Author Archives: John

Hey Hey! So, yeah, I know it’s been a while since our last post, and I apologize for that. But we’ve been busy! We’re in Luxembourg now (I know, right? Who goes to Luxembourg? WE DO!!). But before our arrival in Luxembourg, we were in Austria and Germany for a little over two weeks, and what a great two weeks. We were in the area specifically to go to Oktoberfest, so the two weeks can be summed up in one word, which translates well from the original German: “beer.”

I’d like to illustrate this point with the following: way back in early July, when we were in Zaragoza, Spain, I bought a few button-down shirts. I needed a new shirt because I’d lost one in Brazil, and another was on its last legs (RIP Blue Gingham 3). Well, nearly three months later, after a lot of Italian food, and now a lot of beer and schnitzel, the buttons are about the pop off the NEW shirts. Johnny has a beer gut, people!

But it’s been fun. First we were in Vienna, which is an outstanding city. There are so many beautiful buildings around the Ringstrasse, and so many great bars and cafes. We also really enjoyed the market, and were amazed by St. Stephen’s Cathedral.

But in all honestly, I think one of the highlights for me was the Imperial Crypt. It’s where all the past royalty of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, dating way back to the Hapsburg Dynasty, are buried. It was fascinating. You can see coffins going back 400 years, including that of Empress Maria Theresa, the mother of Marie Antoinette.

Among the more recent (and most grand) were the sarcophagi of Emperor Franz-Josef (who spent all his time and money making Vienna what it is today), and his wife Elizabeth, AKA “Sisi.”

Sadly, there were also really ornate little coffins for the royal children that died young. Even the royals couldn’t escape infant mortality. It was here that Amy was pointing out an ornate element on one of the sarcophagi, and set off an alarm. I nearly jumped out of my pants, and thought we were going to be arrested and thrown in Austrian jail or something. But Amy just pulled her hand back really fast and the alarm stopped. Some reverent older Austrians (or maybe they were Hungarians who just really liked the old empire) gave us some dirty looks, but that was about the exent of the damage. The Imperial Crypt was definitely a highlight.

Then it was off to Salzburg, Austria. As luck would have it, we ran into some kind of beer festival, which was right up our alley.

I don’t really have anything funny or informative to offer you with this, honestly, because we were there for two nights, but only one full day, and on that day, we drank a bunch of beer and ate a few sausages, and generally had a good time in the Alpine sunshine. But I can tell you that this is where Amy purchased her dirndl, which leads us to Munich.

We got to Munich in time to meet Amy’s sorority sister Sue and her husband Garrett for Oktoberfest. What a blast we had with those two. The added bonus was Garrett’s German co-worker Stefan came along, and he gave us an insider’s tour of Munich.

Sue and Garrett arrived in Munich later than we did, so our first morning, Amy and I went to the Oktoberfest grounds and settled in for a few beers in the Augustiner tent.

We sat with some young glassy-eyed Germans, and struck up a nice conversation. Meanwhile, behind us, a group of twenty-something Englishmen, fully decked in lederhosen, were starting to get a bit rambunctious. Two of them stood on their benches, and with a crowd assembled and cheering, they each chugged a liter of beer.

A liter! – that’s like one of those half-gallon milk cartons. And this is a thing. You stand on your bench, you let people know you’re going to chug, and the crowd cheers you on. If successful, applause, songs, handshakes, and general revelry greet you. If you fail, you’re booed like the Flock of Seagulls was booed when I saw them open up for The Police on their “Synchronicity” tour in 1982: vitriol, invectives, and sometimes garbage are thrown at you, and you leave the stage immediately.

Not to be outdone, another Englishman was encouraged by his friends to chug a liter. He resisted: “I’ve already had two!” Amy overheard this and turned, saying, “no, don’t do it!!” But his chorus of friends overruled Amy, and within seconds he was standing on a table, pouring a liter of beer down his gullet.

The first half progressed without much argument from his esophagus. The second half, however, become much more slow and labored. He was muscling down the beer, and his stomach seemed to be saying, “hey, not so fast, fella…” But eventually, he got it all down. He overturned the empty glass over his head as if to say, “no beer here!,” but as soon as he put the glass down on the table, he doubled over, and began to barf into his hands. Camera flashes lit up the tent like fireworks. About a cup of puke came out, much of it dribbling onto the table. There are no photos of this. I had to turn away, because now I was on the verge of one of those sympathy pukes. I can’t watch someone yawp like that without getting sick myself. Puking is infectious!

The crowd, who only seconds before was screaming and applauding, turned on him instantly. The booing rang out from across the tent, and he sheepishly got down from the table. And then the best thing happened: the waitress, a surly older woman of 65 or so, came out with a bucket full of water, and slammed it on the table in front of the guy. The message was clear: clean it up, Ralph.

The next day Amy and I met up with Sue, Garrett, and Stefan, and went to the Hacker-Pschorr tent for the day, and what a day it was. Amy and Sue were decked out in their dirndls, and Garrett and Stefan wore lederhosen. I, meanwhile, had on a pair of cheap, ill-fitting novelty “fauxderhosen” shorts that were so tight in the ass that they ripped about a half-hour into the day, and from the right angle you could see my boxers. We sat with a bunch of German guys who were very hospitable and a lot of fun, and a good time was had by all.

The day was full of drinking beer and singing and fun, and we all enjoyed ourselves, if even a little too much. And this time, there was a guy behind us who chugged FOUR liters of beer over the course of six hours. And he was drinking the whole time, as well. But he also chugged four liters of beer on top of it. He was an animal.

The band, by the way, was great. The day started with them playing traditional Bavarian music and drinking songs, and the religiously played “Ein Prosit” toast. But as the day went on, we heard “Country Roads” (a crowd pleaser), “YMCA,” “Sweet Home Alabama,” and “Just a Gigolo.”

Well, as happens when people are chugging liters of beer and oompah bands are playing David Lee Roth songs, people started standing on benches and dancing and singing, and as the hours passed, it got more and more active. It was great, people were having a lot of fun and really starting to let loose. That said, they really pack the tables into these tents, and there’s not a lot of room to stand on those benches.

So there we were, standing on the benches, when a somewhat inebriated college-aged woman at the table next to us made a sudden movement, and knocked me off the bench.

It happened in slow motion. I felt my body lunge forward with absolutely nothing to grab on to. I looked down and knew I was going to hit the table hard, and that those tables aren’t made of the strongest stuff. And so it happened. I hit the table, and the force of my fall sent about a half-dozen one-liter beer mugs bouncing skyward. Every one of them fell off the table and on to the floor, one on Sue’s foot. It was a perfect strike. Had it been the 10th frame, I would have been given a second turn.

I want to make something perfectly clear: I was pushed. And that’s all I have to say about that.

After Munich, Amy and I headed south to the Alps to see the Bavarian Castles, and they were really something to behold. The story of “Mad” King Ludwig, who built the castles, is interesting as well, worthy of a Hollywood bio-pic. Ludwig became the king of Bavaria at 18, broke off an engagement to Sisi’s younger sister, became fascinated with Wagner and German opera, never married, lived in isolation, went WAY into debt to build a bunch of fairytale castles based on German folklore, and was eventually declared insane and lost the crown. Then two days later, he was found dead, and the cause of death has never been determined. It’s fascinating stuff, really. They said his brother Otto was nuts, too, so their uncle eventually took over the job. You’ve gotta wonder about this uncle, by the way… If it was CSI: Bavaria, I’d be looking at him as the perp.

The next day, as Amy and I were heading north, a thought passed over me.

“Hey – you know what?” I ask.
“What?” Amy replies.
“Ludwig…think about it…he breaks off the engagement. He never marries. He loves opera and the arts, he has this fascination with Wagner. And then he just decides to live alone…I mean, being a king, in that time…I wonder if he was gay?”
“OF COURSE HE WAS GAY!! Did you just think of that NOW?!”

The next several days, Amy and I drove north on the Romantic Road, through beautiful medieval cities like Augsburg, Rothenburg, Bamberg, and Wurzburg. We hit all the Bergs, and sampled the local beers of each Berg, and saw what each Berg had to offer, which was basically really beautiful Berg scenery.

Augsburg had a great ratskeller below the old city hall. Rothenburg had its rickety old buildings and old city walls. Bamberg had its smoked beer (rauchbier) that tastes like its flavored with ham. And Wurzburg had its wonderful Alt Mainbrucke (Old Main Bridge), where you could sit on the bridge, enjoy a glass of wine, and watch the sunset behind the hills. It may have been Amy’s favorite place in Germany. We even had a hamburger in one of the Bergs. Too bad we weren’t going as far as Hamburg. But that’s the way it is – on this trip we missed a lot of opportunities:

No wieners in Wien (Vienna).
No frankfurters in Frankfurt.
No hamburgers in Hamburg.
No cheeseburgers in Cheeseburg.

Next we made a quick stop in Frankfurt to have dinner with the son of one of my long-time friends, a guy I’ve known since 4th grade. We had a great time with Steve and his friend Daniel, it’s always nice to have a touch of home while overseas.

Amy and I were trying to figure out how you explain that relationship. What do you call the child of a really close friend, or the really close friend of one of your parents? I have an “Uncle Butch” who’s not related by blood, but I respect him way too much to call him “Friend-of-my-Dad’s-Butch,” which is way too awkward and long anyway. So Amy and I have proposed the following:

Frunkle – Close male friend of your parent.
Frauntie – Close female friend of your parent.
Freneice – Female child of your close friend.
Frenphew – Male child of your close friend.

We may need to workshop this a little, particularly “Frenphew.”

Speaking of vocabulary — WOW, John, what a great segue! – you may have been wondering how the language barrier was for us in the German-speaking countries. We got by okay, and I know a little German from high school. I remembered a bit more and more each day, but let’s face it: my German is beyond rusty, and I’ve forgotten a great deal since I was seventeen years-old. But you should know that while the German student in me has been lost, the teenager in me still alive and well. Here are some sample translations I provided for Amy along the way:

“Sandgasse”: This is something rude that happens on the beach.

“Ausfahrt Freihalten”: I loosely translated this as “stop your willy-nilly farting around here.”

“Krapfen:” I’m not sure what it is, but I’m fairly certain I don’t want to eat it. And I wouldn’t be smiling so much about it being ‘your’ krapfen, little girl.

And do you know why this traffic cone is smiling?

I’m pretty sure we all know why he’s smiling.

Last week Amy and I found ourselves visiting Bosnia & Hercegovina. That’s right, THAT Bosnia. And Hercegovina.

We’d been in Croatia for a little over a week, and then Montenegro for four days, and since we still needed to be in the Balkans and out of Schengen for 21 days, we decided to visit Mostar, and then Sarajevo, before heading to – – what?…What’s that?… Oh… “SCHENGEN?” Yes, Schengen…

Let’s pause for a moment here. Some folks reading this will know about Schengen, but most will not. We’d never heard of Schengen either, until learning about it on this trip. The Schengen Area is a common visa area in Europe. A number of countries, mostly in the EU, agreed to allow travelers to roam freely within the area without border checkpoints, and with just one passport stamp. It’s similar to the Eurozone, but also includes countries that aren’t in the EU, like Switzerland and Norway. And the UK and Ireland, who ARE in the EU, opted OUT of Schengen, which is why you get a different passport stamp when you land at Heathrow or Dublin. Weird, right?

But here’s the even bigger hitch – the tourist visa is for 90 days out of a 180-day period. So over the course of six months, you can only be in Schengen for 90 days, breaking it up however you want to over that period.

As a couple of tourists, with a rental car, traveling through Europe for nearly five months of our 14-month world tour, this put a bit of a wrench in our plans. Or, if you’d prefer, “a spanner in the works.” Either way, it caused us a lot of headaches and worries. How do we avoid getting fined, arrested, or deported after 90 days of our nearly five-month stay? We worked it out: we’d finish our trip in the UK and Ireland, spending the last month or so there. But that still left us with 21 days we’d need to be out of Schengen. And who’s not in Schengen? The Balkans.

So somewhere close to halfway through our stay in Europe, we found ourselves deciding to spend five days in Bosnia & Hercegovina. Bosnia obviously conjures up some vivid images, most from the early Nineties, and none of it very touristy. I think of the time I told my mother that I was going to Vietnam: she didn’t like the idea. And in all honesty, when I thought about Bosnia, all I could think of were terms like “ethnic cleansing.” It made me wonder what we were getting into.

Well…it was awesome. I really enjoyed Bosnia.

It’s a surprisingly beautiful country. It’s got all the “old world” charm you expect in Europe, but with a touch of the eastern Ottoman influence. It’s inexpensive, and the people we met were generally very friendly, very well-educated, and the people all over the Balkans speak better English than any other place we’ve been (well, you know, where English isn’t the native language). It made for a great tourist destination.

Our first stop was Mostar. It’s a small, compact city on the Neretva River, dotted with spires and minarets. The old town, with its stone buildings and cobbled streets, is centered around Stari Most, the pedestrian bridge spanning the river. The original bridge was built by the Ottoman Turks in the 16th century, and it became a symbol during the Bosnian War when it was destroyed by Croat artillery (you can find video on YouTube). Since then it’s been rebuilt and recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and it should be.

The sad truth is, the whole area around the bridge, and a lot of the city, had to be rebuilt. Mostar got pounded in the Bosnian War – the front line ran right down the street where we stayed, and you can still see remnants of the battle scars.

But the people of Mostar, and Bosnia in general, are trying to get beyond those days and move forward. They’re not dwelling on the war. And they’ve set up a good tourist industry: we went to a really good wine bar (surprise), and escaped the rain in nice little dive bar (surprise), and ate at a few of the restaurants overlooking the river (surprise). At night, with the lights twinkling, and a slight mist on the river, it’s pretty romantic.

And if you don’t believe me when I tell you it’s romantic, then ask either of the two dogs we saw at the foot of the bridge, humping with great ferocity, as tourists walked by taking selfies. Marlin Perkins would have loved it. And another interesting sight on the bridge (other than dogs in throes of passion): divers. The local bridge diving club will send a guy to the top of the bridge, and they’ll collect money from the passers-by. Once they have enough money in the hat – off he goes into the rushing waters below…

If you recall from an earlier post, I was a “championship” diver in high school, having placed 16th in the New York State Section V regionals in 1986. I told Amy that I wanted to give it a try. Apparently they let tourists do it for 25 euro, covering the costs of a quick tutorial, a wetsuit, and, if necessary, a guy who’ll fish your dead body out of the water downstream, after you’ve plunged to your death because you’re an out-of-shape, forty-six year old tourist. I was forbidden from doing so.

We also saw a couple of mosques (which got shelled during the war), and strolled through the marketplace, which sold a lot of Turkish metalwork, flowery ceramics and beads, and some things you can’t get in the USA like coffee mugs, t-shirts, keychains, and lighters. Mostar was pretty cool for a couple of days (which is really all you need); I just wish it hadn’t rained so much. I also wish we weren’t sleeping one block away from a minaret that blasted the call to prayer at 5:30am, but that’s my luck, and that’s living in a predominantly Muslim area, and that’s Mostar.

Our next stop was Sarajevo. The drive from Mostar to Sarajevo was one of the most beautiful drives we’ve had on the trip. We took two-lane roads through the countryside, past lush green mountains, winding rivers with clear blue-green water, and bucolic scenes of cattle farms, old haystacks, and fields of corn and sunflowers. I wasn’t thrilled getting slowed down behind semi-trucks, tractors, and old men driving 1987 Yugos, but the scenery made the drive that much more palatable, and it’s not like we were in any kind of rush. Plus, Amy really loves my driving, and makes a lot of noises that indicate she feels I brake at the appropriate moment, or pass trucks with enough space in the on-coming lane.

Sarajevo itself is considerably bigger than Mostar, but no larger than any mid-sized American city like, for example, Rochester, New York. And like Rochester, New York, there’s an older downtown part of the city, right on the river, and then the suburbs, and the malls, and the airport, and all the other trappings of modern civilization. But unlike Rochester, Sarajevo’s nearly a thousand years old, and has an incredibly storied past.

For example, our apartment rental was very close to the old city, just on the other side of the Miljacka river, and just a stone’s throw from the bridge that got us there, the Latin Bridge. The Latin Bridge is famous because of what happened there on a certain June 28th, back in 1914. Here’s a small list of things that have happened on June 28th:

Famous Birthdays: Mel Brooks, Gilda Radner, John Elway, John Cusack. Me.

Famous Assassinations: Archduke Franz Ferdinand, in Sarajevo, igniting the First World War.

For my entire life, every time I read about my birthday, there’d be one of these notes: “On this day in 1914, Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated in Sarajevo, igniting the First World War.” I really had no idea what that meant as a kid, but whenever I heard about Sarajevo, there I was, thinking “Hey! – that’s where Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated in 1914, igniting the First World War.” And then sure enough, here we were in Sarajevo, and one of the first things we saw was the Latin Bridge, and the site of the assassination, the one that ignited the First World War. (By the way, if you’re into history at all, you should definitely read about the assassination, if only in brief. It really is a comedy of errors, including one co-conspirator who jumped in the river to drown himself, only to find the river was four inches deep.)

The old town in Sarajevo is similar to Mostar in some ways – great old stone buildings, cobblestone streets, and a wealth of historic Ottoman markets and mosques. But there’s also a mix of great architecture from the Austro-Hungarian days. It’s a city where East meets West.

One of our days there was a Saturday, and that night we looked for a place to go out and have some weekend fun. We walked around and saw a bunch of touristy looking pubs, some touristy looking cafes, and, as with all Muslim towns, hookah cafes, with people smoking fruity flavored tobacco and drinking coffee. No beers there. But then we found our place.

I want to give this piece of advice to all people traveling, something Amy first picked up on, which has been a foolproof indicator for us on this trip: If you want to find a good, inexpensive, local place to have a few relaxed beers, look for the place with the 60-year old men sitting at a table with their dogs, reading the newspaper. Old men know the places that are cheap. They know where to sit and watch the world go by, and they don’t suffer fools. If you find a dingy looking place filled with old men, you’ve found the best watering hole in town.

Amy noticed a bar that looked like it fit the bill, and I agreed. We went in, and as with every one of these places, we got the initial stare: who are these tourists? But as with every place, people made room at the bar, turned their attention back to their drinks, and gave us the quick nod that said, silently, “welcome to my local.”

Then a table of young men turned to us, made room in their booth, and in perfect English said, “would you like a seat?” Amy and I moved in and sat with four guys who were sharing a bottle of brandy. Their English was so good, at first I thought they were Irish or Australian. But as we struck up a conversation with the four, we found out that they were all high school buddies from Sarajevo. And by “high school buddies,” I mean that the four of them were literally in high school. They were all 17! Apparently the drinking age in Bosnia is 18, but it’s policed about as liberally as checking ID’s at an R-rated movie. Nobody cares. So the six of us drank together for an hour or so.

These four kids couldn’t have been nicer or more well-mannered. We spoke about our trip, our former jobs, their school, their plans for the future, and mostly about life in Bosnia. What I found most fascinating was how they felt about the Bosnian conflict. They were all born after the war, but they all had some sort of story – how parents met during the war, family members who died. But they made a point of mentioning how they want to move forward, how people have reconciled, the mix of Bosniak, Serb and Croat; Muslim and Christian. All four of these kids were raised Muslim, yet there they were, at a bar, out having a good time with everyone else. It gave you great hope for their future, and the future of the country. Then again, we were doing shots of cherry-flavored brandy with a group of teenagers, we all killed the bottle, and then they left to go clubbing, while Ma and Pa Brueckner studied a map trying to figure out how to get home. They’ll probably be fine.

The next day, on the recommendation of these guys, we drove a bit out of town towards the airport to visit “The Tunnel of Hope.” Back during the Siege of Sarajevo in the early 90’s, the entire city was surrounded by Serbian forces. This went on for nearly four years, at the cost of thousands of lives. The only way the people of Sarajevo could link up with the outside world was through a tunnel running under the UN-controlled airport that provided a vital lifeline, bringing in food, supplies, and, because of an international arms embargo, weapons.

It was fascinating to learn about this piece of history I’d never really known about. Remember how I mentioned the destruction of Mostar? Sarajevo had it real bad, too. Really, really bad. Like over 300 artillery shells a day. Driving through town, we saw cemeteries filled with headstones from the 90’s.

The city seems alive and vibrant now. It’s been rebuilt for the most part, and like many of its residents, the scars may remain, but it’s moving forward and doing its best to live peacefully and put its past behind. Amy and I spent one afternoon at a truly fantastic hillside restaurant. From that vantage point, looking down on Sarajevo, it was hard to imagine what things looked like just 20 years ago. It was a beautiful view.

But one more very important thing. You would think after an assassination, the Nazis, communism, and a civil war, the people of Bosnia have suffered enough. But then there’s this:

This was the shower in our place in Mostar. As you see above, it sprayed directly on my chest, and I had to hold my head at an angle in order to avoid hitting my cranium on the slanted ceiling above the tub. I had to wash my hair while down on my knees. You would think it couldn’t get any worse. Until Sarajevo…

Here I am, standing in a small three-foot tub, holding the shower head in one hand (because there was no fixture to hold it), while avoiding the hot water heater that, in a feat of Soviet-era engineering, was conveniently located ABOVE said three-foot tub! The soap dish and tap were located under the hot water heater, so I had to crouch down to turn on the water or grab the soap, all while clutching the shower head in my other hand. To add to the indignity, on one occasion, I hit my head on the bottom of the hot water heater while trying to adjust the water temperature.

It’s enough to make you wanna ignite a world war.

– – – – POSTSCRIPT – – – –

Way back when we were in Ho Chi Minh City, we were connected with a couple who had recently moved to Vietnam. We’d been introduced through mutual friends, so you never know how these blind double-dates will go, but as it turned out, they were fantastic hosts, and we had a great evening. Amy kept in touch with the wife, and by coincidence, she was going to visit her native Sarajevo around the same time we were there, but unfortunately we missed her by a week or so. But she did ask us what we’d done while we were in her hometown. Amy wrote back and listed some of the places we visited, and just before we finalized this post, our friend replied, saying “The Tunnel of Hope? Is that the one under the airport? I escaped through that tunnel in 1994!”

It is with great sadness that we mourn the passing of “Blue Gingham (#3),” who tragically suffered a massive trauma to the elbow on the afternoon of September 5th, 2014 in Bosnia, after a series of minor injuries, stains, and a little bit of a stink.

Blue Gingham (#3) was a good shirt and a dependable traveler: lightweight, and casual, yet flexible enough to be tucked in and worn on dressier occasions. Blue Gingham (#3) went from beach to bar to Michelin-star restaurant, and all Asian temples, Buddhist shrines, mosques, gothic cathedrals, world-heritage bridges, medieval walls, and 16th century perfume stores in-between. His wide stripes and vertical lines helped disguise creasing, and he dried quickly after hand-washes in motel room sinks.

A veteran of several tours of duty, Blue Gingham (#3) saw combat in such exotic locations as Machu Picchu, the Imperial Hotel Bar in Tokyo, fishing for shrimp in Taiwan, the beaches of Koh Samet, Thailand, the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, watching the Tour de France, on TV at Yankee Stadium, a dentist’s office in Taipei, and with Santa Claus at the “North Pole” of a mall.

Anecdotal evidence of Blue Gingham (#3)’s prominence was provided while visiting Cape Town, South Africa, when a chance meeting with fraternity brother Sefty resulted in the statement, “Hey! – I recognize that shirt from all your pictures!…”

Born in 2011 in a sweat-shop in Mauritius, Blue Gingham (#3) wasn’t even really gingham after all, just plaid. Blue Gingham (#3) was purchased at J. Crew to succeed Blue Gingham #1 (a veteran of the Asian theater) and Blue Gingham #2 (a veteran of the European theater) in their roles as primary travel button-down, joining Blue Blazer, Jeans, and Khakis to form the “go-to” team of travel wear.

Blue Gingham (#3) is survived by long-time travel companion Whitey, as well as the new twins, Navy and Maroon Small Gingham. Blue Gingham (#3) is predeceased by fellow traveler Navy Chambray, who went missing-in-action and is presumed dead in Recife, Brazil, (and who, frankly, saw more exotic locales than Blue Gingham (#3)).

A simple ceremony was held in Mostar, in Bosnia and Hercegovina, where Blue Gingham (#3) was laid to rest in a plastic garbage can in the AirBnB kitchen, surrounded by friends, family, silverware, half a bottle of Serbian wine, a can of instant coffee, and several condiments.

Greetings from Dubrovnik, Croatia!

We’ve been in Croatia now for about a week, and it’s really been great. Our first stop, if you recall, was Opatija, on the “Croatian Riviera,” home of the rental apartment with the magnificent view. Then we spent a few days in Zadar, where I re-lived my youth by both diving into water, and getting minor injuries.

Now we’re further south in Dubrovnik, which is a beautiful city that lies directly on the Adriatic. The “old town” is intimate and scenic, with narrow cobbled streets made of time-worn marble, Baroque architecture, and sweeping views of the Adriatic.

We also went to the beach here, with clean, blue waters, plenty of sun, and an “aquapark” that we goofed around on for about a half-hour, until our bodies could take no more. No injuries this time, except for some bruised egos.

But we’ve also spent some time acting not as tourists, but as locals. Our apartment is a bit north of the city center, and we’ve spent a few nights just hanging out, cooking meals, or grabbing a beer at the waterfront place across the street (which is also where Amy gets her morning jolt of coffee).

Another part of living like a local is trying the local fare. Everywhere we go, we’ll try the local beer, and Croatia is no exception. It’s been pretty good.

And everywhere we’ve gone we’ve seen these billboards:

It’s “Cockta,” and it’s the local soft-drink that seems like their version of Coca Cola. It’s also the sole sponsor of local reruns of “According to Jim,” a show which we sadly sat through four episodes (non-sequentially) because there was nothing else on TV in English, and I wasn’t going to watch Croatian folk music again. And, well, heck – if it’s a “local legend,” I was gonna give it a try.

So I bought some, and I did. And then I gave Amy a taste:

Cockta is horrible. It’s like sour Dr. Pepper with herbs and bitters. It should be called “Fa-Cockta.” Am I right, my Yiddish-speaking friends??

And here’s another thing: On three separate occasions, we got ice cream. Having just come from Italy, we were looking forward to a cold, delicious treat, and we figured with the world’s best gelato just to the north, the ice cream’s got to be pretty good here, too, right?

WRONG. It’s NOT good. It tastes completely artificial. I got “banana split” flavor one time – big mistake. And today I got strawberry and banana. The strawberry tasted like a weak Starburst candy. And the banana tasted like some bad banana flavored gum or something. I know I shouldn’t have tried the fruit flavors again. But wait – two out of three times, Amy threw hers out, and she got chocolate!

And, yes, we did try three different places, but we figured ONE of them had to be good. And it’s been HOT here, man! We needed to cool off. But nope – every one has been a letdown. To quote Amy:

“They’re so many Italian tourists, you would think they’d raise a stink and get this sorted out.”

Sadly, the stink is coming from the banana split.

Hello Readers!

Welcome to a quick post to catch you up to date. I’m currently working on something about our time at the Palio in Siena a few weeks ago, which – considering the amount of time I’ve been working on it – should be terribly disappointing! HOORAY!

That said, here’s a little something that gets to the real purpose of this blog, which is letting our mothers know that we’re safe and sound. That’s why this post is about the multiple injuries I sustained today. HOORAY!

Yesterday we arrived in Zadar, Croatia. It’s a beautiful seaside town on the Adriatic, and we’ve had some sunny days while here. One of the first things we did was go to the waterfront, where we saw half of Croatia jumping and diving off the wharf into the water.

It looked like a lot of fun. And then we saw this little guy, as well:

(by the way, yes, that child is naked)

He was the hero of the day, jumping off the six-foot wharf into the Adriatic to get his ball. Every Italian, Korean, and German tourist, plus two New Yorkers, stood around and watched this little fella for about a half-hour. He was a real crowd-pleaser.

As a former high-school springboard diver who place 16th in the New York State Section Five regional championships in 1986 – and not to be outdone by a thirty pound dog – I told Amy that I wanted to come back the next day (today) and get see the sights, get some sun, take a dip, and maybe jump off the wharf about three-hundred times myself. Amy consented. HOORAY!!

So today, there we were, at the wharf, ready to go. I took a jump in, testing the water. It was actually very warm, but very salty. Then Amy went in as well, and executed a nearly flawless dive. The showoff…

She swam around for a while, and then seductively climbed out on the ladder built into the wharf, just like Phoebe Cates in “Fast Times At Ridgemont High.” Just like it…kind of.

There were also about 10 tweens jumping into the water, causing a big ruckus, just about breaking each other’s spinal cords as they jumped within inches of each other, trying to douse each other and all the girls with cannonballs. It was like Caddy Day at the pool.

So I got cocky. It was time to pull out the old ammunition, and fire off the kind of dive that gets you the 16th Place ribbon in the New York State Section Five Championships. In 1986. Off I went…

Did you hear that?! Or see it, anyway? That “One-and-a-Half” was about a “One-and-one-fifth.” I totally smashed my face on a wave. Here’s a picture of my red face:

And there it is, injury #1.

But to add insult to injury, or rather injury to injury, when I climbed up that same ladder, I somehow cut myself.

Injury #2. Yep, there were a bunch of mussels stuck to the wharf, and I don’t know exactly how I did it – I didn’t even really feel it – but I hacked up my knee on some mussels. HOORAY!!

But no worries. We’re fine, Mom.

And as a thank you for reading this, here is a bonus dog. Just off the wharf, in the harbor, was this poodle, with painted toenails, lounging on a boat. HOORAY!

Hey Friends – a quick note before we get into the actual blog post… Today is August 19th, and in exactly THREE MONTHS we arrive back home on the shores of the USA, arriving in New York before heading home for the holidays – so the countdown begins. And now on to the blog post…

…

My wife has done a lot of things for me on this trip. While she enjoyed Brazil and the World Cup, it wouldn’t have been on the top of her list without me bugging her about it. And a day-trip to Villefranche-sur-Mer on the French Riviera, which involved a great lunch and an afternoon on the beach, was really just a disguised search for the chateau where the Rolling Stones recorded “Exile on Main Street.” I got away with that one because, well, it’s the French Riviera, so who’s asking questions about a slow drive along the coast? But dragging her to the dreary north of England for a Manchester United match in October will not be as sunny, and I’m sure the beaches will not disguise my true intentions.

So when Amy said she wanted to return to Florence, I agreed without hesitation. Amy loves Florence. She’d been there twice before, and was excited to show me “her” Florence. Moreover, we’d be joined by one of our mutual friends, Val, who also loves Florence. I’d been there before as well, and remembered climbing to the top of the Duomo, and thinking that was pretty cool. So I was happy to return. But let’s face it: Florence is a city best enjoyed by women.

And I get it. It’s got everything women love – cute little shops, flowery paper, winding European streets, sidewalk cafes, designer stores, stone-washed sunsets, and friendly Italian men bringing them hot chocolate in a little cup. It’s like chick-flick Disneyland. In fact, here’s an actual quote from our time in Florence:

“This reminds me of ‘Under the Tuscan Sun.’”
“I was JUST thinking that!”

So you’ll see groups of young women, groups of younger women, moms and dads and kids, or couples with weary husbands toting designer shopping bags, or sitting exhausted in the “man chair” at the Gucci store. You don’t believe me? Just look at these poor slobs:

What you won’t see is groups of guys. I can honestly say I’ve never had a friend call me up and say, “get excited, dude, because for my bachelor party we’re all flying to FLORENCE!!” When I visited Florence during a study-abroad in college, some other guys and I would go out and basically grab a beer, eat a slice of pizza, play video games, and then have a gelato on the way home. There were no trips to the Prada store, and we didn’t spend a lot of time looking at maps and reading email notes to make sure we found the best tripe sandwich in town. Traveling with two women is different. In fact, here’s an actual quote from our time in Florence:

“It’s a soap and perfume store from the 16th century!”

That’s not to say I didn’t have a good time. I did! Those sidewalk cafes? They serve great cocktails and beers, notably the Negroni and the Aperol Spritz. Plus Amy and I went to the top of the Duomo again. It was as awesome as I remembered it.

And all the hunting that Amy and Val did to find the best places to eat? We ate some fantastic meals. We also went to the Uffizi Gallery and the Accademia, which were great.

But there are other museums in Florence as well. Did you know there’s a Gucci Museum in Florence? Okay, then did you know there’s also a Ferragamo Museum? Amy calls them “the other great masters.” I had no idea. But I sure know about them now…

And speaking of museums, here’s an actual quote from our time in Florence:

“I know it’s trite, but the David is my favorite artwork of all.”

So…let’s talk about this David thing for a minute. If the Mona Lisa was topless, and I spent a half-hour gawking at it, and taking photos of her boobs, my wife would start asking a lot of serious questions. But the David is a masterpiece, and his muscular body, his chiseled abs (literally!), and his full-frontal wangitude are worthy of hours of contemplation, lurid close-up photography, and in-depth discussion.

Listen, I’m not trying to be sexist here, and the whole “men-and-women-are-different” schtick is as old as Genesis (pre-Phil Collins). It’s just that Florence is a city most appreciated, and most loved, by women. And what do you expect, honestly, from a city that was named after Mrs. Brady, the lovely lady who was bringing up three very lovely girls, all of them with hair of gold, like their mother (the youngest one in curls)? In fact, here’s an actual quote from our time in Florence (by the way, I’m not making this stuff up, I wrote them down):

“Look at the juxtaposition of light on this pretty little piazza.”

And for the guys, there are still things to do – great food, history, architecture, and, if you’re into it, you can get some very nice upscale shoes. In fact, here’s an actual quote from our time in Florence:

“Where’s the stuff for the dudes?”

I said that one, to Amy, when we were in the Ferragamo store. I think that pretty much sums it up.

POSTSCRIPT: I would also like to tell you about another quote from Florence, but unrelated to anything “Florentine.” Amy and Val somehow got to discussing the Donner Party, and cannibalism, and survival. Don’t ask me how. But the following is an actual quote from our time in Florence:

“Drinking pee is gross, but it’s not morally unacceptable.”

[EDITOR’S NOTE: Another guest, another guest blog! We spent a week-and-a-half with my sister Beth and her husband while in Barcelona and the south of France. We invited Beth to share her thoughts…Thanks, Beth!]

Hello! I’m John’s sister, Beth, and here is my guest blog… many hours invested, and several edits later. While John has a degree in English, mine is in Chemistry, so my writing is not as polished. (A factoid: John once corrected our cousin’s Thank You note IN RED PEN, and then returned it to her, so you can understand why I was feeling some additional pressure.)

A little over a year ago, John and Amy shared their plans for this “pretirement” trip around the globe, and asked if we would like to join them somewhere along the way. Without any hesitation at all, my husband, Rick, and I answered, “We’re in!” Almost as quickly, we knew we would join them sometime in July or August as that was the time frame our schedules would allow. That would mean Europe!

We began planning our trip. Our son, Kevin, and his girlfriend, Michelle, would join us. Ultimately, Kevin, Michelle, Rick and I flew into Munich, Germany, on the sixth of July. We made our way through Austria, Liechtenstein, Switzerland, and the French Alps to meet up with John and Amy on the 16th in Barcelona, Spain. (On a side note….John and Amy have not been to Liechtenstein OR Switzerland!! Who would have imagined that we’ve been somewhere they have not?!!) Kevin and Michelle would be in Barcelona for a couple days before flying home. The rest of us would remain in Barcelona a little bit longer before heading to St. Lary-Soulon, France, for the 17th stage of the Tour de France.

While we’ve been on some wonderful vacations, we’re not experienced travelers like John and Amy. The planning of the first ten days exhausted Rick and me. We were spent. So many of the details of our time with John and Amy were left entirely up to them. Of course, as John’s sister, I’ve travelled with him before. That was a long time ago, and it involved climbing into the family station wagon before the sun rose, and heading to a campground near our vacation destination. These family vacations often included our grandmothers, and great memories were made on these trips.

[EDITOR’S NOTE: John is the youngest. Beth is clearly the young girl. And our brother Bill was seemingly not pleased with these Kodak moments.]

I was sure this trip, though different in many ways, would also be something special. And I was right.

In Barcelona, we had an awesome apartment right in the Gothic Quarter, Barri Gotic, located just off Plaça Sant Jaume. Just walking to and from the apartment was an experience. The narrow streets of this area are lined with shops of all kinds. We enjoyed a Fat Tire Bike tour which was extremely entertaining, and through which we saw many of Barcelona’s highlights: Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia, Plaza del Rei and the Palau Reial (courtyard of the royal palace where Ferdinand and Isabella received Columbus on his return from the new world), La Catedral (Gothic Church from 1298), Palau de la Musica Catalana, Parc de la Ciutadella, and Barcelonetta beach. We strolled through the La Mercat Boqueria (an open air market filled with fresh fruits, seafood and meats), walked down Las Ramblas, and toured the Roman ruins.

Anyone who knows John and Amy know they LOVE good food and drink, and enjoy sharing their favorites with others. Along the way, we shared many things that delight the palette… Octopus, Razor clams, and of course, the delicious Serrano Jamon leg! Some of us even tried some fried brain…which resembled chicken nuggets.

WE HAD SOME THINGS TO CELEBRATE!!! Kevin and Michelle had gotten engaged the night before our arrival in Barcelona, and Kevin turned 24 while there. John and Amy, ever thoughtful, made sure we had champagne (in actual champagne glasses) to toast their engagement, and arranged for a birthday dinner in the wine cellar of a wonderful restaurant.

After Kevin and Michelle returned to the States, we toured La Familia Sagrada, the cathedral envisioned by Gaudi, that’s been under construction for over 100 years. It was inspiring. The colors created by stained glass were fantastic, and many elements of nature are incorporated into its architecture. Anticipated completion is in twelve years, but there is still much to do. We agreed that in 20 years, we’re coming back on a Mediterranean cruise to see if it’s completed. Anyone care to join us?

When our stay in Barcelona was finished, we all piled into “Cleo”, John and Amy’s leased Renault Clio, and headed to the French Pyrenees for the 17th stage of the Tour de France. For the details, please read John’s post, “Bicycle Race”. He did an excellent job telling the story, I could never tell it better. (Remember the aforementioned undergraduate degrees…English vs. Chemistry…need I say more?) We had a blast! We laughed, we drank, we ate, and then we laughed some more.

The only way this trip could have been any better would have been to have our son, Kyle, with us. He was presented with an amazing opportunity when he secured a position with a research team in the Arctic Circle for the summer, and wasn’t able to join us. We missed him! Through the miracle of technology, we were able to have him with us in a small way.

So, thank you, John and Amy! Thank you for inviting us to join in your adventure, and making us feel so welcome every moment that we shared with you. Thank you for helping us to create memories that will last a lifetime. We love you both.

Last week, Amy and I had the privilege of watching a mountain stage of this year’s Tour de France. It’s not like either of us are huge cycling fans, but I like to watch the Tour every summer, and since we were in the area, and we both enjoy taking part in big sporting events and festivals, we figured this would be something cool to check out.

The best part is that my sister Beth and her husband Rick joined us. They’d been touring Europe themselves for a few weeks, along with my nephew Kevin and his girlfriend fiancé Michelle, and we all met up in Barcelona a few days earlier. Kevin and Michelle had just gotten engaged in Orange, France, so the mood was buoyant, and after the newly engaged couple left for home, the remaining four of us piled into Cleo, the Renault Clio, and headed towards Saint Lary Soulan in the French Pyrenees for Stage 17 of the Tour de France.

Thankfully the trip was only about four hours, but it was probably three-and-a-half hours too long. Cleo, the Renault Clio, is not a large car, and in addition to our oversized world-tour bags, laptop bags, and various bags of food and souvenirs, we had to add Beth and Rick and their baggage to the car. This was no small feat. The baggage compartment of the car was packed like a sardine can. There was a piece of luggage dividing the back seat, which worked like a very large armrest, and also supported my laptop bag.

Each person (except the driver, me) held some kind of bag in their lap, and some had a bag of some kind between their legs on the floor. By the way, Rick is about 6-foot-3, and was stuffed into what would have been an uncomfortable front seat WITHOUT baggage. He was chewing on his knees. Amy, seated behind him, tried to give him some space, so she, too, was chewing on her own knees, and she had so many bags on her lap that she had to be let out of the car by Rick each time, because she couldn’t reach the door latch. Beth, luckily, only had to contend with a grocery bag full of wine, canned mussels, paper towels, various candies, and a six-pack of beer between her legs (we’ll get back to this beer later). By the time we rolled into Saint Lary Soulan, Rick was turned sideways facing the window, trying to alleviate the pain, and Beth and Amy were swimming around in a sea of luggage, shifting the bags, and their weight, to get comfortable. The clown car was ready to explode.

St. Lary is a beautiful mountainous area. In the winter it’s a ski destination, with massive powder runs high in the mountains, serviced by multiple gondolas and lifts covering an open mountaintop. In the summer, it’s covered in wild flowers, and a clear blue-green stream runs through the middle of town. It’s fairly picturesque, and it was a beautiful setting for the race, and our short stay.

We were fortunate enough to have rented a ski condo up on the mountain itself, St. Lary Pla d’Adet. It was perfectly situated for the race. The views out the back of the condo looked down onto the village and the opposing mountainside where the riders would enter the valley, and then up the nearby hill where the riders would approach. The front of the condo was situated close to the end of the race, just one kilometer from the finish line, marked by the “flamme rouge,” a red flag indicating the short distance left.

The throwback, however, was the size of the condo. It was perfectly situated, but small. Beth and Rick shared a fold-out futon couch, basically guaranteeing that Rick’s feet would be hanging off the bed up to his shins. Meanwhile, Amy and I shared bunk beds like Bobby and Peter Brady, with me getting the top bunk. Quarters were tight, and the slightest bodily noise or use of the facilities was a matter of public record. I saw London, I saw France, I saw everyone’s underpants.

And our lifestyles are also a bit different. Beth and Rick are the sort of people who’ll get up at 5am to go play tennis, then take a 10-mile bike ride, only to be home by 8am for a breakfast of fruit, yogurt, and muesli. Amy and I, on the other hand, will get up at 9am to eat ham, eggs, and sausage, which will help sustain us through our 10am naps.

For example, while I watched crappy French TV, ate candy, and drank a few beers, Rick decided to take a hike up the mountain for an hour or two. I should add that my only saving grace in all of this is that those beers (mentioned earlier, the ones Beth bravely sheltered between her legs for four hours in Cleo, the Renault Clio) turned out to be non-alcoholic, because yours truly couldn’t read the damned French label. Though the big “0.0” should have given something away…

Another example: on arrival we all went to Carrefour, the big French supermarket, to get supplies. We were all stocking up on food for the few days we’d be there, when suddenly they started turning out the lights, letting everyone know the store was closing. Beth and Rick sprinted to the produce section and grabbed a bunch of fruit and vegetables before it was too late. I, in the meantime, holding a duck sausage, turned to Amy and said, “Drop the broccoli!! – Get the wine!!”

So the day before the race, we all compromised a little (Beth and Rick sleeping in a little, and Amy and I getting up earlier), and went to get the lay of the land. First we walked up to the finish area. It was still empty of any official-looking set-up, though the parking lot was blocked off. And at one point on the road, someone had spray-painted a line at just about the point we assumed the race would end. Could this be the finish line? There was no indication. And otherwise, it was a ghost town.

So we hopped on to a gondola and went into the village to check out the vibe. There was a lot of buzz in the air, and a bunch of people milling around, some wearing cycling gear, just like tailgaters at a football game. We did watch that day’s Tour stage over a beer at a café, and eventually we took the gondola back to the condo. We all wondered when the actual Tour organization would show up and start getting things ready for our stage the next day.

That evening, after making dinner, we were playing cards, and between hands I went out onto the balcony and saw a string of vehicles coming up the mountain. The lead vehicle was a massive red truck that kept blowing its horn, and other cars were blowing their horns in return. This had to be it. The circus was coming to town.

I ran in excitedly and told everyone: “THEY’RE COMING!” We all ran out on to the balcony and watched the wagon train of vehicles coming up the road in the distance. Soon, they’d all be at the top, and we’d see them start setting up for the next day – the finish line, the flamme rouge, the award stage – all of it. We put the cards down, and all got dressed to go outside. Soon enough the truck came into view, still blowing its horn. And that was basically all there was to the excitement. It was followed by about ten cars – various Renaults, Citroens, and Peugeots – all stuck behind this slow-moving truck. We looked around at each other, and all went back inside, slightly disappointed.

But sure enough, as the night went on, more trucks kept coming, and before we went to bed, we went up the to the summit once more. By now the road was covered in various organizational vehicles, and more kept arriving. The circus had truly come to town, and it was all starting to become real.

The next morning we got up and went outside to take a look around. Like the Elves and the Shoemaker, someone had been up working all night while the rest of us slept. To our surprise, the road to the summit was lined with barricades, the trucks had been transformed into a finish area, massive TV screens were up, the awards podium was set up, the flamme rouge marker had been inflated – everything was in place. How had all this been done in so few hours? It was miraculous.

People were already starting to claim their spots next to the road. From early morning, families were setting up tables and chairs, some picnicking, some reading, all waiting for the racers to arrive. Many walked up and down the roadway, which was open to foot traffic, and we joined them as well. Eventually, we took the coffee table and some chairs out from the condo and grabbed our spot next to the road. The wine and beer started flowing. It was getting exciting. In the condo, we turned the TV on to monitor the day’s stage, and with little fanfare, the racers were off. They would be to us in a few hours time.

Here’s something fun about the Tour de France: the spectators. If you ever watch it on TV, you see that the spectators really get into it. They line the road as the riders go by, wearing crazy costumes and getting within inches of the cyclists as they pass. They paint the names of their favorites cyclists and teams on the roadway, and they camp for days in advance, waiting for the stage they’ve come to see. And as with any dedicated sports fan base, the Tour knows there’s money to be made from this. There are concessions, souvenir stands, and there are big-time sponsors. Carrefour, the supermarket – they’re a massive sponsor. Haribo candies, Bic pens, Ibis hotels – all sponsors.

And with all these sponsors comes something called “The Caravan.” Before the riders actually start to race, this parade of vehicles takes off about an hour in advance of them, riding along the stage route and handing out goodies. While Mardi Gras has people tossing out free beads, the Tour de France has the Caravan, spewing out cheap samples and shoddy souvenirs. And if there’s one thing that works drunken people into a frenzy, it’s brightly colored cars, manned by cute French babes, throwing free junk into the air.

I was no exception. I told everyone, well in advance, that I wanted one of those red bucket hats that I’d seen people wearing along the Tour on TV. I, too, wanted to be seen on TV wearing a red bucket hat. And earlier that morning, my dream came true when Rick, out for one of his morning mountaineering excursions, got a few from a prematurely passing sponsor. Rick, however, wanted one of the polka-dotted Carrefour cycling caps, so we made this our Caravan goal.

When the Caravan came by, though, we nearly forgot about the polka-dot hat. There were FREE THINGS flying through the air! We got TWO PACKAGES OF DETERGENT!! Then there were the bags of Haribo gummy candies. Amy scrambled and caught a collapsible Frisbee thing. We started fighting kids to get stuff. One car came flying by and about a dozen bags of some horrible cheese doodles came flying at us. We got about ten of them. One car tossed out a bunch of white Skoda bucket hats, and Rick, with his extensive reach, basically grabbed a bunch out of the guy’s hand. I dove under a car to grab a keychain, tearing up my knee on the gravel. Beth caught some kind of disgusting soft drink sample. We fought for wristbands, flexible rulers, erasers, and an inflatable plastic pillow. And yes, we got Rick’s polka-dotted hat – three of them, in fact. I turned to Beth at one point and yelled, “I’ve never been more excited to get all this cheap crap I’m going to throw out tomorrow!” It was an orgy of avarice, and we were worked into a state of Gallic commercial ecstasy.

That said, once the Caravan passed, and we returned to a state of calm, we gave away a bunch of stuff to some nearby kids – a lot of candy, much of the cheese doodles, and some other junk. But we still had all this other stuff below to ourselves:

Much of it currently sits in a landfill somewhere in the south of France.

With the brief high of consumption now behind us, we were ready for the riders themselves make their way in our direction. The condo’s TV let us know they were somewhere on the other side of the ridge across the valley, and soon we started to see helicopters in the distance as the riders got closer to the pass. People with binoculars and good cameras signaled that the leaders and the rest of the peloton were crossing over into the valley, and with a squinting look you could see the team cars and tour officials coming down the valley roads towards the village. At speeds of 30-40 miles an hour, the lead riders would be below us in St. Lary in no time, and up to us in Pla d’Adet in a half-hour or so.

We started to strategize. We’d told people to look for us somewhere slightly past the flamme rouge, and now we tried to figure out where to best be seen on TV. Amy and I both have degrees in television production, and I spent the last dozen years before this trip working at a sports network. With the lead riders fast approaching, and now on the mountainside roads winding their way towards the summit, we needed to make a decision. We were on the outside of a wide turn. I figured, with the shortest distance between two points being a straight line, the lead rider, heading uphill, would take the turn tight. This would force the motorcycle with the TV camera to take the turn wide, shooting towards the tight side. I hopped the barriers and ran across the road, out of the view of the local gendarmerie. I stood alone, facing a good hundred spectators on the opposite side, many looking at my ridiculous outfit, which I wore specifically to stick out like a sore thumb. In that endeavor, I was successful. I looked like an idiot. In others, I would not be as successful, as we’ll see.

Then the murmur of the crowd rose to cheers, as the lead rider approached. A few police motorcycles and official cars came flying by, and then – ZOOM – with great pace and remarkable uphill speed, the lead rider, Rafal Majka, a hill-climber, raced by TAKING THE TURN WIDE, with the TV camera passing me looking the other way. My TV chance was blown. Amy, however, in her blue hat, and Beth, fully dressed in yellow, may have made it on TV, if you can pick them out of this freeze frame as Majka flew by.

Soon afterword, a few more riders approached. Among them was Vincenzo Nibali, the overall Tour leader, and eventual 2014 Tour winner, in the famed “maillot jaune,” or yellow jersey. He took the turn tight, with the TV crew shooting towards me. This may have been my shot.

After that, a flurry of riders went by, and soon enough, it was all over, with a trickling of team and official cars coming by, and then nothing more. For all the build-up, all the excitement, all the days of preparing for this moment, it was over within minutes. We grabbed our table and chairs, and went inside the condo. We took naps. We played cards later that night, and ate leftovers from our ill-fated excursion to Carrefour. Rick wore his polka-dotted hat.

A few days later, Beth and Rick flew back home, their bags full of bucket hats and cycling caps. We drove on through the south of France, with Cleo, the Renault Clio, considerably lighter, roomier, and handling the roads with ease.

We never heard whether any of us were actually spotted on TV.

[Editor’s Note: this is gonna be a long one. Sit back, relax, and enjoy.]

Earlier this week, Amy and I were in Pamplona, Spain for three days of the San Fermin festival. Most people know this festival better for the “Running of the Bulls,” and if I’m honest, that’s really why we went. I’ve wanted to run with the bulls since my early 20’s, back when my brother and I talked about going together. Of course, this is the kind of talk brothers have in their 20’s, but we just got tattoos, and then got jobs, and eventually got married, and so it goes. But with this trip Amy and I are on, I finally got the chance, and I took it.

Here’s a little of what I can tell you from my limited knowledge of the San Fermin festival: San Fermin (or Saint Fermin) was an early Christian martyr who’s the patron saint of the Navarra province of Spain, where Pamplona is the capital. Fermin was the first bishop of the region, but then he went to France and got his head chopped off, and now they have a big party to celebrate his life. It goes on for a week or so every year, and Ernest Hemingway made it famous in “The Sun Also Rises,” so now the streets of Pamplona are filled with all nationalities of all ages, many of whom are drinking beer and sangria from dusk ‘til dawn and throughout the night. It’s like Mardi Gras in New Orleans, but if every street was Bourbon Street, and instead of beads, you have to wear a white outfit with a red sash and a red handkerchief around your neck. Sure, it looks a bit ridiculous, but it’s a tradition, and everyone does it, and it isn’t Labor Day yet, so what’s the harm in wearing white and looking like Liza Minelli?

The obvious highlight is the running of the bulls, and I can provide you with a little backstory on that as well. It’s another tradition that’s well over a hundred years old, and what basically happens is they take six bulls from a pen in one part of the old town over to the bullring in the other part of town, so they can take part in the bullfight later that night. At some point very early on some wiseacre decided it would be fun to run with the bulls, and then the next year more guys joined in, and 100 years later it’s mayhem in the streets of Pamplona. There is a religious aspect to it as well, because in celebrating the life of San Fermin, there is the experience of facing death as a celebration of living a full life. One guy gets his head chopped off in France, others run through the streets of Pamplona being chased by a half-dozen pissed-off death-row cows.

Amy and I arrived just after the opening ceremonies of Day One. There are no bull runs that day, just a lot of pageantry and singing, and eventually the streets clog up with drunken teenagers, drunken adults, and drunken elderly people. There are no rules. People drink everywhere, pee everywhere (even the ladies), vomit everywhere, and spray sangria all over their brand new white clothes. It’s bacchanalia at its finest, and we enjoyed it for several hours while we scouted the course of the bull-run, but eventually we’d had enough of the crowds and we headed back to our hotel.

A note about our hotel: we were a little late in booking a room for the festival, so we couldn’t find anything nearby at a reasonable price. So we stayed about 45 minutes outside of Pamplona in a rural village called Riezu. Our hotel was a 16th century palacio, the former home of the village’s medieval lord. Our room had massive wooden beams that were basically rough-hewn trees, and huge stone masonry. It was a bit dark and cold, but it was pretty fantastic, and our host Stef was a great guy. The only issue was that it was 45 minutes from all the action.

So the next day, we had to wake up early – very early, at 4:30am – to see the first running. We had to put on some clothes, drive to Pamplona, and then meet a tour guide at 6:15 to collect some tickets before the 8:00am running. We’d read that the best place to watch a run was from a balcony, and Amy, ever-the-planner, arranged for us to get balcony spots and tickets for the bullfight later that night. By 6:45 we were in someone’s home, on a balcony overlooking Calle Santo Domingo, ready for the run to start. It was like a carnival atmosphere – a band playing right in front of us, and people with kids walking the course, some already drinking wine.

A loudspeaker recited the rules in Spanish and English: no drunks, nobody under 18, no backpacks or cameras, don’t interfere with the bulls (in fact, you’re not supposed to touch the bulls – while some people do touch them, people get fined). By 7:30 the cops were locking up the streets, tossing drunks and other rule-breakers, and clearing out the families. By 7:45, it was just nervous runners on the streets. And at 8:00am, the main event began.

The Running of the Bulls takes less than three-minutes. Six bulls (normally black in color) will be guided by a group of castrated steers (slightly bigger and brown & white) through the old town to the bullring (see map below). A rocket goes off, signaling the start for runners who may be several blocks away, and the bulls are let loose from a paddock just outside the old town. They take a slight turn, and at this point they meet the runners (a second rocket indicating this moment) and head up a cobblestone straightaway called Calle Santo Domingo. Then they reach a small square in front of the City Hall, and take a wide left turn, and then head straight for a few more blocks on Mercaderes. Then comes “Dead Man’s Corner,” a sharp right turn where many of the bulls lose their footing on the cobblestones and slam into a wall, often taking out a number of runners with them. From here on it’s the lengthy homestretch, down the cobbled Calle Estafeta, and they eventually reach the chute and gateway that takes them into the Plaza de Toros (another rocket blast), the bullring where everything finishes, where the bulls run into another paddock, and await their time in the spotlight in the bullfight that night. Once the last bull has entered the ring, a fourth and final rocket goes off, indicating it’s all over.

At 8:00am, the first rocket went off, the crowd went crazy, and the runners started running. A mob started running up the street from our left, and here’s what we saw:

They were past us in the blink of an eye, and I ran off the balcony to another room with a TV. They broadcast the runs live in Navarra, and I watched for the next minute or so. Then a noise came from outside on the street – two more steers had been let loose a few minutes later!! They came roaring past, and up Santo Domingo, away towards the bullring. I believe they do this in case any bulls are still loose or lost for any reason – the steers know the way and will guide the bulls in if there’s any problem. (This happened two days after we ran – a bull got separated from the others in the crowd, and actually turned around, heading back into the crowds).

It was thrilling to see, and great research for our run the next day. We watched a bunch of replays, and then left the balcony, and headed on to the streets for some food and drink. The town was buzzing with excitement, and we spent several hours walking around and taking in the sights, and eating delicious tapas (or as they call them in the Basque region, “pintxos”) at the bars. But with our early morning, and a bullfight later that night, we drove back to the hotel for an afternoon nap and shower.

I also spent part of the afternoon doing research, trying to figure out the best way to run. We’d gotten some advice from friends who’d done it before – thanks Erik, Caroline, and Lee – and the internet was a great resource. There’s even a fantastic website, sanfermin.com, where they break down all the bulls, and have stats about that day’s gorings, and injuries, and the bull’s weights and backgrounds. It’s hilarious. I’m trying to figure out a way to set up a fantasy bull running league.

The next day was the big day. We got up early again, put on our white clothes, and drove to Pamplona. After the online research the afternoon before, we discussed how we’d go about it. Your goal as a runner is to a) run with the bulls, and b) get to the bullring at the Plaza de Toros, basically crossing the finish line, and celebrate there with the crowd in the stands and the other runners. If you get to the bullring before the bulls, the audience in the Plaza will boo you. But if you start too far back on Santo Domingo, near the beginning, it’s doubtful you’ll make the Plaza de Toros. You’ve got to run nearly a kilometer in three minutes. So there’s a lot of strategy involved.

We decided we would start on Santo Domingo, right under the balcony we watched from the day before. We were familiar with that stretch of road, we knew how the bulls ran down that street, and we knew where you could get in and out of the barriers. It seemed like a natural choice, even if chances of making the arena were slim. With a little over an hour to go, we were in the street and waiting for 8:00am to come around, chatting with the occasional stranger, and constantly asking people, “Que hora es?” It seemed like an eternity, and I felt jittery and nervous. We both had to leave a few times to take a pee.

If you know Amy, you know she’s constantly meeting people and striking up conversations. I don’t know how she attracts them, but it happens all the time. She was an NBC page (just like Kenneth on “30 Rock”), and she’s got the solicitous kind of face that seems to say, “Can I help you?!” Well, sure enough, a woman wearing a press credential, with a huge camera hanging from her neck, came up and asked Amy, “May I interview you?” She was from the local newspaper, the Diario de Navarra, and she was doing a story on women who run with the bulls. Amy answered her questions, and agreed to meet up with her after the running to tell her how it went. She asked me a couple of questions, too, and here’s the big difference – Amy was smiley and polite; but my nerves were so jangled, and I was so preoccupied, I looked like a total schmuck. I could barely spit out an answer or work up a decent smile for the camera.

Amy and I agreed that after the race we would meet back by where we started for her post-game interview. We picked a spot, knowing we might get separated, and waited the last few minutes for the race to start. I could barely stay in my skin. I was a bit shaky and full of nervous energy. The last few minutes went by quickly, and then – BOOM. The first rocket. The bulls were out of the pen.

It all went by in the blink of an eye. The minute the rocket went off, the noise became intense, and a wave of runners started heading towards us in anticipation of the bulls, which would only be seconds behind. I immediately got separated from Amy.

Amy told me what happened to her – she saw the wave of runners, got close to a wall, and watched the bulls run by. The bulls passed, the wave of runners dissipated, and it was over that fast. She started to look for me. Here’s a picture of Amy during the run (a bit out of focus because we had to blow it up from the original):

Things were much different for me. Remember all that research I spoke about earlier? I read that the best approach was to make an “arc” – stay on the sides, and as the bulls get close, swing out into the street with the bulls, run for a while, and then drop back off to the side of the street and avoid getting trampled. That was my strategy. When that wave of runners started to approach, I ran like hell ahead of them up Santo Domingo, trying to make some space. The bulls would get to me soon enough – it was the runners I was worried about. There’s only about 12 bulls (with the steers), but there’s thousands of people, and I was more concerned about avoiding them than avoiding the bulls. Sure enough, the bulls were nearby – you could hear the stampede of hooves on the cobblestones, and the constant ringing of the cowbells, not to mention the roar of the crowd, and, oddly enough, the heavy breathing of yourself and the guys running next to you.

As we approached the City Hall square, I was ready to make my arcing move in, looking over my shoulder as the bulls got close. And then…cleanup on Aisle 9! Someone about five yards ahead of me tripped, and there was a massive pileup of bodies, about ten people deep. I ran right into it, and all progress stopped. The bulls thundered by. I didn’t even get close. So much for the arc. Here’s a photo of my run, taken about two seconds before the pile up.

I was quickly able to get around the pile of runners, but by then it was too late. The bulls were a good ten yards ahead of me, and I could barely see them as they thundered off, surrounded by throngs of runners. But I kept running. I don’t know why. There was no chance I would catch them, and the bullring was another 700 meters away. But I kept running. I guess it was all the excitement, and the energy, and the fact that a thousand other runners just kept running as well. And when the hell would I ever run with the bulls again? And I thought to myself, “Can I actually make it to the bullring before they close the gates?”

Within 30 seconds I was at “Dead Man’s Corner,” and as I took the turn with hundreds of other people, I started seeing people putting their hands up, basically telling the crowd, “slow down, it’s over, don’t get hurt.” Which was sensible, considering the bulls were gone by this point, and with all the running mob, people were still falling and tripping on the cobblestones and getting trampled. Things slowed down to a jog, more like running a 10k than sprinting with angry farm animals.

Let me tell you a bit about my fitness level. It ain’t great. I’ve never been the type that works out a lot, and while I do like to swim, there haven’t been a lot of visits to the YMCA on this trip. And while I might have been more slender in Asia, all the beef in Argentina, the beer at the World Cup, and the jamon and red wine in Spain has got me feeling a little…bloated. I may have been at my bantam wrestling weight in Asia, but I’m approaching my sumo wrestling weight here in Spain. I was huffing and puffing like a madman, and the cobblestones were doing a number on my knees. But I was so full of adrenaline, I could have run through a wall.

As I kept jogging down Estafeta, I noticed a bunch of runners who kept looking back over their shoulders, and I was wondering what for – was there a lost bull out there somewhere? And then I remembered: the two steers they send out later for cleanup duty. We hadn’t seen them yet. And if we hadn’t seen them, then the gate to the bullring wasn’t closed yet. I picked up my pace, determined to make the bullring. A minute or so later, and I saw the approach. I was going to make it.

As I headed down the tunnel towards the ring, a loud cry went up in the air, and everyone started sprinting again, like the same noise and commotion, and the same wave of runners at the beginning. Clearly the two steers were approaching. I ran like hell down the tunnel, heading towards the ring, and cleared the gate that leads into the arena – the same gate that would be closed seconds later. It was really crowded in the tunnel, and if the steers were anywhere close, it would be a tight fit. Seconds later I made it out of the tunnel and into the ring itself, where I jumped out of the way to the left, and saw the two steers run by me. I had made the ring, uninjured.

I was euphoric. There was so much energy and adrenaline in my system, I took off my hat and waved it around, and yelled aloud to no one in particular. I was there with a thousand other runners, but alone in my glory. I smiled and looked around at the cheering crowd in the stands. It felt awesome. I caught my breath, and felt my legs tremble. My lungs were burning. But I was still full of nervous energy, and I kept wishing my brother were there to have done it with me.

They started to replay video of the running on the jumbotron. Who knew the bullring had a jumbotron? But sure enough, they started to show the running, and all the runners turned to watch. But we never finished watching.

About two minutes in, a massive noise went up in the stands, and runners in the ring started to surge in one direction. And I heard someone say (in English), “it’s the young bull!!” I had read about this. Once the run is over, they send a young bull out into the crowd of runners. The young bull is much smaller, and his horns are blunted so he can’t really do any damage (in fact, I was later told that it’s not a young bull at all, but a female!). But she’s damn feisty, and angry, and goes after anything that moves. Some folks would try to touch her to prove their bravery, and all kinds of guys were constantly getting trampled, or head-butted, or kicked by the young bull. The crowd loved it. Anytime the bull trampled someone, they went wild. And if someone was toying with the young bull too much, like pulling their tail, they’d boo.

At one point the crowd started to move in my direction, and like the parting of the Red Sea, everyone in front of me started moving out of the way. The young bull was headed our way, and as fortune would have it, they cleared a path with the bull heading right at me. I started to run backwards with everyone, and now there was an open circle around the bull as he kept heading in my direction. And then I tripped, falling directly on my ass. There I was, out in the open of the undulating circle of people, with the young bull bearing down on me. The crowd sensed my imminent trampling, and you heard a collective gasp. I was frozen. All I could think of was me telling the doctor, “No, it wasn’t one of the big bulls, it was only a couple hundred pounds…” But within three feet of me, she changed direction and started going after some other jackass. Bulls go after the motion. My chicken-shit freezing had paid off.

At this point I figured I had had enough, and should probably get back to Amy, who was likely nervous and dreaming up scenarios in which I had a bull’s horn stuck in my lungs. So I left the bullring with a bunch of other runners and started to head back to our meeting point. She wouldn’t know I made it all the way to the bullring, and I knew she would be waiting and worried about my delay. And sure enough, a few minutes later I saw her looking for me on the streets, well away from the meeting point, and relieved to see me in one piece.

We did meet up with the reporter from Diario de Navarra, and the next day, Amy was featured in an online story about women who run. You can read the story here, and see us in the video, at the beginning and the very end. And once again, I was so full of adrenaline and nervous and fidgety… Amy comes off happy and smiley, I come off like a dolt.

http://www.diariodenavarra.es/noticias/san_fermin/san_fermin_2014/2014/07/09/las_mujeres_aunque_pocas_tambien_corren_encierro_166771_2941.html

(You can cut and paste the body of the article into Google Translate and it does a pretty good job.)

And lastly, here’s the video of that day’s running (with stats!). At about :35 seconds (on the graphic clock) is where the bulls run by Amy. You won’t be able to see her. At :40-:41 seconds, if you watch a few times over, and very closely, you might catch me on the right wearing my Yankees hat. And a second later, at :42, on the right, you can see the pileup of bodies I got caught in.

(http://www.sanfermin.com/index.php/en/encierro/encierros_2014/8-julio)

So, to answer your question: would I do it again? Absolutely. In the blink of an eye.

TEACH YOURSELF TO DRIVE STICK SHIFT IN 20 EASY STEPS!

1. First, determine that you want to take a four-day road trip around the north of Argentina, or as they call it, “el Norte.” Apparently the landscape is beautiful, the wine is cheap and plentiful, and it’s the most Andean part of Argentina. Determine that the best way to do this is by renting a car. All the guidebooks will tell you it’s the best way to get around: on your own time, with your own itinerary. We chose to start from the home-base of Salta, head south to Cafayete for some wine tasting, then head north again to Cachi via some beautiful rugged terrain, and ultimately wind up north of Salta in the Jujuy province to see the “Salinas Grandes” salt flats. By the way, “Jujuy” is pronounced like this: “HOY-HOY!!” That’s how we should all answer our phones from now on – “Hoy-Hoy!…May I ask who’s calling?…Just a minute, please…AMY! IT’S YOUR PAROLE OFFICER – THE ANKLE BRACELET’S COMING OFF!!”

2. Having settled on renting a car, rent a vehicle from one of the local agencies. In doing this, find out that you really only have two options: pay an arm and a leg for a 4×4 automatic SUV, or go on the cheap with an older, smaller Renault manual transmission vehicle with nearly 100,000 kilometers on it. We chose the latter, from Avis, because Amy’s a member, and because I’m…thrifty.

3. BIG STEP: Realize you’re nearly 46 years old and have only successfully driven a manual transmission car ONCE, in college, under circumstances you would rather not get into for legal and ethical reasons, but suffice it to say that people needed to get home, and you were the most sober, and it was mostly downhill, on empty streets, in a farming community in Ohio.

4. Pick up the car at the local Salta airport. Drive the car around the parking lot for twenty minutes, trying to get the feel for things. Stall out repeatedly while trying to get into first gear. Do this in front of the taxi stand, the police post, the long term parking booth, and once or twice in front of the Avis office itself. Smell the clutch burning. Smell your forehead burning. Successfully put the car into gear three or four times (non-consecutively) over the course of twenty minutes. Decide that with this 15% success rate of putting the car in gear, it’s time to hit the open road, in a foreign country, in a language you can barely speak.

5. Pull up to the airport gate. Wait for the arm of the gate to go up. Close your eyes and shift into first. Slowly let the clutch out. Stutter and jump forward a bit. As the car shakes, it slowly moves forward, and…you’re in gear. Continue to drive forward and hope you don’t have to stop for the next 180 kilometers.

6. Find out 10 seconds later that you’re at a red light. Cars pull up behind you. Slowly let out the clutch and start hitting the gas. Stall out.

7. Hit another ten or so red lights before getting on any highway of sorts. Stall out once or twice, and one time, let out the clutch so fast while jamming the gas pedal, that you chirp the tires, burn rubber, and nearly fishtail through a busy intersection.

8. After a mostly uneventful journey of 180 or so kilometers on country roads, shifting through the upper gears, pull into your first destination, Cafayete. Navigate the town, and the gears, with passable skill. Pull into a parking spot and thank Jesus. Feel what Jim McKay called “the thrill of victory!” Check into your hotel.

9. Having checked into the hotel, decide to explore town and see a few of the local wineries. Get in the car, turn the ignition…and realize you have no idea how to put the car in reverse to get out of your parking spot. Feel what Jim McKay called “the agony of defeat.”

10. Have your wife get out of the car and stop a local gentleman about 70 years old or so who’s been busy taking photos of the lovely colonial square you’re parked on. Explain to this confused older man, in terribly broken Spanish, that you have no idea what you’re doing and, by the way, how do you put the damn car in reverse? Explain that it’s your first time driving stick (thinking better than to discuss in broken Spanish about that one time in college). Explain that you’re actually doing pretty good going forward, but going in reverse has become a new and quite timely challenge.

11. Have the gentleman lean in the car, through the open window, and show you that you have to pull up on the stick to put it in reverse. Get excited about this newfound information, which most high-school kids know. While he’s still leaning in the open window, take your foot off the clutch. Have the car jolt backwards a few feet, with the older gentleman still waist deep in your driver’s side window, still holding his expensive German-made camera. Apologize profusely. Have a few laughs, and a handshake of gratitude. For the first time ever, at nearly age 46, drive a manual transmission car in reverse.

12. The next day, drive 150 kilometers to Cachi. Drive through the following terrain:

Do this while driving an economy-sized French-made manual transmission vehicle that you haven’t really mastered. Learn that going up steep, rocky grades requires something called “down-shifting.” Stall out numerous times in very awkward locations, and several times, roll the car backward, in neutral, to a point where you can put the car in first gear without flying off a mountain road, killing you and your wife.

13. Drive over 100 kilometers on a one-lane gravel road. Feel every bump, every jolt, and every rock at every turn. Know that at some point, you will come face-to-face with an oncoming truck, and you will have to back up, or slow down, or come to a complete stop on a surface that you would rather not back up, slow down, or come to a complete stop on.

14. Be reminded by your wife, on several occasions, to stay on the right side of the road. Realize that the last four months of your life (which included car rentals in South Africa, Australia, and New Zealand), you’ve driven on the left. Keep hitting the windshield washer instead of the turn indicator.

15. Stop to take a picture of a mountain. Stall out. Stop to take a picture of a cactus. Stall out. Stop to take a picture of a 200 year-old church. Stall out, restart the car, and stall out again. Stop to take pictures of some goats. Stall out again. Realize the toughest part of your learning stick shift is not the actual shifting, it’s the “taking the car out of gear” part when you stop.

16. Pull into an old pueblo town for lunch. Stall out, three times, in front of the police station, with the police laughing at you. This is what’s called “a confidence builder.” Drive on to Cachi and spend the night.

17. The next day, leave Cachi, and head towards Salta, and eventually Jujuy (“Hoy-Hoy!…May I ask who’s calling?…Just a minute, please…AMY! IT’S THE PROCOTOLOGIST – YOUR LAB RESULTS ARE BACK!!”). Climb a 10,000-foot mountain pass covered in snow. Yes, snow. Deal with snow, treacherous road conditions, and narrow mountain roads while finally figuring out how to “down-shift” on the uphills. Cross the mountain pass and start your descent. Only stall out once or twice.

18. While descending down the winding, single-lane mountain road, this is the best opportunity for your accelerator to GET STUCK. I’m serious! Like a scene in a James Bond movie, this is where your accelerator will become stuck on a narrow, winding, unpaved, snowy mountain road and your car will decide (against your wishes) that “cruise control” is now mandatory; that without STANDING on the brakes, your car would prefer to go over 100kph downhill; and that the only way for you to escape death is to turn on your hazards, put in the clutch, turn off the car, and coast to the safest place you can find without getting killed by a passing motorist. Turn the car on and off a few times, with the RPM gauge jumping to 5000rpm every time, and revving like it’s about to explode. Pump the gas pedal when the car’s off, hoping to “unstick” something, and try driving again, even with the engine revving. Do this repeatedly, driving each time until the car is going at an unsafe speed, about 200 meters down the road from when you last turned off the car. After traveling this way for about a kilometer and continually turning the car on and off, get lucky, and have the car only rev to 2000rpm at one point. Drive like this, cautiously, for the next 70 kilometers until you get to Salta. This includes sitting at several stoplights with engine revving like you want to drag race the horse cart next to you; and putting the car into high gear while in dense traffic so the engine doesn’t wind out too loudly, scaring the local stray dogs and empanada vendors.

19. Drive immediately to the Avis car rental at the airport. Tell the Avis agent about your latest brush with death. Switch cars. Breathe a sigh of relief.

20. After three days and roughly sixteen hours of difficult driving, eventually reach Jujuy (“Hoy-Hoy!…May I ask who’s calling?…Just a minute, please…AMY! IT’S YOUR MOM – SHE FOUND YOUR TROLL DOLL COLLECTION!!”). Realize that with some hiccups along the way, you can now drive stick, and that with a few more days of practice, you’ll probably be pretty comfortable and pretty confident. Take a modicum of pride. Stall out at the stoplight in front of your hotel, while the teenagers laugh at you.

POSTSCRIPT:

The following day, we drove from Jujuy (“Hoy-Hoy!…May I ask who’s calling?…Just a minute, please…AMY! IT’S YOUR ACCOUNTANT – YOU CAN’T WRITE OFF DYE JOBS AS A BUSINESS EXPENSE!!”) to the Salinas Grandes salt flats. This took us two hours through a nearly 14,000 foot mountain pass with huge switchbacks and precipitous drops. It was scary as hell. But it was also thrilling. And the best part was that I was able to navigate it without too many problems. Down-shifting came naturally, I’ve had no problems going in reverse, and I may have stalled out only once pulling out of an scenic overlook. I still forget to put the clutch in when stopping, so we’ve had a bunch of very jolting stops when parking, but all-in-all it was a good day. Now that we’re back in Salta, and we’ve dropped off the car, I think I pretty much have it down – just enough to forget entirely when we’ve got an automatic in Europe.