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!