munched a turkey leg or a chicken wing. What she wanted was home. She wanted some sense of order, she wanted everyone to feel comfortable, she wanted things to be the way they should be. And for that, we needed a turkey. In a week, if all goes well, we will be sitting around a table surrounded by the beauty of southern France, embraced by the warmth of our friends and family and staring at a big ol’ turkey. And then, all will be well. All will be as it should be.

The Feel of France

While sometimes words can describe perfectly, bring you to a place, transport you to the sounds and smells of a faraway country, sometimes a picture can help give a feel. Hopefully these can help convey a little better what we are experiencing here at Mas Dagan. All of these pictures are of the property.
Going directly to the slideshow is much better than the dinky imbed so here's the address:
http://picasaweb.google.com/michaeljohnlarson/MasDagan#slideshow

g'morning.

It finally came. I have waited for it, patiently and for months, and it finally came. The story I had written, unknowingly yet so clearly and precisely, finally came to be, like ink to the paper it came. My perfect morning.
I slept well last night, and despite staying up until 3:00am, woke before 10:00. Maybe I was eager to begin what I thought was my perfect day in France, maybe I just wanted another one of the delectable apple turnover treats from the boulangerie. Whatever it was, the down covers didn’t seem as inviting, the warmth of the sheets not quite as enticing and so I stirred from my sleep. I padded across the stone floor in my Minnetonka Moccasins and threw on my clothes. I covered my very American jeans and tee with a slightly more European pea coat and grabbed the keys. Driving into town this morning felt different. I know, its not as though I was up before the animals or something, or like the dew had yet to lift itself off of the grass or anything like that, but I felt fresh and as though my new home was becoming just that. Home. The peaks of the Alpilles, although faded behind a layer of haze, jutted out over the knotty trees as I turned onto D30 toward St. Remy. I have finally found a baker. This was a key piece of the perfect picture for me. Not having a baker in the south of France made me feel lost, like not knowing where the closest Chili’s is back in the states. But this morning, I knew where I was headed and although it was only my second trip, I felt like the baker was waiting for me, eager to greet me as a friend and distribute to me baked goodness, like a sweet nectar of the gods. I snapped back from my dreams of ‘Chauson aux Pommes’ and patiently searched for a parking place. Once around the small town and I happened on just the spot, two doors down from the patisserie. Inside the friendly owner had delights galore. Flaky crusts crammed with everything imaginable, but my eyes saw only one. There it was, the apple-filled delicacy, waiting for me to pluck it up. I bought two baguettes and two pastries (ordering in near-perfect French…) and proudly pulled away. Arriving back at Mas Dagan, I prepped my coffee and set it to percolate. This aspect, the coffee making procedure, was the sole blemish on an otherwise idyllic morning. In general, I like to French press my coffee, not because I’m haughty-taughty, but just because I like the way it makes me feel when I make it. Anyway, the coffee maker would have to do for today, so I placed my turnover on a plate and brought it just outside my doorstep to an antiquated table, bathing in the warmth of the sun peaking over the tree line. In moments my coffee was done and I filled my mug to the brim. Carefully stepping out to my chair, I pulled the door closed behind me and settled in. I was finally here, in the center of the painting of which I had become the artist so long ago. The canvas had been stretched, the brush had been cleaned and the final strokes of paint were drying. I was apart of my dream and all was as I had hoped it would be

Paris on A Bicycle

I experienced Paris as picture-perfect as it can be. From Thursday to Thursday we spent a week on Paris' left bank in the gorgeous home of our good friends, Anda and Marc. Together, they have spent the better part of two years in and out of the city, and Marc many years more so they were our personal tour guides as we explored the City of Love.

One of our favorite pieces of the week, was a relaxing coast through the winding streets, perched atop our rented bicycles. While not quite a birds-eye view, seeing the city from two wheels instead of two legs gave a different perspective. Starting from their apartment, the four of us walked down the block, a quaint and comfortable street in stark contrast to the typical city-center feel. Art from Chinese ancients to brightly colored modern to life-size plastic Native Americans adorned from head to toe in typical tomahawk and headdress, graced window after window of the street's shops. Smells wafted through the open doors as the restauranteurs swept out their dining rooms into the street and readied for another busy day in the cuisine capital of the world. Our friends pointed out their favorite cheese shops, bakeries and floral stands. Around a corner not 2 minutes from their front door was a high-tech bicycle lock-up rack. Several identical bikes stood, ready and waiting to take us for a spin through the tangled lanes of inner Paris. With a credit card and a few simple instructions, we were all aboard, our borrowed vehicles completely ours for the day (to be returned to any similar stand throughout the city. brilliant!). We first followed the city's former lifeblood, the Seine River, pedaling our way through a pedestrian-only paradise. We saw beautiful architecture, gorgeous cathedrals and a few 'mosquito boats' toting tourists on a lunch tour of Paris. We arrived at our first destination, a mansion formerly owned by an avid art collector, whose collection still stands as one of the most impressive in the city. While the line to see the art was over an hour, the line to see the lunch menu was less than half. We vied for the more timely option and enjoyed crisp salads overlooking the courtyard. While Marc had a lunch meeting to catch and was forced to leave, the three of us decided for the scenic route home, so back on the bikes we went and wandered along. At this point we had seen the Eiffel Tower only at night, flashing its brilliant whites and blues, so with that as a landmark, Anda skillfully guided us through her town. For a moment or two, I would get disoriented, only to turn the next corner and see the tip of the Tower guiding us in. After a myriad of photos beneath the most famous of landmarks, we all stood back and enjoyed the beauty of it. Just slightly behind the David, this was the most striking man-made creation of our trip. Steel made to feel soft, a delicate balance of strength and art and grace, the pictures do no justice. Back on our bikes we struck for the Seine and our home. We bumped into the Champs-Elysees, its hoards of people and shops and traffic and then not a block away found ourselves in the peace and quiet again, a residential street lined with cafes, almost inviting us to spend the afternoon. But onward we pressed, by Napolean's tomb (a practically stadium sized mausoleum), the famous American Church and by some of the most elite, high-browed eateries in the city. We returned our bikes, walked home and rested our tired legs.

The beauty of this city, to a foodie like myself, is that you can eat whatever in the world you want each night. Literally. One night we had Mexican (a rarity over here!), another night Gaon grill food, another night Indian, another night Italian and one night traditional French. All came with their own unique geographical flair, but all came with a 'Bon Apetite.'

For me, Paris had a lot to live up to. The favored European city for all of the Zimmerman women, I had high expectations. With the ambience, the friendliness, the food and the sites, this city was indeed all I had hoped for.

Pushing Through The Lockjaw

Through this blog I have realized one thing about me as a writer. I have always enjoyed engaging in thoughts, ideas and emotions. The intangible, I believe, is where the most important of life's events truly take place. The things we think about before we doze off at night, the things we think of when we're alone, when we're afraid, when we're not being watched or when we can completely be ourselves; these are the things that truly make up the substance of our lives. And yet, these things that mean the world to me, are so often slippery. I feel as though I can't say what I mean, I can't impart the true depth or feeling of something. The idea squirms as I try to peg it to the page with words and phrases and not-quite-perfect analogies. This handicap often leaves me mute, simply lockjawed into saying nothing at all. Tonight is one of those times. And yet, with the discipline of this blog and the focus of this entire trip, I simply must force myself. And so out it will come, as a babbling perhaps, like a baby's first disjointed words, but hopefully in some way clear, in some way, while perhaps not inspiring, at very least relevant and relatable and true.

I have always been the 'jack of all trades, master of none.' I have felt eager, although not passionate, about many ventures in life and have engaged in a multitude of various pursuits. At this point in my life, however, this trait has no longer become simply a feature of my life, a present and neutral fact with which I had to live. No, at this juncture I wish I was a master; being a jack has become a pain. A master of anything, I guess: of finance, of tennis, of opera. Of writing or reading or rugby. As I think of my life in America starting back up in three very short months, I can't picture me. I don't see my profession or my home or my passions. There are options and ideas that I have, of course, but nothing that I know is right. Nothing that I know should be. As this thought planted itself uncomfortably in the soil of my mind, something began to grow. I want an earthly passion. I want a job that I'm good at and friends that know me and a family that is safe and a home that is secure. And yet, whether all of this or none of it, I want a life that lives on. I want a lantern that, when I have the courage and discipline to hold it up, gives the things of my world significance when seen in the light of its warm and steady glow. And that thought gives me security. I feel that although the 'jack of all trades' may be forever my bane, I can pursue something that will make mastering anything or nothing a matter of little importance. I can trade stocks, teach class or sell t-shirts. I can preach or paint or perform surgery. I can be the president or be fired. All of it will have value when I lead the way with this lantern and none of it will matter if I don't. While my soul wrestles through the specifics, the day-to-day of this realization, I know, I can't help but be sure, that this lantern creates a backdrop of purpose, in front of which can take place the greatest scenes of my life. And I know that somehow, this is all spiritual, that my soul craves the purpose for which I was placed on earth. Slowly, I am finding that it is all that matters, finding that lantern and tending to it, spilling its light on my future and giving everything meaning. It may seem far-fetched, it may seem extreme or simplified or cheesy, but I think its right. As it seems with every dawning of an important idea, however, this is just the beginning.

Paranoia...for good reason!

Round One of Battle Royale with the Mice!
I apologize for the unedited version, we wanted to get this up right away!

Paranoia

So Mas Dagan, as a whole, has exceeded our expectations for a vacation home. Its decorations are Provencal perfection. The grounds are comfortable and interesting and lend themselves to exploration. However, a home of 250 years, comes with a few little quirks. As she departed from us a few days ago, our landlady warned us about a few things. "There are a few mice in the ceiling that may, rarely, scratch or move and create some sound." Ok, we thought, no big deal, a few mice every couple of weeks passing through, catching a little warmth in the roof wasn't going to be an issue. Hey, we might even appreciate the company, we thought. So we tucked ourselves into our cozy bed, pulled up the down comforter and settled in to a relaxing, dream-filled sleep. And then the scratching began. I awoke that first night to a flaky bit of terra cotta ceiling falling on my previously-closed eyelid. Startled, I threw off the covers and woke up Whitney in the process. The visitors had let us know they were there. Unfortunately, that wasn't the first and only visit. Sitting in the family room, reading, typing, talking, we have come to (almost) ignore the graveling, the shuffling, the practically constant moving around of our rodent friends. Now we haven't actually seen anything, but the level of awareness on which their presence has placed us is practically impressive. At the squeak of a door or the yawn of one of our unassuming cats or the rattle of the heater exhaling a breath of warmth, we are instantly on guard, our eyes glued to the ceiling, just waiting to see a tail or a snout or a tooth of one of these carnivorous intruders.

Sure, it has become paranoia, but how can we help it? How, when Whitney grabs a blanket and covers her legs and the little tassel brushes against my arm, can I simply ignore this very mouse-like touch? How, when putting away the bread after dinner and the shadow of the drying dishes look very similar to that of scurrying rodent, can I simply turn and walk away?

We have put a call in to the landlady, begging her for some intervention, some rat poison, a few traps, an exterminator perhaps? However, until then, paranoid I will be, thinking that these pesky creatures, with nothing but bad intentions, are constantly plotting and planning to ambush me when I'm unawares.

I often tell myself that my worries will be over if...If I make a decision about a new job; If I go on vacation; If I leave the country for six months, living in the south of France where there couldn't possibly be anything in the world to worry about. And here I sit, on edge, worried, paranoid about a little mouse (or maybe racoon...the most recent scratching episode made it sound HUGE!). While, of course, I say this tongue-in-cheek, there is a little truth to it. I have gone through life saying that the next phase will be worry-free, easy, very well laid out and obvious, and yet, when I eventually meet that new phase head-on, I realize that the blueprint isn't quite so simple, the map not as clear as I had hoped and my worries are just as present as they were last week. While I didn't embark on this European journey to avoid the worries of life, I think in the back of my mind I was hoping that somehow most of them would go away. Magically, for six months of my life, I would think of nothing but the flavor of the next delectable pastry I would consume or what time, 10:00 or 11:00, I would stir from my bed. I've realized that the mice of my life are here too. They somehow managed to find their way through the flights, the B&Bs all over Europe, even the trains, and have now very comfortably settled in to St. Remy. Job decisions, home decisions, baby decisions, all of these things hang over my head, scratching, shuffling around in the ceiling of my mind. I have always told myself that once I make the choices, once I have conclusion to the unsettled issues in my life, I will be able to relax. And yet, I am beginning to learn, slowly though it may be, that these decisions will never die. I will always have a new fork in the road, a new option and choice for me to debate. For now, I can't help but worry, I can't help but be paranoid, but soon, I hope and pray, that I will acknowledge the mice in my head and be okay. That their shuffling and scuffling and roof-spilling behavior would no longer be all that consumes me. Soon, I would like to be able to dust off their trouble and turn over, place my pillow on the bed and dream again in peace.

Mas Dagan: The Tour

Here's a little video of our apartment in St. Remy-de-Provence, called Mas Dagan. We are settling in comfortably and will continue our writing despite the slower pace of our travels. We hope you enjoy!

From East to West to Home

The last few days we have put on a few miles (or 'kilometers' as they call 'em over here). After the beaches of Normandy we headed slightly south to the Valley of the Loire. It is a beautiful area known for its wines (as most of France is) and for its chateau. While we just couldn't find time to do too much of the wine, we were able to visit three of the most magnificent 'homes' I have ever seen. Our home base, where we stayed one very comfortable night, was in Chinon, the more quaint and quiet sister to more well-known Amboise. We stopped by another cute cafe, this time enjoying crepes and fluffy omelettes (a speciality in the Loire) and slept well. Our B&B was known for its array of jams, giving us a rainbow of choices that following morning. After sampling a dozen or so and begging to purchase a few jars (to no avail) we began on the scenic Route du Vignobles, a scenic road, lined with vineyards, connecting the famous chateau of the region.

Our first stop gave us a little lesson in French culture: don't mess with lunch. We arrived at 12:30 only to find that the next hour and a half was to be set aside for the ticket takers to have a leisurely meal. Dejected, we strolled back to the car and plugged the location of the next nearest monster home into the GPS. Not fifteen minutes later we had arrived at what we were told was the queen of Loire Valley chateaux gardens. Behind the home rested a maze of flowers, plants, vines and shrubbery. Each bush and tree trimmed to perfection, the birds-eye view from the second and third floor made the grounds look like a meticulous blueprint. The colors were vibrant, even the cabbages had a particular place in the scene. We made one last stop at the well-known Château de Chenonceau (seen in the picture), and toured its grounds and interior. This mansion was the first of its kind to be built purely for status, solely for inducing a 'wow' from the 'who's who' of society. It accomplished its goal. Over one half of the structure is stretched over the Cher river and the rest sitting on its bed, naturally surrounded, this home came complete with its natural moat.

After another night in the Loire, in Amboise, we set out for the east, to Colmar in the Alsace region. Another area known for great wine, we again took the 'wine road' and this time took the time to stop and sip a few regional specialties. The Cremant d'Alsace is a champagne-like bubbly that we very much enjoyed. One of the family-owned wineries that we stopped in, was in its 14th generation of production! Apples were also in harvest and we stopped in to quench our thirst with some of the incredibly fresh 'jus de pommes.'

Although we very much enjoyed the driving and wines of the Alsatian region, the rain and near freezing temperatures had dampened our spirits a bit. Our original plans to visit Chamonix and Mont Blanc near Switzerland became a little more than we could handle. We put a call in to our landlady in St. Remy-de-Provence and asked if an earlier arrival would be okay.

Needless to say, she obliged and I now write this blog from outside our new 'home.' The grounds and house are incredible, a full video tour will come shortly to give you a glimpse into our Provencal paradise.

Now begins the true adventure for us. The first 60 days have been a whirlwind of sites, tastes, smells, people, places and memories. We will be processing and recalling and reminiscing for the next several months, I'm sure. However, in one specific aspect the first 60 days were also not all I hoped they'd be. This trip is to process our thoughts, talk about our dreams and pray for our future. After 60 days and 31 different beds I am realizing the necessity of routine. In St. Remy, we will finally have what we have wished for. The peace of this place is real, its distance from the outside world comforting. While I know accomplishing the things we desire will, in the end, only come with discipline, I feel that this place lends a helping hand. We can finally stop checking the train schedules, calling the next B&B and checking the GPS for our next 'can't-miss' site. We are finally 'home' and our true adventure, the one that helps us face life, is just beginning.

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.

Venetian Quirks: prego, hot chocolate and pigeons

We’ve seen a few things about Venice in the 48 odd hours that we’ve been in this beautiful city of glass, gondolas and tour groups. As we travel through Europe, we try to pick up bits and pieces of the language of the country in which we’re touring, a little “obrigado” in Portugal, perhaps a “Gracias” in Spain, and in Iceland… ok we didn’t even try, but who knows Icelandic anyway? So anyway, we’ve had a two week crash course in Italian and have picked up a little more than just ‘thank you’ translated. The mysterious phrase is that of “prego.” No, its not the pasta sauce, people. Instead it is a useful, multi-meaning phrase which one can use at pretty much any given awkward silence. We walk in a store, look at something and the owner comes over: ‘prego,’ she says. We ask for the bill and it comes with a ‘prego.’ We thank them for their meal and service and they respond ‘prego.’ So we’ve taken to using it as well. People say hi, we say ‘prego.’ Someone bumps into us, we say ‘prego.’ We read a menu completely in Italian and point to a few things, liberally speaking ‘prego’ as we gesture down the list. We think it means ‘here,’ ‘you’re welcome,’ ‘go ahead,’ and just about any other filler phrase you can think of. What a great word, we should come up with one too. I think I might just start repeating some nonsense word as a consistent response to everything and anything when I get back to the states…we’ll see.

The next quirk. Some of you may be familiar with San Marco square in Venice. Its big, has a large church and about a thousand nasty pigeons mooching off every tourist in sight. It is also, obvious though it may seem, the greatest place in the city for a good bit of people watching. As we said, in Rome we sat by Trevi Fountain for over two hours and enjoyed one of our favorite past times and we were hoping to repeat it here in St. Mark’s. So, we found just the spot and decided to grab a cappuccino and a seat lining the square. There was a plethora of chairs surrounding white linen clad tables in the center of the square so we thought we might just do that. Seeing as we were between meals and wanted just a drink, we thought we would check the menu to see if their offerings would suffice. As we scanned through the list of beverages and light lunch items, we were appalled. Our drink of choice, and the freedom that purchase gave us to a frontrow seat on St. Mark’s, would cost us nine Euro eighty cents. For one. And the plan wasn’t to split a cappuccino. Ok, we thought, that is ridiculous, but there are tables a little over here and they don’t seem to have nearly the views. We cautiously bellied up to the bar and asked the price for two cappuccinos. That would be 2.50 each, we were told. There we go, we thought, much more reasonable. Just to confirm that the good news was exactly what we were looking for, I gestured to the table with our name on it. “That one, right?” I asked confidently. “Oh no,” I was quickly corrected, “if you would like that seat the drink will be 9.80.” Honestly? I was asking for the same cup of coffee just a different spot. I could see it from here. I could spit on the table from where I was. And those 10 steps were going to cost me seven Euro?? (Ok, like I’ve stopped doing the calculation or something…ten dollars and fifty cents?!!) So we strolled across the square, got two cups to go for five Euro and sat on the free benches lining the square. That’s right, we stuck to The Man.

So right here should be the third quirk and it would have been, however last night we had an event that more poignantly describes this specific quirk. Whitney will fill you in soon, be prepared for a good one...stay tuned.

Bus #649

Rome’s major means of transportation the bus. The metro doesn’t get you where you want to go, taxis are hard to come by and driving is insane. So that’s what we used for three days, the bus, to get us where we wanted to go, cheaply, most easily and still in one piece upon our arrival. Our relationship with the ATAC bus lines, however, got off on the wrong foot. We were informed to take bus #649, so when it came careening around the corner, we sprinted to the stop and hopped aboard. Forty five minutes later we realized maybe, just maybe, we had taken the bus the wrong direction. No fear, what goes up, must come down and we knew that eventually (even if we ended up touring the city a couple of times) we would hit our stop and jump off. So the street sign labeled “Bari/Como” finally came and we heaved ourselves off and into the hotel. We thought, perhaps, that we had already mastered the system, that we would just simply be more careful in the future, noting the direction before taking the plunge. We even explored other routes, we dabelled with the #81, the #64 and even the express: #40. That, however, was when things started to go south. It was late, we had enjoyed a wonderful (albeit rainy) day out, seeing the sites of Ancient Rome, the Roman Forum and the Colosseum, and we decided it was time get back to the Hotel Regina Margherita. Seeing as we had pretty much mastered the bus routes, we thought we would venture out and climbed aboard the express bus, #40. Aided yet again by Rick Steves, we ‘knew’ that bus #40 would be following a very familiar route, that of #64, and we were pretty impressed with our public transportation savvy decision. The bus seemed to be zipping along, stopping quickly, finding its way through busy streets faster and buzzing down abandoned alleyways to make shortcuts and make our lives a little easier. We were both feeling good, our stop just a few short minutes away, when things took an unexpected turn. The bus driver, in perfect Italian, I’m sure, gracefully informed us with a jab of his thumb that we were to exit at this point. Show’s over, tour’s done, time to get off. Unfortunately for us, this was not exactly our stop, nor did it appear for the next several minutes, that this was a stop involved in any bus itinerary that evening. As the responsible man, I took control and scampered aimlessly across a few busy streets to peer into the misty darkness for a sign of life…a bus, a metro, a taxi, anything at all. I came back to the stop, defeated and depressed, with no option but to wait it out, seeking that illusive bus #40. A few minutes later, our worries were calmed and we shook out our umbrella and hopped onto the bus, our savior in such a time of need. We sighed, relieved that our adventures were over and we were so close to home. One more stop, at Termini Station and we would catch our familiar friend, the #649. Unfortunately, #649 didn’t know we were going to be needing a ride that minute, or even that night, it seemed. After 45, yes 45, painful and bone chilling minutes at Termini, #649 finally decided to show. A few stops later, we had actually arrived at our hotel, worn out, wet and perhaps a little bitter at the bus, but happy to have put an end to our public transit woes…until the morning. We were to leave at 10:50 from Termini Station, Rome to go to Venice Santa Lucia station. Planning ahead and leaving plenty of time for any mishaps, we stepped out to the bus stop at 9:45. By 10:05 I was thinking of other plans, by 10:15 we were getting a little nervous, by 10:30 we had given up hope that we were going to catch that 10:50 at all. And that’s how our relationship ended with bus #649, on a low note, for sure. We got to Termini 8 minutes before boarding for the 10:50 and had no chance. Two hours later we boarded, happy to be away from buses and back to the familiar comfort of a train.

Amidst all these calamities, I did not have the patience to think of a ‘lessson to be learned,’ I was too busy wishing bad things to happen to bus #649 for that. But as I looked back again, I realized something. During the longest wait of the day, the grueling 45 minutes at Termini, Whitney said something interesting. She said the only thing that kept her waiting here, in the cold and in the rain, was the hope that the next sound of a diesel engine across the cobblestones was going to be her bus, her #649, coming to take her home. She said there was no way she would sit out here and wait had she known the wait would be so brutal, but since she didn’t, she (somewhat) calmly and (mostly) patiently waited for her ride.

I thought of how much that relates to the way my spirit is with God. Why can't I just wait, hoping, even knowing, that soon God will send something around the corner, my very own bus #649? Why can't I wait for his plan, for his dreams in his time? Instead, I make my own plans. I walk, I take a taxi, I take bus #40 and end up in a dark alleyway late at night with very few options but to run away. I want to be like that, waiting in the rain, in the wind, in the cold, with an expectant patience for God to reveal his plan for me.

As many of you know, this trip is a whole lot more than a glorified 6 months of sightseeing. Its a time to wait and listen and see the route our lives are going to take next. I hope I can do it. I hope I don't take the taxi or walk or choose some other way, but instead, wait for God to lead and then follow as best I can.

The Best of Two Worlds

Since our last post (I know its been too long), we have moved from Florence to Orvieto to Rome. The three nights in Orvieto were slow, but full of classic Italian countryside views and plenty of classic American laziness. We broke down and utilized the free WiFi at our hotel to download a few episodes of One Tree Hill (thanks to Melissa, Kristen and Emily for this addiction) and spent several of our stranded hours watching them. I say "stranded" because our abode was high atop "La Rocca" in Orvieto. It was an agritourismo, which is basically a working farm at which you can stay. They were a legitimate operation, harvesting grapes while we were there, we could smell the churning machinery grinding grapes into wine each morning on our way to breakfast. As this was the case, the only way to and from the town was an expensive taxi trip. So instead of burning through our bank account, we holed up in our apartment, opened the windows to a beautiful Tuscan-type vista and enjoyed some true R & R. Each meal we ate at the (all too) fancy restaurant, which served anything from rabbit in Michaels spaghetti, to pigeon-filled ravioli. I chose to not partake in either, vying for the safter risotto option (I neglected the included mystery fish).

The highlight of Orvieto was a half-day tour by Italian guide Giulio. He used his expertise of the area to help us discover two wineries and an incredible, quaint hilltop village, called Civita. It was a piece of Italy at its best and we loved every minute of it.

An hour train ride brought us to a city seemingly worlds away from peacful Umbria. Rome is big, busy and passionate (a slight contrast to our hotel which is small, shabby and sad). Last night we spent several hours observing the citys behavior around Trevi Fountain. We watched families gather, tourists from every corner of the world toss coins over their shoulder and even a local man, down on his luck, attempt to pull those tossed coins out of the fountain and into his pocket. It was the first time since beginning this trip 5 weeks ago that we sat down for such a period and people-watched.

Starting fresh this morning we wanted to hit some of the big name sites. We went straight to the Pantheon, an incredible display of ancient times preserved, followed by a trip to the Vatican City. My highlight, while the Sistine Chapel and St. Peters Basilica are close seconds, had to be the Vatican Post Office! We bought several stamps and even mailed a postcard to ourselves for posterity. The Chapel and Basilica were both incredible, more striking than we expected. Tonight, we will take a recommended walk through some of the best nighttime sites of Rome and have a dinner on Campo de Fiori.

After one more day in Rome, where we will get to see the rest of Ancient Rome, we will be off to Venice for three nights. Its pretty weird to see our Italy segment quickly coming to a close, just eight more nights!

God vs. Man

So far, the natural wonders of our trip have taken center stage. From Iceland's mysterious molten landscape to Norway's idyllic fjords to Ireland's sheer cliffs to Italy's Cinque Terre, they have all been amazing and have all been made by God. Until now. The last three days we were in Florence, Italy. In the center of art in Italy, and perhaps the world, we viewed frescoes by Giotto and The Birth of Venus and sculptures by every famous Italian who ever lived. It seemed as though each block had a new museum, or a church turned museum, to walk through and view the most timeless pieces in art. One, however, took the cake. Walking through the crowds of Carnival Cruise Line tourists, I was focused only on getting in to the Accademia Galleria with as little wait and effort as possible. We had wisely reserved our tickets (thanks again, Rick Steves) so we walked right in. Michelangelo's work began immediately, his unfinished 'Prisoners' a work in progress, making the viewer much more aware of the time and effort it must have taken to create something beautiful and soft out of the marble slabs with which they started. It seemed such an awesome task, one undertaken with the most unwavering confidence, to start with the block of stone and finish with something beautiful. A few minutes glancing at these pieces and their descriptions was all the more we took. The main event was awaiting at the end of the hall.

While I was aware of the centerpiece of the gallery, I was not prepared for it. David stood there, bathed in natural light, a masterpiece, a mammoth, an incredible beauty. Now let me preface here. I am not an art lover. Some of the minutes in those museums were painful as I peered into yet another beautiful, but meaningless to me, face of the Madonna. And yet, when I saw Michelangelo's work, his deep eyes gazing into the Florentine future with a yet unseen optimism, I was struck. I truly was taken aback.

Another Rick Steves suggestion was to eavesdrop on the tour groups' guides, imparting all of their analysis and wisdom into us art novices. Yet I didn't want to be bothered by the history, by the critiques, by what the artist was trying to communicate. It seemed to me he was telling me something. David was strong and optimistic and powerful, but he was (as I knew from Sunday School) a simple shepherd with nothing but a sling to bring down the greatest of foes. I simply wanted to soak up the beauty of this work and listen to what it said. So we did. We sat for 45 minutes, gazing at this amazing work, and then wandered bleary eyed through the rest of the museum, every sculpture that followed seemed a simple, innocent attempt at beauty compared with the work already seen.

Bidets for Beginners

How To Eat Italian

Here's another YouTube link for all you video lovers. Enjoy...we sure did. :)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CMuaLNXMwvU

Livin Liguria Loco

Cinque Terre, Italy

The last two days have been essential Italy. We basked on the beach, while munching foccasia bread. We ate cannolis after gnocchi after bruschetta. We had gelato for, and between, every meal. We walked the cliffs between each quintessential Italian village, stopping often to gaze at vistas of sea, stone and city. It has been a breath for us. Barcelona was big and confused. It was filled with sites and people and a size we couldn’t quite wrap our backpack-loaded selves around in just three nights. But here, in the Cinque Terre, the pace allows you not only to get a glimpse, not just to feel a little sample, but to truly immerse yourself in the classical Italian feel. This post will be short, because each day is basically a repeat of the last, with perhaps a few different views and different flavors of gelato. We have truly enjoyed it, however, and decided to stay an extra night. So we’ll continue in this dream for a couple more days, until its back into the real world, the busy streets, the sites, back to being a tourist. But for these few days, we have almost felt…Italian.

Update: Since we haven’t gotten internet, I haven’t posted. Today is Thursday, the 25th and we spent all today hiking the trails connecting the Cinque Terre cities. Faith, Whitney’s sister, is with us for the next few days and was here all day today. We can’t wait to continue to spend time with her in her ‘home away from home,’ Florence.
Also: here are the flavors of gelato we have so far sampled: coconut, multi-fruit, strawberry, frutte de India, and coffee. We’ll keep the count going and update you on any crazy flavors we come across. Ciao!

Sagrada Familia

Reflections on September 21, 2008
Barcelona, Spain

Ireland was speckled with an array of ancient sites. Buildings created by means which we can only guess, their functionality, precision and beauty both mysterious and awe-inspiring. As we toured those sites, from the Rock of Cashel to Dun Aengus to Newgrange, I had a sinking feeling. Those grand works, I thought, created in a manner that surpassed that of which we thought the people of the age were capable, were legacies, memorials and markers from a civilization long gone. And yet, I thought, what do we have that will be the same to those who follow this generation? What architectural wonders, built with the care, precision and love of these structures, do we have today?

In Barcelona, my fears were allayed. Unknown to me before yesterday, the Sagrada Familia, Antoni Gaudi’s masterpiece and life’s work, fit the bill. The church (it is a church, but the word seems too simple), is still under construction. It was started in the mid-1800s and taken over shortly after its inception by Gaudi, the master architect and dreamer. A quote from Gaudi sums up his work, he says, ‘my audience doesn’t care when its finished, he has all the time in the world.’ (I’m paraphrasing, sorry, but he means God) Gaudi took that very literally, knowing that when he started the project, he would never finish, but be forced to pass it on to his apprentices. The building itself is a marvel, the details in each nave and aspe and chapel are minute, beautiful and overwhelming. It is built in a ‘modernista’ style, where color and shape are wild and eccentric and yet the contrasting stone arches blend to create an atmosphere of grand praise to a God revered and feared. The city hopes to have the masterpiece complete by 2020, as it is just over 50% finished, this is a tall order for the organization behind it. A piece of La Sagrada Familia that makes the undertaking more grand as well as more meaningful is that every penny going to purchase each stone has been donated by individuals who believe in the project. I think those people have a vision that reaches far beyond most capitalists of today. They want to be a part of not only something that lasts from this generation onward, but something that is a gift to God, one that uses all the resources that we have available to us today. It is not just a beautiful building, not just a memorial or a marker, but proof that we, of the 21st century, of the era of fast food, fast cars and fast lives can slow down enough to make something truly beautiful, something not quite worthy of an incredible God, but as close as we can come.

Comida en Catalan, Por Favor.

So I think we've stayed pretty positive in this blog. Like I said way, way back, I never wanted it to appear as though we, the troubled, weary (spoiled!) travelers, were complaining and whining. It has been, and will continue to be I am sure, an amazing journey thus far. However, as in life, traveling has its ups and downs, its highs, its lows, and its very lows. Yesterday had a little bit of everything, bear with me through this lengthy post as I try to convey our evening.

So let me set the stage...As you may have seen, in the YouTube post below, we began our quest for Barcelona at 12:30 in our sleepy beach paradise, Salema, Portugal. We heaved our packs (not getting any lighter as the trip goes on, by the way) onto our backs and hiked up the hill to the bus stop. Trip #1: bus from Salema to Lagos, 30 minutes. We walked a few minutes to the train station in Lagos and shortly boarded our train to Lisbon. Trip #2: train from Lagos to Lisbon, 3 hours. Arriving in Lisbon, we wandered around the beautiful and too huge station until we found some help at Informacion (that's Spanish for information). We were informed that from 6-7pm the international tickets sellers take 'lunch break.' Sitting in the waiting room we...waited. Trip #3: waiting room, 3 hours. We then purchased two tickets on the overnight train to Madrid. We decided to go the mucho-comfortable route and bought two tickets in a sleeper car. Trip #4: overnight train from Lisbon to Madrid, 9 hours. Trip #5: Madrid to Barcelona (after a few more hours of waiting, of course), 3 hours. Trip #6: Barcelona Sants Station to Penditente Station, 30 minutes. Trip #7 Penditente Station to bus stop to Anita's Bed and Breakfast, 30 minutes.

So...I'll do the math for you, we were traveling for a grand total of...29 hours. And that's just the beginning.
As we hadn't eaten anything but pretzel sticks and granola bars all day, we were famished. We settled into our B&B and ventured out, trying to be the savvy traveling type that we've always hoped to be. Sidenote here: I, Michael, have come to Europe equipped with every imaginable piece of technology to make our trip more enjoyable: iphones, computer, video camera, digital camera 1, digital camera 2, gps, a digital watch and all these devices' chargers. So, basically, I think we're pretty much invincible when it comes to navigating a city. Walking up the street, we head towards what was to be a satisfying Mexican meal and an early night to bed. Within seconds of deciding where we were going, the first rain of the last 4 days starts in. We wouldn't let it stop us, though, so armed with the gps, we continued. Taking the last final curve, after several thoughts of turning back and giving up, we spotted the restaurant we had hoped for. The view was great, the place was packed and we thought we had struck gold. Getting closer to the entrance, however, we realized that this fine establishment served only drinks. No worries, the restaurant across the street looks just as good. Another sidenote: Welcome to Spain where restaurants OPEN at 9:00PM...so we grab a drink at the adjoining bar and wait it out. After 45 minutes and $12 worth of drinks (that was TWO drinks, mind you) we mosey over to La Venta...and they're booked. Booked solid. Not a table in the place till morning. Wow. But its okay, because Michael's ready, he's got his GPS and he'll find a place! The nearest one seemed to be just a mere 1.5km away, so back down we went (this time making a scary, but practical shortcut through an abandoned park), and out onto what we thought would be the main drag. We spotted a taxi around the next curve and, in frustration, got in and told the driver to take us to 'el restaurante.' That's right, any restaurante you want, we don't care, just get us some food. He knew just the spot and a short 15 minutes later we arrived in the heart of Barcelona at the Salamanca Restaurante. After 29 hours of travel and 2 hours walking around an unknown city, the Salamanca was an oasis. Traditional Spanish fare, coupled with a sweet old man and his accordian, we loved the following hours. We came away the real tourists too, bought a picture of us at the table and a couple of roses from a street vendor. What suckers we were, I guess you could say our defenses were down after such a day.

It was a rollercoaster of a day. There were, as I said, highlights and lowlights and lower lights, but as we curled up in bed at the end of it all, I knew that the morning would bring a new adventure; new sites, new stories, new uncomfortable moments and hopefully a new me, changed by all that I had seen and lived.

Off to Barcelona now, to meet some old friends and share some new experiences. Adios.

P.S. Below you will find a picture of the cutest couple, our hosts in Salema.

The Portugese Pair

Here's To You Gina and Chelsie, A Night On The Sleeper Train

We don't know how to embed video yet, so copy this into your browser for a video of us on our sleeper train from Lisbon, Portugal to Madrid, Spain. Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M2j-GzukvOM

A Day In Salema, A Journey Through Pictures

Start the day with some coffee and pastries and the "Snack Shop."



Scout our spot out at the beach.



Set up camp with my awesome squirrel towel.



Walk back up to our "quarto."




Hang out on the rooftop terrace for a bit.



Out to a seaside dinner...




And off to bed.

Lost in Translation

Today was the most insecure I have been about our travels. We have crossed into foreign territory, literally and figuratively. Until you are in a place where no one speaks your language, you really don’t understand how much comfort it gives you to know that you can be easily understood. Now, as I type this, we are in the home of a couple whose names we will never know. Not that they are absent, or unfriendly or have no desire to get to know us. Quite the contrary, actually. They are friendly and kind and so happy to have us renting one of their “quartos” just a few sandy cobblestoned yards from the mighty Atlantic. It is simply that we don’t speak a word of Portuguese and they don’t speak a word of English. They thought Whitney was Italian. That should paint a picture of how well we are communicating, here. We didn’t find the place, the place found us. I guess more like the man found us. We arrived in Salema, on the 7:00pm bus from Lagos. We left Dublin Days Hotel just over 12 hours prior and had a long and motion-sickness filled journey. As I said before, not knowing any of the language, much less our way around, made the trip to the cozy beachfront village a little unnerving. We kept our eye out for that ‘Salema’ sign, but soon realized the crashing waves and salty air would be our cue to hop off the bus. The town was exactly what we had hoped for. Small, quaint and chock full of seaside charm. Our welcoming crew was a single, small man, his weather-beaten skin browned from constant hours in the sun. Probably a retired fisherman, born and raised in the town, turned innkeeper. He shuffled over to us and pulled out a small card, laminated, yet worn, from his shirt pocket. It read ‘room, zimmer, quarto’ on it. As if we needed clarification, he rested his leathered hands under his chin, as a pillow, and closed his eyes. Yes, we replied, we did indeed need a room and how convenient that you just happen along when we are disembarking from our disorienting hour long bus ride. With our defenses down, we aimlessly and helplessly followed our new guide up and up and up the narrow lane. He kept pointing, as though his place was next, and yet up we climbed. At one scary moment, he pointed to an old door, broken, faded and rotting and Whitney looked back at me with an ‘absolutely not’ in her eyes. Fortunately (or not) that wasn’t his, we were still not quite to his humble abode. When we arrived, however, we were pleasantly surprised. A perfectly spotless room, bathroom included, was ours for the taking. Now, just to figure out a price. Or figure out what he’s even saying. We jotted notes, we motioned, we spoke clearly and loudly as annoying travelers so often do and we pulled Euro out of our pockets in a frenzy. Finally, after a few startling moments when I thought he wanted to take our passports from us, we came to an arrangement. He wanted 30 Euro. That’s right, 45 American dollars for a bed near enough to hear the waves crashing against the sand. Near enough to smell the salt and see the moon’s reflection in the water. We couldn’t believe that we had paid almost double that for a fisherman’s shack in Norway, where the view was the walls closing in around us not 6 inches away. And here we were, in paradise. We settled in and walked the beach. The sand here is beautiful, the buildings worn and comfortable and few. We have stumbled upon what just could become one of our favorite places. Tomorrow we’ll see if there’s as much sun as they promise and then we’ll have a true verdict. And hopefully some sunburn.

P.S. Whitney has felt tragically bad about her lack of blogging. Please know she loves you all and is thinking about you. Although many are under Michael's name, it is always a team effort.