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Hi Mom! That’s right…we’re coming home! Just 3 weeks from today, we’ll be pulling into the Brooklyn Cruise Terminal. I can’t believe our epic journey is coming to an end. But we’ve had an amazing last 2.5 weeks in the UK filled with castles, pubs, and footy!

CASTLES

PUBS

FOOTY

And we’ve had lots of visitors, too! It’s been amazing just how many people we’ve seen since September: Sue & Garrett in Germany; Jodi & Matt in Belgium; Sal, La & Ando in Paris; Craig, Dick, Lisa, Alyssa, Trevor, Katie and Jen in London; Mark & Paul in Manchester; and Ben & Eva in Edinburgh. After being on our own for so long, it’s been great to have so many familiar faces around. Shout outs all around!

As you know, today is also our 3rd wedding anniversary and I’m happy to report that all is quiet on the Scottish front! For those of you who don’t know the recent history of October 29th, here’s a quick catch up:

But today we had a lovely, quiet day…so far! I probably shouldn’t jinx it so I’ll just shut up about it now.

With just a few weeks till we return, John and I thought we’d ask everyone to start submitting their questions for our last Q&A. Please send us all your burning questions and we’ll answer them all and post the answers the day we arrive back home, Wednesday, November 19th. If anyone is interested, here are the two previous Q&A posts we did:

From January: https://werefinemom.com/2014/01/11/asked-answered/
From April: https://werefinemom.com/2014/04/10/twenty-questions-plus-3/

Can’t wait to see you, Mom, and everyone! OK…off to a (hopefully) quiet 3rd anniversary dinner in Edinburgh!

Hi Mom! I’m sure you’ve heard many of the stories by now…and seen some pics on Facebook…but here is the entire, detailed tale of Sally’s 50th birthday adventure in Paris. John and I are in London now (still trying to recover). Enjoy!

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BY SALLY & LAURIE, WFM GUEST BLOGGERS, PARIS, FRANCE

Too Much Foie Gras? Too Much Vin Rouge? Too Much Pastry? Too Much Fromage? Too Much Duck? Alors, Too Little Paris!!!

Hello loyal followers of “WereFineMom”! The (slightly) older sisters finally found time to leave the USA and visit the world-traveling Amy and John in spectacular Paris. We had grand illusions of hitting places like the Musee d’Orsay, the Centre Pompidou and Hermes. While we achieved none of these traditional Parisian things, we did manage to have a superb time with the crew of Sally the birthday girl, Andy the enfant terrible, Laurie the Metro commandant, John-Yves of the gingham rouge and Aimee the fabulous! As those of you who have been to Paris know, that city is incapable of taking a bad picture. It is absolutely gorgeous – rain, shine, night or day. So are the damn Parisians, by the way – even the sanitation workers wear red lipstick! So, instead of boring you with incessant shots of iconic views, we thought we’d intersperse some original depictions of our trip just to keep you entertained as you near the end of Amy and John’s adventures. Here goes!

Wednesday

First off, we used airbnb.com to find a smashing little apartment in the 14th arrondissement. It was absolutely perfect…well with a few minor exceptions which will be noted later. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a great living area, washing machine (no dryer), nice kitchen…all the trappings (well, sort of). We were steps away from the Metro, half a block from the boulangerie, 1 block to the supermarche, and just a tad longer to the most generous fromagerie known to man. We arrived with predictions of dreary days every day but only on our arrival did we experience the rain. The Parisian sun smiled upon us virtually every day, but no matter how warm it got we refused to remove our scarves! Oh, and by the way, we thought Sally had shrunk with age but determined that Laurie is probably still growing.

We did have a slow start as we had to find some things to do before our host Frederic arrived with the necessities. These included insufficient toilet paper and moist bath towels. But more about that later. We left our luggage in his lobby (!) and roamed the streets in search of a good cup of coffee (found in ten seconds) and a good cup of tea for Sally – not so easy. She first got offered green tea and then black tea with some odd fruit flavor. This was CERTAINLY not a reflection on her accent. Also, we were unable to figure out the WiFi (pronounced Wee-Fee) password at the cafe even though several people told us the word about 7 times. Again, this was NOT a statement on our French. We are very conversant. Sally clearly stated “Je suis stupide” and finally the waiter simply typed it into her phone.

Back to our host Frederic. He was charming and also a doctor. He informed us to contact him with any medical emergency (you know what all that cheese can do to your system!) and advised us not to use the local hospital if we needed assistance. He did provide us with recently washed bath towels which, unbeknownst to us he put into the closet wet. Later Andy discovered the problem and we did what Parisians do – hung them to dry. We were very cautious about hanging them on Frederic’s fine furniture so we investigated other spots. Note to self, do not hang moist laundry on things in the hallway that turn out to be lighting fixtures:

After Amy doused a flaming towel in the kitchen sink, we thought it important to celebrate with some cheese and wine. So we sisters went off on a walk to find the local cheesemonger. We thought we might have trouble on our second foray into French-dom but we found the most delightful shop and the charming Fromagerie Didot. What we were most fascinated by was the size of the cheese tastes he was willing to offer us. We later learned (when we took our semester – I mean class – on cheese that shop owners do want to make sure their cheese is sold at the exact maturity so perhaps he was simply an expert making sure to offer us the perfect ripeness!

Speaking of ripeness, it was now about time for many of us to shower up in prep for dinner and to get that potential airplane Ebola off us. One feature which made us choose Frederic’s spot was the fact that it had two actual showers. As it turned out, one of them had some issues. It had one of those lovely rain shower heads up top and an additional handheld piece to help with rinsing. Seemed like a great option when the other shower only had a handheld. Unfortunately the rain showerhead delivered only very hot water and the handheld only cold:

Alors, we perservered! That evening we saved enough room in our bellies to tackle a local dinner. At 8 o’clock we were the first and loudest to arrive. As you do. Despite the empty tables, the waiter/host/donkey (Pierre-Francois) was not exactly warm and inviting. What is the opposite of attraction? Andy and Pierre-Francois had that – a non-magnetic distaste for one another right away. Opposites detract. Despite the fact that Laurie ordered the bottle of wine for us to drink, PF decided that Andy should taste it. Andy deliberately swilled the taste of wine with an American flourish in a large swift gulp and determined it “Fine.” Game on. They danced around each other for the the entire meal which culminated in something like this:

Ando 1, French 0 (much more interesting than a soccer match)

Thursday

The youthful birthday sister had arranged for us to meet a “Paris Greeter” on the morning of our first full day. After stuffing ourselves with pastry from the local patisserie/boulangerie…

…we trekked off to the Metro to meet up with our guide. That pastry sketch is an abomination because every darn pastry in Paris is a work of art worthy of the Louvre. But just deal with it. Anyhoo, we all sported our comfy yet fashionable shoes and set off. I believe we took about three different metros that morning. It’s hard to keep track in a city where each metro is about 1.5 miles long. I guess we could convert that to kilometers but we are so over that. Not doing it. Suffice it to say it takes 3-5 different metro lines to get anywhere. We covered a lot of metros. But fortunately we took the right staircase over by the Bois de Boulogne and met the lovely Christine:

She is a retired cosmetics executive who was well-traveled, more than articulate in English and (regrettably) a Nordic hiker! Mon Dieu that woman put us through the paces. Apparently Sally had told her a few lies. One – we are interested in architecture. Two – we are sportif. After too many beautiful homes lived in by Edith Piaf, Brigitte Bardot and countless French people you have NEVER heard of Laurie finally had to announce that she had come to Paris to sit her butt down on a proper chair for a proper lunch with a proper glass of wine. About an hour later she did get her wish. Some steak, some frites, some salade and we were instantly revived. Whew! After leaving Christine to her next 4 hour power walk we took the metro to the Tour Eiffel. The sun was shining brightly and we took a break on the grass by the cannons. We stayed til they shot about 8 trillion gallons (2 liters, I think) of water, so we had to go lest we ruin our hair.

We decided to muscle through the day before taking 8 metro lines back to the 14th. So we strolled to Rue Cler – probably the most charming street in Paris. We have tons of pix of vegetables, shellfish, mushrooms and other epicurean delights you can buy there. But we took the opportunity to relax at a cafe and take in the sunset. Glorious.

Apres cafe we strolled to an epicerie where Ando came to life. The shops there truly specialize and because of that the products are top notch. This store had the most OCD arranged bins of spices one could ever imagine. Andy was literally lifting the lids off of the tamarind and curry bins and sticking his nose in to test the merchandise. This was the first time the merchant was impressed rather than offended – I think they enjoy it when you truly appreciate specialization and quality. So fantastique!

Hunger pangs dragged us to the Cafe Constant – a spot our b-day girl had enjoyed before. It’s apparently in all of the Asian guidebooks because the bar and outdoor areas were bustling with visitors. Nonetheless Sally dragged her 95 lbs and 5 feet of power up to the hostess and secured a table for a bit later. The wait (alleviated by bubbly) was worth it. Traditional and tasty dishes sent us home to the 14th satisfied. Walking briskly from metro to metro to metro on the way certainly peeled off those calories:

Friday

Much to Amy and John’s chagrin, we had scheduled another early morning. Shockingly, our world travelers often sleep til nine and take days off. Off to Versailles! Only two metro transfers and a regional rail/metro north-type train later we arrive at the home of the Sun King. We are all (especially John) fans and followers of the Europe travel expert Rick Steves. Rick said to exit train and follow the crowds to the entrance.

Versailles is spectacular and the hall of mirrors was a highlight once there was a lull in the mass of Chinese tourists taking selfies. According to the European Federation of Chinese Tourism, Paris is the No. 1 destination in Europe for China’s burgeoning middle class and growing legion of millionaires, Another surprise! http://www.nytimes.com/2014/09/21/world/europe/chinese-tourists-are-disillusioned-after-visiting-paris.html?_r=0

After a rejuvenating coffee/wine/beer it was back on the train/metro to our 3:30 Cheese and Wine Workshop. Workshop was the correct word, this was no mere tasting. This was a solid college level course in the back of a Japanese knife shop on the naming, terroir, production, aging, etc., etc. of cheese. For wine and cheese lovers like us, it was Nirvana. And some of the cheeses really did taste like teen spirit. Our Professor Meg could not have been nicer and more knowledgeable.

We learned many things about cheese. For example, you may not be aware that “Hung Meat” and “Rancid Nut Oil” are valid ways to describe cheese. Also, you may not be aware that Spider Mites are effective for reducing harmful bacteria on your cheese. Perhaps this explains why we can’t get the “good” French cheeses by the FDA. For wine-people, you will be glad to know that several of the funky, hip wines of the Jura were featured in the seminar. We urge you to check out http://www.parisbymouth.com when you are planning your next trip to Paris! We showed our appreciation to Meg and the knife shop by pilfering a few of rolls of toilet paper as we were running low at Frederic’s.

Armed with our PhD in fromage and Meg’s suggestion for a happening bar, we were off to Le Baron Rouge for wine from a cask and drinking in the street. While the tiny bar was charming, it did not have a proper toilet. Luckily Amy was proficient in reliving herself in the hole in the floor thanks to her experience in Southeast Asia. There was another bar visited, some frites eaten, drunken facebooking thanks to free Wee Fee with an easy password, and a stumble home (via 4 metro lines). All and all an excellent 50th birthday.

Saturday

The rest of the crew learned their lesson and we slept in. Sally, now a regular at the patisserie, picked up the morning goodies and we showered up. While we had many things on our itinerary, we chose to attend the Fête des Vendanges de Montmartre, which is a harvest festival with over 100 food and wine stalls. In the blink of an eye Laurie and Andy had a glass of champagne in one hand and a baguette stuffed with Foie Gras in another. Sally and Amy were over at the Brouilly tent jamming to the BeeGees. John was searching for beer (according to Andy). This festival takes place right at the beautiful and imposing Sacre Coeur from where you can see all of Paris. We enjoyed various sights and treats on a fantastic autumn day. Before we left Laurie & Andy bought a giant tower of canned foie gras, Amy & John, not do be outdone, purchased the deluxe set. Parisian problems – we had not enjoyed any escargots yet! Laurie and Andy made a mad dash through the ample crowd using refined New York techniques and were able to secure a plate of 12 garlicky delights just in time to depart. After a quick stop at a cafe (because you need a glass of wine after attending a wine festival) it was home to prepare for our final night out!

The plan was to get dolled up and metro (2 transfers) over the George V Four Seasons hotel for a pre-dinner drink. John looked dapper in his crisp blue blazer, red Euro pants and the flat, packing, dress shoes…or dress black flat packing shoes….or something like that. Amy was griping about her $20 Old Navy dress when we reminded her that she had dressed it up with her $500 Gucci shoes. “But they’re flats!” she exclaimed. Speaking of shoes, Laurie had finally changed out of her overly comfy Skechers and finally her silk track pants look a tad more fabulous. Here’s a pic of her and John’s odd shoes:

We arrive at the George V and the paparazzi was lined up outside. No, it wasn’t for Sally’s birthday – friggin Arnold Schwarzenegger was staying there. Anyhoo, he screwed up the plan because we could not get in to the bar! However, we did see our new friends from the cheese class (guess everyone but us stays at the Georges V!) AND, the most wonderful surprise guests…our dear old friends Frank, Julie and Bethany who took the train from London to Paris for the weekend!!! Screw you paparazzi! We knew everyone who was anyone in the George V. We marched our stilettos and fat black buckle marching shoes and Gucci flats right next door to the Prince de Galles to toast to birthdays and good friends. Le Prince de Galles had a snazzy bar, a DJ and some rockin cocktails. Julie got a mojito that was oddly served in a heavy stout tea pot. The waitress attempted to pour the drink, spilled it and advised that the spout was clogged with basil and Julie should just wait for the ice to melt some. Andy, Laurie and Frank ordered something called a corpse reviver, and Bethany took the prize with “The Secret” served with a side of champagne and some iced fruit. Wait til the Chinese discover this place!

After drinking and mopping up drinks, we headed off to a to a fantastic dinner at Maceo. Thankfully, Andy got on well with our servers and the food was delicious. Another stumble home, a listen to a few good songs on the French radio station Nostalgique, an attempt to polish off the wine and off to bed. With the following songs stuck in our heads (and hopefully now in yours!) “What’s Going On” and “Hey Big Spender”, we hit the sack.

Sunday

The whirlwind ends with a last stop at the patisserie and goodbyes to Amy and John. The final pastry was filled with what Amy described as “cookie dough.” A great note on which to leave! We used our last bits of French on the charming taxi driver and headed to the airport. We used our last Euros on small bottles of wine and delicious mini-baguette sandwiches to smuggle onto the plane so we could avoid re-Americanization via crappy airline food. Landed safely in Newark (the opposite of the City of Lights) and jumped in our “spacetube” to Bradley Beach.

(EDITOR’S NOTE: I thought you might enjoy seeing some actual photos to compare to Sal & La’s descriptions/sketches above…)

Last week, the inevitable finally happened. After three-and-a-half months, Amy and I pulled into Paris, and thereupon had to return “Cleo,” the Renault Clio. As you likely know by now, we picked up a brand-new 2014 Renault Clio in the end of June, and have been traveling throughout Europe in this rental, which we named “Cleo,” because we’re two creative people who clearly aren’t as creative as we think.

It had really been a love-hate relationship with Cleo. We loved that we had a car. We loved that we had the freedom to go anywhere, on our own schedule, and that we didn’t have to take taxis or metros to trains or busses, and that we didn’t have to haul our bags everywhere to do so. And that the prices were comparable.

But we hated the constant search for parking, which can be difficult in Europe, and the expenses that came with it. And while it helped a great deal, I came to hate our GPS, who we named “Emma,” because it has the voice of an erudite English woman and sounded like Emma Thompson. This damn thing sent us the wrong way up one-way streets, it put us on the wrong road, it told us to drive on sidewalks, and once it told us to take a sharp right turn, off the road, and INTO THE SIDE OF A MOUNTAIN. Sometimes there were no roads at all.

This wouldn’t have been such a big deal if Emma shut up once in a while. The GPS, as I once mentioned, would tell you to “keep going straight”, and “in one kilometer, stay on the road…” Then, “in 500 meters…in 100 meters…go straight.” I can figure that out, you dopey GPS – just tell me when to make a turn or exit. It drove me crazy:

“In 100 meters, go straight.”
“SHUT UP, EMMA!”
(Amy): “You know the GPS can’t hear you, right?”
“SHE HEARS ME!”
“The car hears you?”
“She hears me, and TAUNTS me!!”
(Emma): “Go straight.”
“SEE??!!!”

That said, Emma was the best thing about our drive to Luxembourg. It always attempted to say place names with a local accent, which is terribly funny: listening to a robot GPS with an English accent trying to speak French. It didn’t work so well this time. At every turn, Emma would say something like, “turn left on to the N2, towards Luxembourg,” but the pronunciation was more like “towards LUX-OMM-BOO.” I got a big kick out of that. For the two days we were there, I kept asking Amy questions:

“So, what do you think about Luxommboo?”
“What sights should we see in Luxommboo?”
“ARE there any sights in Luxommboo?”
“You know what’s kind of a boring place? Luxommboo.”
“Did you know that Luxommboo has the second highest GDP in the world, behind Qatar?”
“Did you know that Luxommboo is ruled by a Duke, and is therefore a ‘Duchy?’”
“Would you like to pass Luxommboo on the left-hand side?”

(A side note about Luxommboo: it’s not so bad, just a little less interesting than other places we’d been. And who goes to Luxommboo? Well, we did. And while we were there, I ate this:

It’s called a “Triiiple Bernaise” burger. Sounds great! Tastes…meh.)

The GPS was also the cause of the only accident we had with Cleo, the Renault Clio. Emma the GPS sent us up a very, very narrow street in Opatija, Croatia, and it turned out to be a dead end. With little room to navigate, I backed into a small driveway to do a tight three-point turn, and when I pulled back into the street, the front right fender hit a low stone wall. This was the result:

Fortunately we were fully insured as part of the deal. And last week, when we returned the car, all I had to do was hand in the keys, with the rental guy saying, “No problems with the scratch, it’s all covered.” We were out of there in less than five minutes. And that was that, it was easier than returning a video to Blockbuster (back when there were videos, and Blockbusters). No more Cleo, the Renault Clio. No more Emma the GPS. No more driving through Europe. It was all over.

One of the things we’ll miss about the driving in Europe is just how clean and beautiful it is. Unlike major highways in the US, these roads have absolutely no billboards, and just about zero trash. Like almost none for miles. While in the USA you’ll see rusty Schlitz cans and plastic Walmart bags and various piles of fast-food crap on the side of the road, there’s almost nothing on the side of the highways in continental Europe except for cows, sheep, and grass, and maybe one random piece of trash every few miles, which is usually an old blown-out tire. Urban areas are different, of course, but the highways were great.

There is something you WILL see roadside throughout Europe: windmills and solar panels. And not the typical windmills that Cervantes wrote about, but massive wind farms on mountains throughout the developed countries of the EU. If you’re on the road for more than a half-hour, you’re bound to see a dozen massive windmills in the distance, off on some hill, spinning slowly. And in the plains, you’ll see huge solar panel farms that stretch for acres. It’s amazing – they take this open land in the middle of nowhere, and they make the most of it. They’re farming energy instead of corn syrup.

Here are some questions for you (none about Luxommboo): Do you enjoy tailgating? Do you like getting cut off? Do you like when people switch lanes erratically without signaling? Then you will LOVE driving in Europe! Here’s a quick breakdown of the different driving styles we found in various countries:

SPAIN – strict adherence to the “passing lane” policy. If you’re in the right lane, someone will come up on your ass, within five feet, tailgate you for a few seconds, and then pass you at whatever speed. Then, the SECOND they pass you, they will immediately cut back into the right lane, nearly cutting you off, to get back into the slower lane. Often with no indicators. The left lane is a passing lane. STAY RIGHT!!!

ITALY – There’s a laissez-faire attitude to driving here. Seemingly no standard speeds, everyone just doing their own thing – weaving in and out of lanes, straddling lane lines, breaking for no apparent reason, and parking on the shoulder smoking a cigarette. But beware high-performance Italian cars. They will sneak up on you at death-defying speeds, and zip by like a flash of lightning, with some bad techno music blasting out the window.

CROATIA – just like in the USA, people drive standard highway speeds with wild cards here and there. But on smaller roads, you’ll be stranded in a line of cars behind a flatbed truck carrying haybales for hundreds of miles, slowly leap-frogging Yugos in the passing zones until you finally get some open road, only to find yourself stuck again behind a tractor towing some horse manure, driven by a mustachioed old woman in a babushka, who’s smoking a pipe.

MONTENEGRO – no highways here, just two-lane roads. Again, you’ll get stuck behind a truck or tractor, but this time, the local drivers will pass you and another five cars at a time, on a blind curve, into on-coming traffic, making it a very tight three-lane road at times, with you saying out loud every three minutes, “JEEE-ZUS CHRIST! That was CLOSE!!”

AUSTRIA/GERMANY – Incredibly fast, but incredibly civilized. Go whatever speed you want on the Autobahn, passing cars like a blur of color, particularly if you’re a young man seeing just how fast your orange Volkswagen Golf will go. If you’re going faster, the guy in front of you will get out of the way. And if you’re going slower, please move over for the person behind you. Sometimes you have to wait, and so you do. But there’s no anger, and no road rage – just an understanding that we all share the road. And when there’s construction, obey those road signs rigidly, because after all, this is Germany.

And the rest stops! Oh, they’re awesome! It’s a combination of gas station, restaurant, and souvenir stand. In the USA, you’ll drive for hour after hour, fill up, and keep going, refreshed with a little beef jerky, a Hostess Sno-Ball, and a Gatorade. But here, they’ve got nice sit-down restaurants at the rest area, so you can take a nice break and eat a good meal, not some “quick-serve” junk. In Spain, the stores sell a wide variety of Spanish red wines and jamon. In France, there’s more wine, foie gras, and fresh baguettes. In Italy, a bunch of chianti. And in Germany, there’s all kinds of beer, and schnapps. Yep – they’re selling booze at all the highway rest areas. That seems about as sensible to me as giving out shots of castor oil before you get on the tilt-a-whirl.

Then there were the radio stations. We had some favorites along the way. In Germany, we listened to Top 40 hits on “Antenne Bayern.” In France, we liked “Nostalgie,” an oldies station. And in Spain, by far our favorite was “Rock FM,” which is the closest thing to a classic rock station. But there was one problem with Rock FM. You may remember all the drives we took from our hotel outside of Pamplona into the city itself, back when we ran with the bulls? We did that drive about five times, up and back. And of those ten legs, we heard “Cum On Feel the Noize” like nine times, both the Slade and Quiet Riot versions. You have no idea how much “noize” I felt. I felt so much noize, and, as a boy, was rocked by so many girls, that the feeling and rocking was too much to take. I have no explanation…I guess the Spanish like to get wild, and they like to get wild six times, consecutively.

And lastly, getting back to our old friend Cleo, the Renault Clio… Cleo was French, and had French license plates. As such, people on the roads thought we were French. With this ambiguity, we were free to stain the reputation of the French people as much as we needed to. So whenever there was any kind of disagreement on the road, any honking, gesticulating, or any other perceived injustice, Amy gave the other driver what she called “The French Salute.” It consisted of one specific finger, pointing skyward, strikingly similar to the Eiffel Tower.

But Cleo, the Renault Clio, I salute you. Au Revoir.

Hello again, readers. Just a quick addendum to the recent post about our time spent in Germany for Oktoberfest. I wanted to clear up a few points after some things came up in various comments on various social media outlets. So here goes…

First, I submit to you the following piece of video evidence, regarding my “fall” at Oktoberfest, as discovered by my sharp-eyed wife:

Did you see that?! As Sue said, “She needs to get a clue.” Again, I tell you – I was pushed!!

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Second, I’d like to give a shout-out to my senior-year German teacher. In the interest of privacy, I’ll refer to her as “Frau Champagne,” which isn’t what she currently calls herself. In the last post, I spoke about how poor my German language skills are, and after getting a little bit of grief, I just need to tell her: “Frau Champagne – it’s not you, it’s me.”

I only took one year of German, as a senior in high school. There I was, a seventeen-year-old, sitting in German I, surrounded by freshmen because I dropped out of Physics. Much to my parents’ dismay (the engineer and the accountant), I was never very good at (and never really cared much for) math or science. So my senior year, I was in two English classes (A and B level), French IV, and German I. Surprise I turned out to be a writer-producer. Just not in German.

Amy speaks a little French, Spanish, and Italian; some Japanese, and prides herself on knowing how to say “hello,” “goodbye,” and “thank you” in ten different languages. But as we drove across the border from Hungary to Austria, she turned to me and said, “You took German, you’ve got this one.”

Almost thirty years later, my German was completely rusty, if non-existent. But don’t worry, Frau Champagne, I didn’t forget everything, just mostly everything. And you shouldn’t feel bad – I forgot most of my French as well, and I took FOUR years of that (just don’t tell Madame Serotsky). What’s more funny, after 20 years in New York City and a dozen years working in baseball, Spanish is my most proficient second language. Que comico, y muy interesante!

(By the way, isn’t it funny that Frau Champagne taught German, and Madame Serotsky taught French? Shouldn’t it have been Madame Champagne teaching French and Frau Serotsky teaching German?)

One great story about Frau Champagne: around Christmas, she gave anyone wanting extra credit instructions on how to build a gingerbread house. About a dozen kids, including myself, actually went through with construction. There were plenty of sweet gumdrop houses, and candy cane chalets, and of course a few that looked like they should be condemned by the Betty Crocker Department of Public Safety.

And then there was mine. I took an old model car that I had (I’m pretty sure it was an orange Corvette with flames on the hood), and used a pair of pliers to smash up the front end of the car. Then I took the car, swerved it through the icing “snow” (leaving tire marks), and crashed it into the corner of the gingerbread house. I then took an old plastic army man and buried his body in the snow, with only his torso and head exposed (I think I clipped off the gun with scissors). The coup de grace was red decorating sugar, sprinkled liberally to look like a bloody mess. And on the front lawn, I place a little title placard, just like in an art exhibition: “Problems on the Autobahn.”

Frau Champagne had arranged to have all the gingerbread houses displayed in a glass case in front of the library. But our librarian protested that she didn’t want MY gingerbread house in the display, as a matter of public decency. By the way, our librarian once revealed to my friend Mike and me, at the advent of our teenage “punk rock” years, that her sister was none other than Wendy O. Williams of the Plasmatics. But I digress. Frau Champagne insisted that my demented gingerbread house be displayed with the others, arguing that there were in fact a lot of problems on the autobahn, and much debate in Germany about the safety of the roads, and that my blood-sugar-spattered piece of teenage depravity was in reality a topical statement on a greater German issue. And so sure enough, the gingerbread house was allowed to be displayed with the others in the glass case, free to stain the vision and morals of the innocent student body.

I tell this story because never before had a teacher of mine stood up to another educator to defend my special creative brand of dementia. And I’ve never forgotten it. It’s the kind of thing that eventually leads you to a rewarding twenty-year career writing and producing for television, where you’re free to stain the vision and morals of the innocent viewing public.

* * * * *

Lastly, I wanted you all to know that “frenphew” has failed to gain any traction whatsoever.

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!

Hello Mom! Greetings from Opatija, Croatia! We drove here yesterday from Venice, Italy. Venice was amazing. It was even better than I thought it would be. Absolutely gorgeous! And before that, we were in Siena for the Palio. Also amazing! More to come on those in a future blog post…

During the drive yesterday we stopped in Slovenia for lunch. (You have to drive through a very small stretch of that country to get to Croatia.) We drove past no less than 6 places that had the same type of outdoor “advertising.” By the last one, I insisted that John pull in so we could have a delicious lunch!

Awesome!

Now we’re having some much needed R&R at the beach. Here’s a quick video of our digs.

Doviðenja from Croatia!